Monday morning Ethan and I sat in the rocking chair and read the classics. We started with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish, then Hop On Pop, and then Go Dogs Go. We were going to move on to more sophisticated material, Curious George Plays Baseball, but he needed to changed and fed and take a power nap. He loves to be read to, flailing his arms and cooing delightedly. At his age of course they are responding to the tone of your voice as much as anything, but it's still a wonderful experience for both of us. His father had a softball game Monday night, and Ethan sat in my lap while I kissed the top of his head and rubbed his belly and explained the fine points of the game. The Yakima Training Center Yakirats swept a double header, comig from behind to win the second game 20-19. Ethan's daddy Thomas had a line drive double to right center and several nice catches in left field before an enthusiastic crowd of soldier's wives and girlfriends.
Kourtney and I played 3 games of Clue, 4 games of Yahtzee, and 8 games of Sequence. Tom barbequed hamburgers Sunday night and we all participated in another round of The Backyard Olympics, this time thoroughly dominated by the Newlyweds, who finished 1 and 2 in the medal count, taking gold between them in every single event. Kourtney and I faltered badly and took turns sulking, although she did earn a silver in Bocci Ball and staged a nice rally in croquet.
It was a great visit. Ethan is thriving and the newlyweds are deeply in love. The tenderness and affection between them is wonderful to witness. I've never seen Stephanie so happy. I'm glad I spent the time and the precious petrol to make the trip. Easily the best vacation I've had in a long while.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Stephanie sends her love, and a contribution
Stephanie sent me an email:
This must go in the blog funniest e-mail I have ever read.....
Subject: FW: I REALLY NEED TO DO AT LEAST 5 OF THESE A DAY! To Maintain A Healthy Level Of Insanity ....
1. At Lunch Time, Sit In Your Parked Car With Sunglasses on and point a Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom.Don't Disguise Your Voice !
3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, ask If They Want Fries with that.
4. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks. Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.
5. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write 'For Marijuana'
6. Finish All Your sentences with'In Accordance With The Prophecy.'
7. Skip down the hall Rather Than Walk and see how many looks you get.
8. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.
9 . Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is 'To Go.'
10. Sing Along At The Opera.
11. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area and Play tropical Sounds All Day.
12. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can't Attend Their Party Because You have a headache.
13. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream 'I Won! I Won!'
14 . When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling 'Run For Your Lives! They're Loose!'
15. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, 'Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go.'
16. And The Final Way To Keep A Healthy Level Of Insanity:
Send This E-mail l To Someone To Make Them Smile.
It's Called THERAPY.
This must go in the blog funniest e-mail I have ever read.....
Subject: FW: I REALLY NEED TO DO AT LEAST 5 OF THESE A DAY! To Maintain A Healthy Level Of Insanity ....
1. At Lunch Time, Sit In Your Parked Car With Sunglasses on and point a Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.
2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom.Don't Disguise Your Voice !
3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, ask If They Want Fries with that.
4. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks. Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.
5. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write 'For Marijuana'
6. Finish All Your sentences with'In Accordance With The Prophecy.'
7. Skip down the hall Rather Than Walk and see how many looks you get.
8. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.
9 . Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is 'To Go.'
10. Sing Along At The Opera.
11. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area and Play tropical Sounds All Day.
12. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can't Attend Their Party Because You have a headache.
13. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream 'I Won! I Won!'
14 . When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling 'Run For Your Lives! They're Loose!'
15. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, 'Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go.'
16. And The Final Way To Keep A Healthy Level Of Insanity:
Send This E-mail l To Someone To Make Them Smile.
It's Called THERAPY.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
A Moving Day
On Saturday I transferred all my worldly possessions from the old place to the new one, hung up my good clothes, and met my new roommates Padrick and Doug. (Padrick is actually the correct spelling, no matter what spellcheck says--it's Irish, he says.) After two recent moves my miscellaneous unsorted junk, the plastic bag of rubber bands, a handful of unsorted photographs and old billing statements, fits in one small box. Moving is good for your personal economy; it reduces clutter and demands a flurry of organization, and such prompts are a good thing in our cluttered lives. For a few days you have to live like a soldier on a march, and the experience can clear out your head and heart as well as your closet. All my laundry is done and everything is folded; my mother is beaming down at me from heaven. God, I wish you could walk into her house. There was such a state of antiseptic clean and perfect order--a doctor could have performed surgery in her garage, it was that clean. The floors, the counters, the cupboards and even the remotest corners of the refrigerator, impeccably stain and odor-free, no trace of dirt, spill, crumb or smudge. At any hour of any day throughout her life the entire house spelled of Lysol and bleach and Lemon Pledge. She was remarkable and efficient and fiercely proud, a wonder of purpose.
These remarks are not a judgement of anyone else. Lord knows I inherited none of her fierce devotion to order and spotlessness: I make the bed once every two months. You could even argue Mom could have relaxed a little at some point, or reordered her life to channel that remarkable energy to some other hope. I certainly don't expect anyone else to live as she did or clean with the same relentless discipline. I'd rather you sat down with me and had a glass of wine. My only purpose in writing this down is to remember her the way she was, to put it down the way it happened. The Aborigines of Australia have a ritual they call the Walk About: they tour their lands as a group, and recite the history of their place and their people. "Remember, remember," the old ones tell the young. We must. It's the only way to find our way home, to know what home should be after the boxes are unpacked from moving day.
On my way out of town I stopped at the Ace Hardward in Parkrose to get copies of my room and house key made. When you are The Most Absent Minded Person in the World that is a necessary and immediate precaution, one that wards off a certain disaster of being locked out in the rain on the worst possible day. Just the presence of the extra set somehow defeats the evil genie of forgetfulness. I have to do little things like this. When I go to my daughter's I set my wallet, cell phone and my keys in my shoes at the front door, because here I don't have an assigned place for them and I would mislay them for sure.
I always go to Ace in Parkrose rather than the big box retailer. Some of the clerks there have worked there 12 years and they know where things are. I walked in the door and two of them said hello. "Where do I go to get keys made?" I asked. The older man at the information desk in a blue Parkrose hardware uniform smock looked up and smiled and turned behind him. "You just go straight back to the back of the store, to the counter under that sign that says Customer Service." Another clerk overheard us, a grey-haired guy with a friendly demeanor. "What were you looking for?" he asked. I need to get some keys copied, I said. "I'll meet you right back there," he said, and turned out the keys in two minutes. When I got to the front counter a third clerk opened another checkstand for me. Folks, it isn't rocket science, but that's how you run a business, and those are the kind of people you hire when you do. Where do think I will go when I need a new hammer, some lawn clipping bags, or ice scraper for the Vista Cruiser? I guarantee you it won't be Hardware-R-Us. But somebody must be going there because they keep building them, right down the street from the Costco in every town. It's a mystery to me, but then many things are.
I wish somebody from Parkrose Hardware worked at T-Immobile, Maybe I could get cell phone service that actually worked. I had another Nightmare Customer Experience in one of their sales outlets this week, the one right next to my post office box store near 122nd and Division. The manager came out from the back room with an air of slouchy displeasure and said "May I help you?" in a voice that clearly indicated she'd rather be doing anything but, maybe getting back to the game of Freecell in her office, or the email to her new best guy ever. I want to cancel my service I said. "Okay." she replied, just like that, without the faintest trace of curiosity or concern. I handed her my phone. "I just had four calls fail on the sidewalk in front of your store. My cell phone bill last month was $185 and I can't make a phone call." I handed her my phone. "This phone is very old," she said. I bought it about eight months ago, and they made me sign a two-year contract when I did. They even read some of the lawyer language to make sure I knew it was ironclad and inescapable. Which would be fine, if the phones actually worked to make reliable phone calls in America's 35th largest city.
It went on like that for about 5 minutes, the Manager interrogating me about the age and condition of my phone and the status of my rate plan, no closer to solving my actual and longstanding problem, until finally I said, "You're very rude and contentious, and I can't wait till the day I can cancel this contract." And I took my phone from the counter and walked out of the store. Of course leaving in a huff insured another several weeks of the same lousy cell service, but at least I wouldn't have to be browbeaten by her anymore. She called out after me, chiefly to tidy up her version of the story, "Sir I'm sorry you feel that way I'm just trying to help you." No she wasn't. There's not a kilobyte of helpfulness in that whole abominable organization, from the mind-numbing automated customer service call sorting system with its recorded voice activation, "Please press 1, or say 'English.'" to the 40-page indecipherable billing statements. I don't know what I got for my $185 last month, but I have a lot of paperwork to prove it. And 10 dropped calls a day. Stop me if you've heard this before. I just figured out a way to make my first million and buy the house down the street form Doug's: I'll start a website called t-immobilestinks.com. I'll have a million hits, go viral, get my picture in Wired magazine. Maybe Gretchen can go with me down to another store and get this resolved for me; I don't have the patience and I just make it worse. She has a way with these types of situations. Most women do, a knack for refocusing attention on the issue that should truly be at hand, a way of cutting through the crap. I think it comes from several sources. Women are hard-wired for communication; they have more brain cells and more connections in the corpus colossum, and they listen more. Then there are the years of sifting out whining and excuses, first from their husbands and then their children. It's a remarkable gift, really, one that could save American commerce if we allowed it free reign. American moms should be hired to send underperforming managers to their rooms to finish their homework and straighten their closets, and no tv until sales improve. It might work.
Enough of that. I'm sorry I got myself started again. Where was I? Oh yeah, the hardware store. I paid for my keys and walked over to Subway next door because by now it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten anything all day except a small bowl of Frosted Flakes with half and half (the Wheelers were out of milk) and some Ritz crackers. The sandwich was heavenly. Hunger is the best sauce, no matter where you wander on your quest, or what sort of windmills put you on tilt. I stopped at work for a minute to throw away a bag of trash (free trash service is one of our employee benefits, a useful and thus far untaxable perk), called Stephanie (wow, the call actually went through) and headed east on Marine Drive along the Columbia to see the grandbabies and my smart, funny and beautiful daughter. The small cares and irritations of daily life faded as I began the trip, through the Columbia Gorge, which I have remarked on before as a Holy and awe-inspiring place. The ever-changing landscape, carved by time and the wind and the river, relatively unspoiled, cannot fail or cease to move you. "Open the eyes of my heart," the song says, and in such a place your eyes and your heart cannot fail to open if you just look around. The God who made us is greater than anything we could imagine. His vision and artistry is breathtaking, humbling and unspeakably rich. I listened to the music and took in the beautiful sights of the Gorge and the high plateau and the mountains, and stopped in Goldendale for a perfect strawberry milkshake spun by a kid named Jeffie at the Dairy Queen off Highway 97. "How is it?" he asked, really wanting to know. "Perfect," I said, "You are milkshake master, a milkshake Jedi." "I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said with a big smile, and I could tell he genuinely was. When he finishes high school Jeffie should be appointed CEO of T-immobile. They could use one employee like him. It might reverse their dwindling market share, though it's probably too late. Their other 685,000 employees have already done too much damage. The exact number doesn't matter. You get the idea.
I got to Selah around 8:30 in the evening. I'd made good time. The Vista Cruiser is so much fun to drive on long trips, with the top down and the cruise control on and the sound system turned up to 11. I never bring CDs; I like to spin the FM dial by pressing "seek" and just see what comes up, jazz from KMHD until Cascade Locks, Christian Rock until The Dalles, a pop mix format until I reach the mountains, with Fleetwood Mac and The Doobie Brothers, stuff that takes me back to my misspent youth and early adulthood and the birth of my smart funny and beautiful daughter, then Country from Toppenish from the mountains to parking lot of Sav-On foods. I always stop at Sav-On to call Steff and buy some fruit and razors and a bottle of wine, ask if they need anything from the store. They just wanted some Gatorade for the swim meet tomorrow. Kourtney has improved her time in freestyle by 10 seconds this summer, and she had three new ribbons to show me.
Ethan is chunker, a big happy baby with kissy cheeks. He's looking around now and he studied my face intently with his big blue eyes. He smiled when I sang to him. It was just before bed and he was a little fussy, but finally settled down to nurse sweetly while I shaved and took a shower. His father Thomas played him a few songs on the guitar and put him to bed. I sat up with Tom and Steff a while and we talked. He may be reassigned to a teaching post in Alabama where the Army needs instructors in explosives. He's one of twelve finalists but he doesn't want to go. Here in Selah they are a few hours from his family in Montana and few hours from Stephanie's, and he wants to stay in the field. Life for military families is subject to dramatic and uncertain change. He might be deployed next fall; there's no way to know. Every day at work I speak to mothers and wives who have young men who are half a world away in terrible uncertainty, and your heart has to go out to all of them. Thomas wants to hold his son like all of them, but beginning next week he has an assignment that will have him in the California desert for 35 days. Fully realizing that many other young men and women are in a much harsher desert for a much longer time, he goes where he is told to go. We can all do no better.
We talked a while longer until everyone got tired. The household has to get up at 6:00 am for the swim meet and I see it is that time now as I write. They're getting a puppy for Ethan to grow up with, a Siberian Husky. Thomas had one when he was a boy, and says they are particularly good with kids, loyal and gentle. He knows the family where the dog was born, they've raised three generations of these dogs and raise them gently and with care, an ideal pedigree all by itself. Stephanie and Thomas are having discussions about whether she should go back to work. She has mixed feelings; Thomas wants her to do whatever will make her happy, Stephanie's mother thinks it's vital for her daughter to have a purpose and independence and is steadfastly against her staying home. I'm Switzerland in this matter, but I see how Ethan is thriving, and I've never seen Stephanie more happy or more serene. All I know is that it is a joy to be among them, and I'm looking forward to an Egg McMuffin and the age group freestyle. I'll let you know how it goes.
Today was moving day and it was a complete success. I was thorougly moved, and my good clothes are hanging in my new closet. Thank you for helping me get settled.
These remarks are not a judgement of anyone else. Lord knows I inherited none of her fierce devotion to order and spotlessness: I make the bed once every two months. You could even argue Mom could have relaxed a little at some point, or reordered her life to channel that remarkable energy to some other hope. I certainly don't expect anyone else to live as she did or clean with the same relentless discipline. I'd rather you sat down with me and had a glass of wine. My only purpose in writing this down is to remember her the way she was, to put it down the way it happened. The Aborigines of Australia have a ritual they call the Walk About: they tour their lands as a group, and recite the history of their place and their people. "Remember, remember," the old ones tell the young. We must. It's the only way to find our way home, to know what home should be after the boxes are unpacked from moving day.
On my way out of town I stopped at the Ace Hardward in Parkrose to get copies of my room and house key made. When you are The Most Absent Minded Person in the World that is a necessary and immediate precaution, one that wards off a certain disaster of being locked out in the rain on the worst possible day. Just the presence of the extra set somehow defeats the evil genie of forgetfulness. I have to do little things like this. When I go to my daughter's I set my wallet, cell phone and my keys in my shoes at the front door, because here I don't have an assigned place for them and I would mislay them for sure.
I always go to Ace in Parkrose rather than the big box retailer. Some of the clerks there have worked there 12 years and they know where things are. I walked in the door and two of them said hello. "Where do I go to get keys made?" I asked. The older man at the information desk in a blue Parkrose hardware uniform smock looked up and smiled and turned behind him. "You just go straight back to the back of the store, to the counter under that sign that says Customer Service." Another clerk overheard us, a grey-haired guy with a friendly demeanor. "What were you looking for?" he asked. I need to get some keys copied, I said. "I'll meet you right back there," he said, and turned out the keys in two minutes. When I got to the front counter a third clerk opened another checkstand for me. Folks, it isn't rocket science, but that's how you run a business, and those are the kind of people you hire when you do. Where do think I will go when I need a new hammer, some lawn clipping bags, or ice scraper for the Vista Cruiser? I guarantee you it won't be Hardware-R-Us. But somebody must be going there because they keep building them, right down the street from the Costco in every town. It's a mystery to me, but then many things are.
I wish somebody from Parkrose Hardware worked at T-Immobile, Maybe I could get cell phone service that actually worked. I had another Nightmare Customer Experience in one of their sales outlets this week, the one right next to my post office box store near 122nd and Division. The manager came out from the back room with an air of slouchy displeasure and said "May I help you?" in a voice that clearly indicated she'd rather be doing anything but, maybe getting back to the game of Freecell in her office, or the email to her new best guy ever. I want to cancel my service I said. "Okay." she replied, just like that, without the faintest trace of curiosity or concern. I handed her my phone. "I just had four calls fail on the sidewalk in front of your store. My cell phone bill last month was $185 and I can't make a phone call." I handed her my phone. "This phone is very old," she said. I bought it about eight months ago, and they made me sign a two-year contract when I did. They even read some of the lawyer language to make sure I knew it was ironclad and inescapable. Which would be fine, if the phones actually worked to make reliable phone calls in America's 35th largest city.
It went on like that for about 5 minutes, the Manager interrogating me about the age and condition of my phone and the status of my rate plan, no closer to solving my actual and longstanding problem, until finally I said, "You're very rude and contentious, and I can't wait till the day I can cancel this contract." And I took my phone from the counter and walked out of the store. Of course leaving in a huff insured another several weeks of the same lousy cell service, but at least I wouldn't have to be browbeaten by her anymore. She called out after me, chiefly to tidy up her version of the story, "Sir I'm sorry you feel that way I'm just trying to help you." No she wasn't. There's not a kilobyte of helpfulness in that whole abominable organization, from the mind-numbing automated customer service call sorting system with its recorded voice activation, "Please press 1, or say 'English.'" to the 40-page indecipherable billing statements. I don't know what I got for my $185 last month, but I have a lot of paperwork to prove it. And 10 dropped calls a day. Stop me if you've heard this before. I just figured out a way to make my first million and buy the house down the street form Doug's: I'll start a website called t-immobilestinks.com. I'll have a million hits, go viral, get my picture in Wired magazine. Maybe Gretchen can go with me down to another store and get this resolved for me; I don't have the patience and I just make it worse. She has a way with these types of situations. Most women do, a knack for refocusing attention on the issue that should truly be at hand, a way of cutting through the crap. I think it comes from several sources. Women are hard-wired for communication; they have more brain cells and more connections in the corpus colossum, and they listen more. Then there are the years of sifting out whining and excuses, first from their husbands and then their children. It's a remarkable gift, really, one that could save American commerce if we allowed it free reign. American moms should be hired to send underperforming managers to their rooms to finish their homework and straighten their closets, and no tv until sales improve. It might work.
Enough of that. I'm sorry I got myself started again. Where was I? Oh yeah, the hardware store. I paid for my keys and walked over to Subway next door because by now it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten anything all day except a small bowl of Frosted Flakes with half and half (the Wheelers were out of milk) and some Ritz crackers. The sandwich was heavenly. Hunger is the best sauce, no matter where you wander on your quest, or what sort of windmills put you on tilt. I stopped at work for a minute to throw away a bag of trash (free trash service is one of our employee benefits, a useful and thus far untaxable perk), called Stephanie (wow, the call actually went through) and headed east on Marine Drive along the Columbia to see the grandbabies and my smart, funny and beautiful daughter. The small cares and irritations of daily life faded as I began the trip, through the Columbia Gorge, which I have remarked on before as a Holy and awe-inspiring place. The ever-changing landscape, carved by time and the wind and the river, relatively unspoiled, cannot fail or cease to move you. "Open the eyes of my heart," the song says, and in such a place your eyes and your heart cannot fail to open if you just look around. The God who made us is greater than anything we could imagine. His vision and artistry is breathtaking, humbling and unspeakably rich. I listened to the music and took in the beautiful sights of the Gorge and the high plateau and the mountains, and stopped in Goldendale for a perfect strawberry milkshake spun by a kid named Jeffie at the Dairy Queen off Highway 97. "How is it?" he asked, really wanting to know. "Perfect," I said, "You are milkshake master, a milkshake Jedi." "I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said with a big smile, and I could tell he genuinely was. When he finishes high school Jeffie should be appointed CEO of T-immobile. They could use one employee like him. It might reverse their dwindling market share, though it's probably too late. Their other 685,000 employees have already done too much damage. The exact number doesn't matter. You get the idea.
I got to Selah around 8:30 in the evening. I'd made good time. The Vista Cruiser is so much fun to drive on long trips, with the top down and the cruise control on and the sound system turned up to 11. I never bring CDs; I like to spin the FM dial by pressing "seek" and just see what comes up, jazz from KMHD until Cascade Locks, Christian Rock until The Dalles, a pop mix format until I reach the mountains, with Fleetwood Mac and The Doobie Brothers, stuff that takes me back to my misspent youth and early adulthood and the birth of my smart funny and beautiful daughter, then Country from Toppenish from the mountains to parking lot of Sav-On foods. I always stop at Sav-On to call Steff and buy some fruit and razors and a bottle of wine, ask if they need anything from the store. They just wanted some Gatorade for the swim meet tomorrow. Kourtney has improved her time in freestyle by 10 seconds this summer, and she had three new ribbons to show me.
Ethan is chunker, a big happy baby with kissy cheeks. He's looking around now and he studied my face intently with his big blue eyes. He smiled when I sang to him. It was just before bed and he was a little fussy, but finally settled down to nurse sweetly while I shaved and took a shower. His father Thomas played him a few songs on the guitar and put him to bed. I sat up with Tom and Steff a while and we talked. He may be reassigned to a teaching post in Alabama where the Army needs instructors in explosives. He's one of twelve finalists but he doesn't want to go. Here in Selah they are a few hours from his family in Montana and few hours from Stephanie's, and he wants to stay in the field. Life for military families is subject to dramatic and uncertain change. He might be deployed next fall; there's no way to know. Every day at work I speak to mothers and wives who have young men who are half a world away in terrible uncertainty, and your heart has to go out to all of them. Thomas wants to hold his son like all of them, but beginning next week he has an assignment that will have him in the California desert for 35 days. Fully realizing that many other young men and women are in a much harsher desert for a much longer time, he goes where he is told to go. We can all do no better.
We talked a while longer until everyone got tired. The household has to get up at 6:00 am for the swim meet and I see it is that time now as I write. They're getting a puppy for Ethan to grow up with, a Siberian Husky. Thomas had one when he was a boy, and says they are particularly good with kids, loyal and gentle. He knows the family where the dog was born, they've raised three generations of these dogs and raise them gently and with care, an ideal pedigree all by itself. Stephanie and Thomas are having discussions about whether she should go back to work. She has mixed feelings; Thomas wants her to do whatever will make her happy, Stephanie's mother thinks it's vital for her daughter to have a purpose and independence and is steadfastly against her staying home. I'm Switzerland in this matter, but I see how Ethan is thriving, and I've never seen Stephanie more happy or more serene. All I know is that it is a joy to be among them, and I'm looking forward to an Egg McMuffin and the age group freestyle. I'll let you know how it goes.
Today was moving day and it was a complete success. I was thorougly moved, and my good clothes are hanging in my new closet. Thank you for helping me get settled.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Dead Man Walking Meal
For dinner tonight I had a bag of animal crackers and a 32 ounce Pepsi with extra ice, and I burped and didn't say excuse me. It was a Dead Man Walking Meal, like the scene in prison movies like The Green Mile or Dead Man Walking or Monster's Ball, when the condemned man gets to choose whatever he wants for his last meal, pork chops and potatoes and gravy and peach pie, maybe with two chocolate milks. I think once every week or two we ought to eat like a condemned man, just eat whatever you want.
The ideal way to do this would be to assemble your family or three or four of your closest friends, and make it an occasion, a festive celebratory time rather than merely wallowing in food indulgence. But as a culture we tend to box ourselves in about food, make ourselves miserable over it, full of guilt and shoulds. Occasionally, you should eat whatever you want. Just be sure to stop when you are full, and appropriately ramp up your activity level to match your intake. Don't try to reach an arbitrary body image goal through tortuous self denial. Get moving and start living, and truly enjoy what you eat. It's a way better formula.
It's particularly important to share meals with others. It's part of a fundamental human need. I've been in the basement just long enough. In the blog's comment section friend of the blog Brad from Eugene compares going to the basement to a trip to Vegas, and the analogy is humorous and apt. A short stay can be entertaining but it is no place to live. Food is meant to spiced with sharing and conversation, and sharing a memorable meal with friends and family can turned the condemned man to a redeemed one. I challenge each of you to share a meal this weekend with some people you truly love. Make it leisurely, and make conversation and storytelling the centerpiece of the evening and serve the dessert with a scoop of laughter and real whipped cream. Be sure to hug one another at the end, and make sincere plans to do it again and follow through with them. In doing so you have added years and enormous worth to your life. Turn off the TV and turn to each other, and sit at the table together. Have a last moonlit glass of wine on the deck under the stars, because this is what we were born for, to bond to each other, to savor each other. This is what fellowship really means. It isn't a trite boring word from church. It's the most precious and rewarding of human experiences, other than holding a child of your own flesh. I can't wait to get my arms around that bright alert happy grandbaby boy. He had his four month checkup today and he's 27 inches long and 16 lbs., and I'm recommending that Coach Belotti move him on the 2027 depth chart from outside linebacker to defensive end. I'm going out from the basement into the light of day: I'm moving tomorrow and after I get unpacked I'm taking the Vista Cruiser with the top down and heading for Selah for Kourtney's swim meet, two precious hours of rocking chair duty and a night game with the Yakima Bears. It's good to be Grandpa Golf. It's great to be alive on God's good earth.
The ideal way to do this would be to assemble your family or three or four of your closest friends, and make it an occasion, a festive celebratory time rather than merely wallowing in food indulgence. But as a culture we tend to box ourselves in about food, make ourselves miserable over it, full of guilt and shoulds. Occasionally, you should eat whatever you want. Just be sure to stop when you are full, and appropriately ramp up your activity level to match your intake. Don't try to reach an arbitrary body image goal through tortuous self denial. Get moving and start living, and truly enjoy what you eat. It's a way better formula.
It's particularly important to share meals with others. It's part of a fundamental human need. I've been in the basement just long enough. In the blog's comment section friend of the blog Brad from Eugene compares going to the basement to a trip to Vegas, and the analogy is humorous and apt. A short stay can be entertaining but it is no place to live. Food is meant to spiced with sharing and conversation, and sharing a memorable meal with friends and family can turned the condemned man to a redeemed one. I challenge each of you to share a meal this weekend with some people you truly love. Make it leisurely, and make conversation and storytelling the centerpiece of the evening and serve the dessert with a scoop of laughter and real whipped cream. Be sure to hug one another at the end, and make sincere plans to do it again and follow through with them. In doing so you have added years and enormous worth to your life. Turn off the TV and turn to each other, and sit at the table together. Have a last moonlit glass of wine on the deck under the stars, because this is what we were born for, to bond to each other, to savor each other. This is what fellowship really means. It isn't a trite boring word from church. It's the most precious and rewarding of human experiences, other than holding a child of your own flesh. I can't wait to get my arms around that bright alert happy grandbaby boy. He had his four month checkup today and he's 27 inches long and 16 lbs., and I'm recommending that Coach Belotti move him on the 2027 depth chart from outside linebacker to defensive end. I'm going out from the basement into the light of day: I'm moving tomorrow and after I get unpacked I'm taking the Vista Cruiser with the top down and heading for Selah for Kourtney's swim meet, two precious hours of rocking chair duty and a night game with the Yakima Bears. It's good to be Grandpa Golf. It's great to be alive on God's good earth.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Postcard From the Basement
I don't actually have a basement--the basement I'm speaking of is not a physical place but a state of mind. Sometimes as men we have to go into the cave, the basement, the brooding quiet place where we don't shave and wear the same shirt for two days. It's a guy thing. We go to lick our wounds and rest, to plan and to pray. David did it. Job did it. I think it's totally all right to go to such a place, emotionally and spiritually, as long as you emerge. Sometimes, you just have to retreat, and even hide, for a while. Partly to restore your spirit and be still. Partly to take stock. And partly because we hurt, and we just don't want to engage the world much.
I do that from time to time. It reminds me of an old Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson song, "...maybe it's time to get back, to the basics of life." In the time in the basement you can get some sleep and eat a good bowl of soup, catch up on your laundry and write a long email to the person you trust the most. I won another $200 playing $2 tournament poker and caught up on my laundry.
While I've been in the basement I've had some wonderful people check in on me. Brad from Eugene, my friend Gretchen, Arlene, my daughter Stephanie, and William have all sent comments, and their interest in the blog and in my life is a deeply encouraging and heartwarming thing. It's wonderful to me that this little web journal has caught the interest of such fine people, that they would take time from their amazing lives to touch mine. It's really a lift to check my email and find another little gift from them. I remember the joy our whole family felt when were kids and my mother got a package from home. It feels like that. An email from one of you is like a good bar of German chocolate or new matchbox car. I am so thankful for the gift of your readership and responses.
In the days I've been away Marie and I have left a couple of voice mails for each other and text messages, and we talked once on the phone. I think she's just worn down by all the distance and uncertainty, and has reached a point where she has to focus on what's best for her and her daughter Austin, who just scored a 100% percent on her learner's permit test and had a 3.8 grade average for her freshman year. Marie needs a new job and a fresh start, and the endless loop of our troubles, conflicts and stuff has just worn her down. She's in self-protection mode. I understand. More than anything I want her to be happy, and I'm just going to trust--trust her, trust God, and trust that I'll emerge from this cave time a better and stronger man.
My friend Frances at work, a dear, sweet woman and grandmother of five, heard me talking the other day about how I was going to buy a bicycle on Craigslist, and this afternoon she turned to me and said, "Dale, one of my kids has left a ten speed in my garage for ten years, and none of my grandsons want it. If you'll come over to pick it up you can have it." How much do you want for it, I asked. "Nothing," she said, "I just want it out of my garage." It's an inexpensive bike, a Murray ten speed, probably the kind you'd buy at a variety or discount store, but the tires took air and the brakes work, and it will get me back and forth to work for $0 a week. There's a beautiful off-road bike trail that will take me most of the way.
So after work tonight I picked up the bike and drove to a bike shop on Division, the nice one with the fancy bikes, to find out how much it would be a get a tune up for it, you know, some new tires and tighten the brakes, grease the chain and tinker with its gears and knobs. To me the most terrifying words in the world are "some assembly required" so this is the kind of thing I have to hire out. It's just better that way. It saves the skin on my knuckles and an extensive use of my golfing-words vocabulary. The fancy bike shop had a nice sign board above the repair counter. Tune ups ranged from $65 to $135 dollars, depending on how detailed the work. Plus parts. This bike, new, wouldn't have sold for more than that. I can take my car to Firestone for a basic tune up for that. Yikes. I decided I could buy a crescent wrench at the Dollar Store and make do.
I had the top down on the Vista Cruiser and I laid the bike upside down in the back seat and took it over to my new place, the room at Richard's. The bikes are kept in the shed. We talked for a few minutes, and I met his son and dropped off some coats, a few books, and my golf clubs. I love my room and the location, just minutes from work. There's space for my desk and computer, a nice wide closet with a shelf for shoes. Richard has a gig this weekend at a bar at 82nd and Division and I promised him I'd go over and catch a set. That's sounds nice actually, have a cold beer and listen to some music. It will be my first venture out of the cave.
Of course this weekend after I finish moving I'm going to Selah for grandbabies, barbeque and The Backyard Olympics. I have to defend my world number one ranking in horseshoes, golf and badminton, and avenge my humiliating loss in bocci ball. Kourtney and I will probably go over to Yakima to the Par 3 for a game of golf, and Ethan is now looking around and engaging the world and needs to be held and kissed. I think I will email or call and invite Marie to go. It's a little thing, maybe too late. But there isn't any harm in asking.
Well, that's about all the telling that will fit on the back of this postcard. I'll send you another from the road, and from Applegate Country Club, the site of the prestigious Backyard Olympics. It will good to be among family and fully engaged in life, and be away from the headset for four precious days. My love to all of you and good night.
I do that from time to time. It reminds me of an old Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson song, "...maybe it's time to get back, to the basics of life." In the time in the basement you can get some sleep and eat a good bowl of soup, catch up on your laundry and write a long email to the person you trust the most. I won another $200 playing $2 tournament poker and caught up on my laundry.
While I've been in the basement I've had some wonderful people check in on me. Brad from Eugene, my friend Gretchen, Arlene, my daughter Stephanie, and William have all sent comments, and their interest in the blog and in my life is a deeply encouraging and heartwarming thing. It's wonderful to me that this little web journal has caught the interest of such fine people, that they would take time from their amazing lives to touch mine. It's really a lift to check my email and find another little gift from them. I remember the joy our whole family felt when were kids and my mother got a package from home. It feels like that. An email from one of you is like a good bar of German chocolate or new matchbox car. I am so thankful for the gift of your readership and responses.
In the days I've been away Marie and I have left a couple of voice mails for each other and text messages, and we talked once on the phone. I think she's just worn down by all the distance and uncertainty, and has reached a point where she has to focus on what's best for her and her daughter Austin, who just scored a 100% percent on her learner's permit test and had a 3.8 grade average for her freshman year. Marie needs a new job and a fresh start, and the endless loop of our troubles, conflicts and stuff has just worn her down. She's in self-protection mode. I understand. More than anything I want her to be happy, and I'm just going to trust--trust her, trust God, and trust that I'll emerge from this cave time a better and stronger man.
My friend Frances at work, a dear, sweet woman and grandmother of five, heard me talking the other day about how I was going to buy a bicycle on Craigslist, and this afternoon she turned to me and said, "Dale, one of my kids has left a ten speed in my garage for ten years, and none of my grandsons want it. If you'll come over to pick it up you can have it." How much do you want for it, I asked. "Nothing," she said, "I just want it out of my garage." It's an inexpensive bike, a Murray ten speed, probably the kind you'd buy at a variety or discount store, but the tires took air and the brakes work, and it will get me back and forth to work for $0 a week. There's a beautiful off-road bike trail that will take me most of the way.
So after work tonight I picked up the bike and drove to a bike shop on Division, the nice one with the fancy bikes, to find out how much it would be a get a tune up for it, you know, some new tires and tighten the brakes, grease the chain and tinker with its gears and knobs. To me the most terrifying words in the world are "some assembly required" so this is the kind of thing I have to hire out. It's just better that way. It saves the skin on my knuckles and an extensive use of my golfing-words vocabulary. The fancy bike shop had a nice sign board above the repair counter. Tune ups ranged from $65 to $135 dollars, depending on how detailed the work. Plus parts. This bike, new, wouldn't have sold for more than that. I can take my car to Firestone for a basic tune up for that. Yikes. I decided I could buy a crescent wrench at the Dollar Store and make do.
I had the top down on the Vista Cruiser and I laid the bike upside down in the back seat and took it over to my new place, the room at Richard's. The bikes are kept in the shed. We talked for a few minutes, and I met his son and dropped off some coats, a few books, and my golf clubs. I love my room and the location, just minutes from work. There's space for my desk and computer, a nice wide closet with a shelf for shoes. Richard has a gig this weekend at a bar at 82nd and Division and I promised him I'd go over and catch a set. That's sounds nice actually, have a cold beer and listen to some music. It will be my first venture out of the cave.
Of course this weekend after I finish moving I'm going to Selah for grandbabies, barbeque and The Backyard Olympics. I have to defend my world number one ranking in horseshoes, golf and badminton, and avenge my humiliating loss in bocci ball. Kourtney and I will probably go over to Yakima to the Par 3 for a game of golf, and Ethan is now looking around and engaging the world and needs to be held and kissed. I think I will email or call and invite Marie to go. It's a little thing, maybe too late. But there isn't any harm in asking.
Well, that's about all the telling that will fit on the back of this postcard. I'll send you another from the road, and from Applegate Country Club, the site of the prestigious Backyard Olympics. It will good to be among family and fully engaged in life, and be away from the headset for four precious days. My love to all of you and good night.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Life Comes at You Fast
If you are going to try to sell me something, make me laugh. The commercials that come on and try to drown me in sound and fury or fear I tune out immediately but the ones that are funny I remember and even lean forward to watch. I love the Geico cave man in his therapist's office. His cell phone rings. "It's my mother. I'll put her on speaker." Or the one where a woman is going for a boat ride in Vienna and handsome Fabio is steering her boat in a flowing, white romance novel shirt: they go under a bridge and in the next moment he is decrepit and old. Life comes at you fast. Last night I had to show my ID. The DMV never takes your picture anymore; they just mail a new sticker. Maybe that's changed. But over the last many years I've had to visit for a change of address or renewal that's what happened. My driver's license picture is from about 1993, about 15 years ago. I hardly recognize myself. I wasn't nearly as handsome then.
But the changes and movements of life come quickly and they are often unexpected, occasionally jolting or wrenching, filled with humanity, good things and bad. My friend Daphne at work is taking some vacation time to visit her daddy, who is very sick, and she gets ready for her trip she's filled with the realization she may be going to say goodbye to him, although in the last few days he seems to be rallying his strength. There's a dear and radiant woman in the commercial department whose husband recently underwent surgery for cancer and the doctors discovered it has spread to his lymph nodes. He'll begin chemotherapy in a few days. Her spirit is strong and courageous, utterly inspiring to witness, but what an unspeakable trial this must be. Can you imagine, going to work and leading a meeting, with all that in your heart? She herself is a cancer survivor, a miracle of God's grace, and an inspiring person. It's amazing what people overcome and endure.
I've mentioned my son Roger here many times, 21 and full of life and promise. Recently his girlfriend of six years, since sophomore year of high school, an eternity in his young life, broke up with him. "I just feel we're going in different directions," she told him. It may lead to some wonderful growth and opportunities for him but right now he is devastated and drinking too much, and my heart hurts for him. We are only born with two fears, the fear of abandonment and the fear of failing, and losing a loved one, in any way, is both. We hurt to our core. We feel the ground under our feet has fallen away.
Yesterday in my little life two big things happened, or at least two things that were important to me. I met with Richard one more time and we agreed to become roommates. I'll be living in the little house in Portland's Gateway district, just a few miles from work and three blocks from the grocery store. There's an off-street well-maintained bike path that winds on for many miles nearby, connecting to trails that go all the way from Marine Drive to Clackamas Town Center to Gresham, and including one that easily takes me most of the way to work without encountering a single car, downhill on the way there. Roger and I used to ride that trail when he was little. It stretched from my house to his and all the way to Blue Lake Park. He rode the yellow bike, the first one I bought him when he was five, and I taught him to ride in the parking lot of the Lutheran Church across the street from my apartment. That was a great apartment. It had a pool and a nicely landscaped courtyard with rose bushes, on a quiet street. Stephanie and her friends would come over to go swimming. Roger and I played broom hockey one day when it snowed.
My new place is the third bedroom in a house, an older home Richard has beautifully restored. He's an interesting, likable guy, a man of faith, a Catholic with a 14-year-old son who stays with him a couple of days a week. Richard rides Harleys with a group of his buddies on weekends. He's 47 and at a crossroads in his life, thinking of how he wants to shape and be shaped by his future. This weekend he's playing drums at an outdoor festival in Vernonia, a charity event run by some bikers friends he knows, a group called Brother Speed. He's seen a lot of life; it shows in his voice and his eyes, but there's a directness and a reflectiveness in him that I trust, particularly when I see the care he has put into his home, a small Craftsman bungalow he has lovingly restored with hardwood floors and three coats of paint on the crown molding. He seems to be a fine man and runs the house with just a few reasonable rules: Pay your rent by the third, and let me know right away if you need to to wait until the fourth or fifth; only one overnight guest a week, keep the noise down after 10 pm,and turn off the lights and the TV and computers when you are done with them. We met last night for a final time to discuss the arrangements and wound up talking for two hours. I'll get back 10 hours of commuting time a week and save $500 a month I was spending on gas. In another six months to a year I'll have accumulated money in the stock account again and I'll be able to get a place of my own. It's an inefficient way to save but I know myself; that's the best I can do right now. Later on I can use the same habit to a better purpose. But I'd better be careful, because life comes at you fast. I'll be 60 in seven years. 60. In the words of the immortal Mickey Mantle, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."
The other seemingly big thing that happened, at least in my world, is that yesterday Marie didn't return any of my calls. Over the course of our separation, which began in February after a passionate and often troubled marriage, we have made it a habit to talk every day and I usually call her at lunchtime and after work, at least when T-Mobile doesn't drop the call, and often again in the evening before going to bed. We've dated and worked out together and continued to talk and many Sundays have gone to church together, with the hopes of working out differences and finding better ways to handle them, to experience conflict and resolve problems without letting our stuff spin things out of control. We were hopeful of preserving the love and ending the screaming and craziness. I pay for her cell phone and her gym membership and try to stay connected.
Yesterday I called at lunch and again after work and then again a couple of hours later and she never returned any of my calls. I left three tender, concerned messages. No answer. Nothing. Not an email or a text or a hello or a goodbye. My stomach tightens a little as I write this, the fear of abandonment and the fear of falling, grabbing me at my core. It could be she has been busy, it could be I said something that upset her, maybe she met someone or had a date; I can't possibly know.
I have another gnawing worry, totally unrelated. Any of my close friends or family members might tell you that I am the most absent minded person in the world. Sunday I took the credit cards and AAA card and some other stuff out of my wallet, and I thought I set it in the console of my car, intending to put them away later to a safer place. I was tired of carrying all that stuff around, and the AAA membership had long expired. There were about eight cards in all, things like my Kaiser Permenente membership and stuff like that. Friday at lunchtime I was looking for them and they're not in the console. It was foolish of me to leave them for so long. But now I am wracked with a growing uncertainty--did I misplace them or store them in a different place, or have they all been stolen? I have some money being wired on Monday, to pay for the new place and catch up on some bills. Oh my god, what a disaster it would be if they were stolen, if that money was taken. Right now it's all the money in the world to me, even though it's just a few hundred dollars. I'm going through the car and my room today to see if I can sort it out. If not, I'll have to make all those panicked phone calls and hold through the muzak and navigate the phone tree for my bank and the credit cards, the kind of task I truly dread. Life comes at you fast. And even when you are think you are doing better, when you are striving for sanity and reasonableness and good decisions and control, you're vulnerable, far more vulnerable than you can ever realize. Life can plunge you into sorrow or craziness or disaster or joy in a second. It can take your breath away, fill you with ecstasy or shake you to the core. It can expose you or transform you, in a 1000 ways you couldn't have possibly anticipated. My mother's car was rearended at sixty miles an hour on a Saturday morning in June 2005. She was stopping at a roadside fruitstand to buy strawberries for a shortcake. The little girls had junior rodeo that day and she wanted to make them a treat. The pickup slammed into her Honda and spun her into the path of oncoming traffic and in ten minutes she was gone. It can happen to anyone. Anything can. We are here for only a moment, and our most treasured connections are more tenuous than we can possibly imagine. Our boldest plans are bits of fluff.
May God be with you today. Thank you so much for coming to visit.
But the changes and movements of life come quickly and they are often unexpected, occasionally jolting or wrenching, filled with humanity, good things and bad. My friend Daphne at work is taking some vacation time to visit her daddy, who is very sick, and she gets ready for her trip she's filled with the realization she may be going to say goodbye to him, although in the last few days he seems to be rallying his strength. There's a dear and radiant woman in the commercial department whose husband recently underwent surgery for cancer and the doctors discovered it has spread to his lymph nodes. He'll begin chemotherapy in a few days. Her spirit is strong and courageous, utterly inspiring to witness, but what an unspeakable trial this must be. Can you imagine, going to work and leading a meeting, with all that in your heart? She herself is a cancer survivor, a miracle of God's grace, and an inspiring person. It's amazing what people overcome and endure.
I've mentioned my son Roger here many times, 21 and full of life and promise. Recently his girlfriend of six years, since sophomore year of high school, an eternity in his young life, broke up with him. "I just feel we're going in different directions," she told him. It may lead to some wonderful growth and opportunities for him but right now he is devastated and drinking too much, and my heart hurts for him. We are only born with two fears, the fear of abandonment and the fear of failing, and losing a loved one, in any way, is both. We hurt to our core. We feel the ground under our feet has fallen away.
Yesterday in my little life two big things happened, or at least two things that were important to me. I met with Richard one more time and we agreed to become roommates. I'll be living in the little house in Portland's Gateway district, just a few miles from work and three blocks from the grocery store. There's an off-street well-maintained bike path that winds on for many miles nearby, connecting to trails that go all the way from Marine Drive to Clackamas Town Center to Gresham, and including one that easily takes me most of the way to work without encountering a single car, downhill on the way there. Roger and I used to ride that trail when he was little. It stretched from my house to his and all the way to Blue Lake Park. He rode the yellow bike, the first one I bought him when he was five, and I taught him to ride in the parking lot of the Lutheran Church across the street from my apartment. That was a great apartment. It had a pool and a nicely landscaped courtyard with rose bushes, on a quiet street. Stephanie and her friends would come over to go swimming. Roger and I played broom hockey one day when it snowed.
My new place is the third bedroom in a house, an older home Richard has beautifully restored. He's an interesting, likable guy, a man of faith, a Catholic with a 14-year-old son who stays with him a couple of days a week. Richard rides Harleys with a group of his buddies on weekends. He's 47 and at a crossroads in his life, thinking of how he wants to shape and be shaped by his future. This weekend he's playing drums at an outdoor festival in Vernonia, a charity event run by some bikers friends he knows, a group called Brother Speed. He's seen a lot of life; it shows in his voice and his eyes, but there's a directness and a reflectiveness in him that I trust, particularly when I see the care he has put into his home, a small Craftsman bungalow he has lovingly restored with hardwood floors and three coats of paint on the crown molding. He seems to be a fine man and runs the house with just a few reasonable rules: Pay your rent by the third, and let me know right away if you need to to wait until the fourth or fifth; only one overnight guest a week, keep the noise down after 10 pm,and turn off the lights and the TV and computers when you are done with them. We met last night for a final time to discuss the arrangements and wound up talking for two hours. I'll get back 10 hours of commuting time a week and save $500 a month I was spending on gas. In another six months to a year I'll have accumulated money in the stock account again and I'll be able to get a place of my own. It's an inefficient way to save but I know myself; that's the best I can do right now. Later on I can use the same habit to a better purpose. But I'd better be careful, because life comes at you fast. I'll be 60 in seven years. 60. In the words of the immortal Mickey Mantle, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."
The other seemingly big thing that happened, at least in my world, is that yesterday Marie didn't return any of my calls. Over the course of our separation, which began in February after a passionate and often troubled marriage, we have made it a habit to talk every day and I usually call her at lunchtime and after work, at least when T-Mobile doesn't drop the call, and often again in the evening before going to bed. We've dated and worked out together and continued to talk and many Sundays have gone to church together, with the hopes of working out differences and finding better ways to handle them, to experience conflict and resolve problems without letting our stuff spin things out of control. We were hopeful of preserving the love and ending the screaming and craziness. I pay for her cell phone and her gym membership and try to stay connected.
Yesterday I called at lunch and again after work and then again a couple of hours later and she never returned any of my calls. I left three tender, concerned messages. No answer. Nothing. Not an email or a text or a hello or a goodbye. My stomach tightens a little as I write this, the fear of abandonment and the fear of falling, grabbing me at my core. It could be she has been busy, it could be I said something that upset her, maybe she met someone or had a date; I can't possibly know.
I have another gnawing worry, totally unrelated. Any of my close friends or family members might tell you that I am the most absent minded person in the world. Sunday I took the credit cards and AAA card and some other stuff out of my wallet, and I thought I set it in the console of my car, intending to put them away later to a safer place. I was tired of carrying all that stuff around, and the AAA membership had long expired. There were about eight cards in all, things like my Kaiser Permenente membership and stuff like that. Friday at lunchtime I was looking for them and they're not in the console. It was foolish of me to leave them for so long. But now I am wracked with a growing uncertainty--did I misplace them or store them in a different place, or have they all been stolen? I have some money being wired on Monday, to pay for the new place and catch up on some bills. Oh my god, what a disaster it would be if they were stolen, if that money was taken. Right now it's all the money in the world to me, even though it's just a few hundred dollars. I'm going through the car and my room today to see if I can sort it out. If not, I'll have to make all those panicked phone calls and hold through the muzak and navigate the phone tree for my bank and the credit cards, the kind of task I truly dread. Life comes at you fast. And even when you are think you are doing better, when you are striving for sanity and reasonableness and good decisions and control, you're vulnerable, far more vulnerable than you can ever realize. Life can plunge you into sorrow or craziness or disaster or joy in a second. It can take your breath away, fill you with ecstasy or shake you to the core. It can expose you or transform you, in a 1000 ways you couldn't have possibly anticipated. My mother's car was rearended at sixty miles an hour on a Saturday morning in June 2005. She was stopping at a roadside fruitstand to buy strawberries for a shortcake. The little girls had junior rodeo that day and she wanted to make them a treat. The pickup slammed into her Honda and spun her into the path of oncoming traffic and in ten minutes she was gone. It can happen to anyone. Anything can. We are here for only a moment, and our most treasured connections are more tenuous than we can possibly imagine. Our boldest plans are bits of fluff.
May God be with you today. Thank you so much for coming to visit.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Balance, Daniel-san
One of my favorite dumb movies is "The Karate Kid." There are a billion things wrong with that movie; it is hackneyed, racist, full of broad, stereotypical characters and a story you can see coming a mile away, but I run into it on Saturday afternoon television every so often and invariably I will watch it to the end. I love Mr. Miagi's lessons--my son Roger is Japanese-American and the pidgin accent is ridiculous and insulting but there's an irresistible tough/tender quality in his homilies for his lonely, bullied pupil. If you let yourself just be a child watching that movie you can't help but be drawn in by the teachings about work and discipline and practice, "paint the fence" and "wax on, wax off" and "sand the floor." But I still can't believe Crane Style really worked. My favorite lesson is the one about "balance," chiefly because I think we all struggle so much to maintain balance in our lives, between exercise and chores, work and family, responsibility and recreation, our own needs and the needs of others. Tonight Dahlia wanted me to play with her. I told her I was too busy. I was, but what a stupid choice, one that utterly screams out for a bop on the head from a sensei. There is never a Mr. Miagi around when you need a quick push into the water.
I struggle constantly for balance, and invariably I'm going overboard in one direction or another. When I started the blog I was staying up till three every night to write, going around exhilarated with the new project but cranky and sleep deprived. For a good stretch of weeks I was working out 5-6 times a week and starting to feel really energized and in shape, but my laundry was stacking up and I wasn't spending enough time with friends and family. The last week or so I've worked out just a couple of times, spending far too many hours playing low stakes Internet poker. I made a $140 over a few evenings of playing $2-per-tournament poker, which is fun, but it's a question of priorities; it's a question of balance.
There are all kinds of areas that demand a balance equation. Money and time. Freedom and duty. Independence and responsibility. Resources and wants. I admire people like William, who seem to have a strong inner compass that invariably points in the direction of God's will, or people like my wife, who just has a fierce inner drive to get things done and put chores and responsibility first.
I have often been a creature of obsessions, passions and drives, and balance has never come easy.
There's even a flip side to balance, I think. Sometimes we have to be willing to be a little unbalanced, to be extreme in our dedications, single-minded in our aims. Flipping those switches at the right time is the true art of living. It takes a strong inner voice, which, when we're in tune with it, sounds a lot like our mother.
My goal for this weekend is to create some balance. Tonight I got the laundry done and a light-hearted blog entry. Tomorrow I'll get a good cleansing workout and a full night's sleep. Monday night when the money arrives I'll catch up on my bills and set a budget for the rest. I spoke to Rick again this afternoon and I should know about the room in a day or two. I really have a good feeling about that--the location is wonderful and in our conversations he seems like a really solid and interesting and enjoyable guy. I mean this sincerely: whatever God wills.
Saturday, I ought to play a couple of games of Old Maid and take Tia and Dahlia to lunch.
I struggle constantly for balance, and invariably I'm going overboard in one direction or another. When I started the blog I was staying up till three every night to write, going around exhilarated with the new project but cranky and sleep deprived. For a good stretch of weeks I was working out 5-6 times a week and starting to feel really energized and in shape, but my laundry was stacking up and I wasn't spending enough time with friends and family. The last week or so I've worked out just a couple of times, spending far too many hours playing low stakes Internet poker. I made a $140 over a few evenings of playing $2-per-tournament poker, which is fun, but it's a question of priorities; it's a question of balance.
There are all kinds of areas that demand a balance equation. Money and time. Freedom and duty. Independence and responsibility. Resources and wants. I admire people like William, who seem to have a strong inner compass that invariably points in the direction of God's will, or people like my wife, who just has a fierce inner drive to get things done and put chores and responsibility first.
I have often been a creature of obsessions, passions and drives, and balance has never come easy.
There's even a flip side to balance, I think. Sometimes we have to be willing to be a little unbalanced, to be extreme in our dedications, single-minded in our aims. Flipping those switches at the right time is the true art of living. It takes a strong inner voice, which, when we're in tune with it, sounds a lot like our mother.
My goal for this weekend is to create some balance. Tonight I got the laundry done and a light-hearted blog entry. Tomorrow I'll get a good cleansing workout and a full night's sleep. Monday night when the money arrives I'll catch up on my bills and set a budget for the rest. I spoke to Rick again this afternoon and I should know about the room in a day or two. I really have a good feeling about that--the location is wonderful and in our conversations he seems like a really solid and interesting and enjoyable guy. I mean this sincerely: whatever God wills.
Saturday, I ought to play a couple of games of Old Maid and take Tia and Dahlia to lunch.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
One Day In a Row
One day in a row is a streak, if you've been going bad. Today was a good day. It was beautiful and sunny and I had the top down, listening to the baseball all star game on the way home. Ichiro lined a single to right. Yogi Berra got a nice ovation from the Yankee crowd. Sheryl Crow did a lovely version of the national anthem. I just listened to the first few innings. It was nice to hear some baseball and hear a little of the stories of some of the up and coming players in the game, Chase Utley and Cliff Lee and Evan Longoria. I don't watch the game as often but I glance at the box scores. I need to make another trip to Selah to see the grandbabies and take them to see the Yakima Bears again. Minor league baseball is about as pure a family fun outing as you can think of, a hot dog and a cold drink and a couple of hours in the evening sunshine with your family. Talk a little, keep score, shake hands with the mascot. Last summer Kourtney had a crush on one of the players and he was really nice to her, a great young man. The kids are starting out their careers, and in small towns they become part of the community. It's a nice thing.
In the mail tonight I got my stock statement from the company employee stock purchase plan, and I can use the money to get a new place, so that is good news. As much as I've enjoyed the Wheeler girls the long commute has been crippling, an incredible financial drain. Like a lot of people I've probably been spending $500-750 a month on gas, and I'm a light-footed old grandpa in the slow lane driver. For the last few weeks I've taken to coasting whenever possible, shutting down the engine immediately as I park and waiting to turn it on until I've made sure I've opened the Wheeler gate and adjusted the mirrors and put on my seat belt--I don't turn on the key until I'm ready to drive. Those few simple adjustments have boosted my fuel economy to 30.4 miles per gallon. This is in a Chrysler Sebring with a 6-cylinder engine, well above its fuel rating expectations. I've become a genuine cheapskate in my old age. Sometimes its kind of fun.
This morning before work I looked at a room near 106th and Weidler, a nice place, neat and clean with a beautiful backyard. The owner/landlord was a guy named Rick, a former musician who has lived a little, rides a Harley on weekends and speaks in a deep gravelly voice that sounds full of stories. I don't know if I'll get it but the location is perfect, maybe 12 minutes from work, 2 blocks from a Winco and 5 minutes from the gym. It would add 10 hours a week to my life and save me hundreds of dollars in gas. We're supposed to touch base tomorrow. The house is shared with three other guys so it's a respectable living situation and not a discomfort for Marie, which was important.
At work today I did much better. I just tried to be humble and polite, and was able to help most of the people without any trouble. Folks get upset sometimes and you just have to be patient, as much as you can, and be accurate and follow the guidelines. It can be a challenge. People get emotional about their trash.
One day in row is the beginning of a winning streak. For now, that's good enough for me. I hope you are starting a winning streak of your own.
In the mail tonight I got my stock statement from the company employee stock purchase plan, and I can use the money to get a new place, so that is good news. As much as I've enjoyed the Wheeler girls the long commute has been crippling, an incredible financial drain. Like a lot of people I've probably been spending $500-750 a month on gas, and I'm a light-footed old grandpa in the slow lane driver. For the last few weeks I've taken to coasting whenever possible, shutting down the engine immediately as I park and waiting to turn it on until I've made sure I've opened the Wheeler gate and adjusted the mirrors and put on my seat belt--I don't turn on the key until I'm ready to drive. Those few simple adjustments have boosted my fuel economy to 30.4 miles per gallon. This is in a Chrysler Sebring with a 6-cylinder engine, well above its fuel rating expectations. I've become a genuine cheapskate in my old age. Sometimes its kind of fun.
This morning before work I looked at a room near 106th and Weidler, a nice place, neat and clean with a beautiful backyard. The owner/landlord was a guy named Rick, a former musician who has lived a little, rides a Harley on weekends and speaks in a deep gravelly voice that sounds full of stories. I don't know if I'll get it but the location is perfect, maybe 12 minutes from work, 2 blocks from a Winco and 5 minutes from the gym. It would add 10 hours a week to my life and save me hundreds of dollars in gas. We're supposed to touch base tomorrow. The house is shared with three other guys so it's a respectable living situation and not a discomfort for Marie, which was important.
At work today I did much better. I just tried to be humble and polite, and was able to help most of the people without any trouble. Folks get upset sometimes and you just have to be patient, as much as you can, and be accurate and follow the guidelines. It can be a challenge. People get emotional about their trash.
One day in row is the beginning of a winning streak. For now, that's good enough for me. I hope you are starting a winning streak of your own.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Custer's Last Stand
By most accounts George Armstrong Custer was headstrong and egocentric, rash, critical and foolish. He made bad decisions and blamed others for his problems. His career was a disaster, constant discipline problems and poor work habits undermining his progress. He came to the frontier seeking fame and glory and instead led 700 men to their death, including two of his brothers and a brother-in-law.
He underestimated his enemy. He didn't prepare well. He wouldn't listen to information and advice, and made predictable and disastrous bad choices. His attitude undermined his talents, and his laziness eroded all his gifts. He failed to respect the chain of command or the experience of his scouts and officers. I wonder if he had a moment of self-realization before he died. It isn't likely given his character and history.
I can't speak for Custer, although several generations of historians and archaeologists have tried. And I don't for a second mean to make light of a long and shameful history of genocide and exploitation. It's well beyond my grasp to comment on that. Instead I am thinking today of Custer the man, and my own too human tendency to act rashly and self destructively, the way I've bristled at authority or advice and gone off on my own way and backed myself into a hopeless position, time and time again. The shooting is about to start and I'm hopelessly outnumbered, broke and overwhelmed, in trouble at work. I feel broken and alone and deeply embarrassed to be in such a place. I did it to myself. I can't imagine how I'll possibly fix it.
Yesterday Marie called my bluff. We actually posted the second car to Craigslist, and the laptop, and got immediate offers for each. But we aren't ready. The fundamental problems have in no way been solved. We're still stuck. Today at work I got in trouble again and I deserved it. I'm being counselled about my attitude and performance. Three customers complained. They sent me home with an ultimatum to come tomorrow with a different attitude or don't come at all. I'm amazed they didn't fire me. I'm afraid they will anyway as soon as the new class is out of training.
Marie called me just now and sent me a couple of nice text messages. It was really encouraging to hear from her. I needed a friendly voice.
I have no one to blame but myself. Unlike Custer, I still have time to make peace or choose a new direction. Pray for me tonight. I've got to figure things out.
He underestimated his enemy. He didn't prepare well. He wouldn't listen to information and advice, and made predictable and disastrous bad choices. His attitude undermined his talents, and his laziness eroded all his gifts. He failed to respect the chain of command or the experience of his scouts and officers. I wonder if he had a moment of self-realization before he died. It isn't likely given his character and history.
I can't speak for Custer, although several generations of historians and archaeologists have tried. And I don't for a second mean to make light of a long and shameful history of genocide and exploitation. It's well beyond my grasp to comment on that. Instead I am thinking today of Custer the man, and my own too human tendency to act rashly and self destructively, the way I've bristled at authority or advice and gone off on my own way and backed myself into a hopeless position, time and time again. The shooting is about to start and I'm hopelessly outnumbered, broke and overwhelmed, in trouble at work. I feel broken and alone and deeply embarrassed to be in such a place. I did it to myself. I can't imagine how I'll possibly fix it.
Yesterday Marie called my bluff. We actually posted the second car to Craigslist, and the laptop, and got immediate offers for each. But we aren't ready. The fundamental problems have in no way been solved. We're still stuck. Today at work I got in trouble again and I deserved it. I'm being counselled about my attitude and performance. Three customers complained. They sent me home with an ultimatum to come tomorrow with a different attitude or don't come at all. I'm amazed they didn't fire me. I'm afraid they will anyway as soon as the new class is out of training.
Marie called me just now and sent me a couple of nice text messages. It was really encouraging to hear from her. I needed a friendly voice.
I have no one to blame but myself. Unlike Custer, I still have time to make peace or choose a new direction. Pray for me tonight. I've got to figure things out.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Stuck in Nuetral, Behind a Bus
Some of the city buses in Portland have a bumper sticker on them that say "thanks to me there are 265 cars that are not on the road today." The exact number does not matter. My friend Doug, who always has a funny story or three, told me a while back about a bumper sticker he saw that said, "Thanks to me and 264 other drivers, there is one bus that is not on the road today." If you have ever been behind that bus, you know exactly what he means. They are slow and smelly and stop every two blocks and hog the road. You can't see around them and often can't pass them, because no one else wants to be behind a bus either. Oh I know all about the benefits of mass transit and the dangers of global warming but that is scant comfort when you're driving and it takes 15 minutes to go 3 blocks. "Damn this traffic jam. How I hate to be late," James Taylor sang, and he was right. Maybe I should park somewhere and get on the bus. Wait, you've got to have a pass, or use exact change. All I have is a fiver. Here's your ticket. Why isn't the bus moving. It's time for my layover. Union rules.
The last few days have been stuck behind the bus days. Really, the last few months have. They've been days you cut yourself shaving and drop your phone and the first customer you help is screaming and irrational and personalizes their small problem to a large hurtful rant and it goes on like this until your break and you realize you forgot your lunch, check your wallet and your pockets and you've got 1.85 between your pockets and the ash tray of your car. So it's a bag of peanuts and a Three Musketeers bar and lots of coffee. The coffee machine's busted. The repair man will be here tomorrow. Stuck in nuetral, behind the bus.
When I start having days like this I realize it's time to take stock of my life and check my attitudes, because something is clearly getting me stuck over and over in the same place, and I'm defeating myself with bad choices and poorly focused attention. As you may know from visiting here previously Marie and I have been separated 5 months now, and we haven't been able to get back together because living apart has been a financial drain and emotional hardship and we had issues and conflicts to began with. Habits attitudes and history have kept us stuck, and inspite of tremendous and obvious affection for each other our troubles and needs and conflicts and the simple yet complicated business of earning a living and keeping thing together has us feeling overwhelmed and stuck. It's a big knot of small issues and entanglements and misunderstandings, plus $250 security deposits and first and last and an unpaid electric bill. We're trying to talk it out but the cell phone drops the call. It goes on like that.
I'm tired of being stuck, and I'm tired of living without her. We have multiple issues and lots of complications, but we're stronger together than we are apart. Beginning today I'm going to break the logjam, no matter what it takes. I'd rather fail spectacularly than stay stuck in nuetral. I'm turning right at the next block and heading in a different direction.
At times like this people pray for guidance. When the great scientist and innovator George Washington Carver was a young man he had big dreams. He rose from poverty and slavery and wanted with all his heart to learn and create. He said he prayed fervently to learn the mysteries of creation. "Lord, I prayed." Carver said, "I want to know the mind of God. And God answered me, 'let's start with a peanut.'" So Carver listened, and revolutionized Southern agriculture with his inventions and patents and ideas, like peanut butter and crop rotation. A remarkable life with many achievements, from a man born in the worst imaginable circumstances. Hope, faith, education, and determination changed his life and through him, the course of history.
My poverty and slavery is born of bad decisions, and I want to change it beginning now. I don't want to know the mind of God, just the will of God, and I believe it starts with reuniting my family. Today I'm putting three ads on Craigslist. I'm selling both computers, the monitor, our second car. Then I'm selling a few hundred dollars I have of company stock. We'll pay our nagging bills and find an apartment. I don't want to be without her anymore. I need her help.
I'm writing this from the lobby of a Starbucks in Wilsonville. The Wheeler internet hasn't been working for some reason so I came here with Marie and bought a daypass from my least favorite wireless company. The cell phone bill was $185 this month and yesterday I had 10 dropped calls or "no network" notifications, including two I made to customer care to cancel my service. A $185 to not make phone calls and now I'm paying them 9.95 to use the Internet for one day. I really am an idiot.
So I'll be writing every day but I may not blog for a while. I let you know how it goes, maybe with an occasional visit to the library. In the meantime I'll have to write the old fashioned way, with pencil and paper. It's time to get to work and stop whining.
The last few days have been stuck behind the bus days. Really, the last few months have. They've been days you cut yourself shaving and drop your phone and the first customer you help is screaming and irrational and personalizes their small problem to a large hurtful rant and it goes on like this until your break and you realize you forgot your lunch, check your wallet and your pockets and you've got 1.85 between your pockets and the ash tray of your car. So it's a bag of peanuts and a Three Musketeers bar and lots of coffee. The coffee machine's busted. The repair man will be here tomorrow. Stuck in nuetral, behind the bus.
When I start having days like this I realize it's time to take stock of my life and check my attitudes, because something is clearly getting me stuck over and over in the same place, and I'm defeating myself with bad choices and poorly focused attention. As you may know from visiting here previously Marie and I have been separated 5 months now, and we haven't been able to get back together because living apart has been a financial drain and emotional hardship and we had issues and conflicts to began with. Habits attitudes and history have kept us stuck, and inspite of tremendous and obvious affection for each other our troubles and needs and conflicts and the simple yet complicated business of earning a living and keeping thing together has us feeling overwhelmed and stuck. It's a big knot of small issues and entanglements and misunderstandings, plus $250 security deposits and first and last and an unpaid electric bill. We're trying to talk it out but the cell phone drops the call. It goes on like that.
I'm tired of being stuck, and I'm tired of living without her. We have multiple issues and lots of complications, but we're stronger together than we are apart. Beginning today I'm going to break the logjam, no matter what it takes. I'd rather fail spectacularly than stay stuck in nuetral. I'm turning right at the next block and heading in a different direction.
At times like this people pray for guidance. When the great scientist and innovator George Washington Carver was a young man he had big dreams. He rose from poverty and slavery and wanted with all his heart to learn and create. He said he prayed fervently to learn the mysteries of creation. "Lord, I prayed." Carver said, "I want to know the mind of God. And God answered me, 'let's start with a peanut.'" So Carver listened, and revolutionized Southern agriculture with his inventions and patents and ideas, like peanut butter and crop rotation. A remarkable life with many achievements, from a man born in the worst imaginable circumstances. Hope, faith, education, and determination changed his life and through him, the course of history.
My poverty and slavery is born of bad decisions, and I want to change it beginning now. I don't want to know the mind of God, just the will of God, and I believe it starts with reuniting my family. Today I'm putting three ads on Craigslist. I'm selling both computers, the monitor, our second car. Then I'm selling a few hundred dollars I have of company stock. We'll pay our nagging bills and find an apartment. I don't want to be without her anymore. I need her help.
I'm writing this from the lobby of a Starbucks in Wilsonville. The Wheeler internet hasn't been working for some reason so I came here with Marie and bought a daypass from my least favorite wireless company. The cell phone bill was $185 this month and yesterday I had 10 dropped calls or "no network" notifications, including two I made to customer care to cancel my service. A $185 to not make phone calls and now I'm paying them 9.95 to use the Internet for one day. I really am an idiot.
So I'll be writing every day but I may not blog for a while. I let you know how it goes, maybe with an occasional visit to the library. In the meantime I'll have to write the old fashioned way, with pencil and paper. It's time to get to work and stop whining.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Calling in Well
My friends Doug and Gretchen are flying to Kansas City today to spend a few precious days with their beloved Grandbabies. We all need to do more of this, make the heroic and decisive effort to make time for the ones we love, throwing off our routines and our "got tos" to do the the things that matter, the things we'll really cherish and remember. No one reaches their deathbed, or the deathbed of someone dear to them, thinking, "Gee, I wish I'd spent more time at work." Before on these pages I've quoted the author Tom Robbins, a gifted and irreverent voice with a knack for turning an idea upside down in an illuminating way. In one of his books (in the words of the immortal Casey Stengal, you could look it up) he offers the concept that two or three times a year we all ought to be able to call in well, to simply make a u-turn on the way through the slog or exit on the way to another 8 hours of drudge and call in and say, "You know, I'm really feeling great today. There's someone I love and adore and haven't seen in a while, and I think I'll spend the day with them." It's an idea that hasn't caught on but it ought to. We put our lives and our loved ones on hold to make the payment on the family truckster and our 3.2 credit cards; maybe we ought to cut down somewhere and leave a little more room for the people who matter and the things that really ought to be on the day planners and to do lists. Sadly, love is all too often the last thing we make time for, and the first thing we put off "until we have more time." Well, we're never going to have more time. Do what Doug and Gretchen did, whenever you can. Take the bold action step. Clear the runway. Go see them. Get on a plane, drive all night, pick up the phone. Do it. Visit your mom or dad. Spend three precious days with your love. Take a "call in well" day (you don't have to call it that when you call; they're pretty humorless about this kind of thing down at The Verbal Toxic Waste Dump, and they probably are where you work too.) In the long run you'll be twice as productive, and there will be a light in your eyes and a spring in your two-step that wasn't there before, because your soul will be a little more alive, dancing within you to the best music you know, the music you share with the people you love most. We are enlivened and made whole by this music, by the conversations and meals and moments we spend on the floor with our beloved grandsons playing Hot Wheels, by macaroni and cheese at the tables of our daughters. Make it happen as soon and as often as you can. Godspeed, Doug and Gretchen. Travel well and safely, then fly home and call me and invite me over to tell me all about it.
I've mentioned lately that Marie's mother is sick and just got home from a few days in the hospital. She's recovering and sounding brave over the phone but Marie is still worried about her, and I've been trying to coax my lovely bride to drive the six hours south to go visit, no matter what, as soon as she can spare the time. Her mother is nearing 80, a lovely, strong woman with a magnificent heart and a keen eye for the truth, and there is a part of her that has grown weary of this world and longs for the next: her beloved husband has been in Heaven for twelve years. She's lived a good, rewarding, meaningful, faithful life, and still does so each day, but she's reached a place of grace within her where death holds no sting and seems like a heavenly reward. Which doesn't in anyway remove the the grief and sadness Marie feels at the prospect of losing her. I want my wife to be held by her mother, one more time and as often as possible. The grocery orders at the retail food conglomerate aren't nearly as important. I've offered her the car keys, I've offered to leave with her Friday night after work. I hope her mom lives another ten years, but if it is ten months or ten minutes, I want them to have a good long good bye and the opportunity to say The Things We Wished We Have Said. Say those things. Pick up the phone. Fill the tank and go visit. Stop living to work and start working to live. I promise the lawn and the laundry will be there when you get back.
It's 6:35 and there's a horse grazing outside my window. Freckles, Dahlia's horse, a gentle giant who endures her impatient kicks in her eagerness to get to the future and be a Cowgirl. The rooster has crowed three times. It's 6:37. I'd like to call in well today but today isn't the day. When I do though, it will be worth every d and t of the demerits I will earn. Blessings to you all and take care.
I've mentioned lately that Marie's mother is sick and just got home from a few days in the hospital. She's recovering and sounding brave over the phone but Marie is still worried about her, and I've been trying to coax my lovely bride to drive the six hours south to go visit, no matter what, as soon as she can spare the time. Her mother is nearing 80, a lovely, strong woman with a magnificent heart and a keen eye for the truth, and there is a part of her that has grown weary of this world and longs for the next: her beloved husband has been in Heaven for twelve years. She's lived a good, rewarding, meaningful, faithful life, and still does so each day, but she's reached a place of grace within her where death holds no sting and seems like a heavenly reward. Which doesn't in anyway remove the the grief and sadness Marie feels at the prospect of losing her. I want my wife to be held by her mother, one more time and as often as possible. The grocery orders at the retail food conglomerate aren't nearly as important. I've offered her the car keys, I've offered to leave with her Friday night after work. I hope her mom lives another ten years, but if it is ten months or ten minutes, I want them to have a good long good bye and the opportunity to say The Things We Wished We Have Said. Say those things. Pick up the phone. Fill the tank and go visit. Stop living to work and start working to live. I promise the lawn and the laundry will be there when you get back.
It's 6:35 and there's a horse grazing outside my window. Freckles, Dahlia's horse, a gentle giant who endures her impatient kicks in her eagerness to get to the future and be a Cowgirl. The rooster has crowed three times. It's 6:37. I'd like to call in well today but today isn't the day. When I do though, it will be worth every d and t of the demerits I will earn. Blessings to you all and take care.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Like the disciples in the Garden I fell asleep when I should have been praying or taking notes, and didn't write a line last night. After work I had a lackluster workout, drove the 45 minutes home in a fog of worry, won 6.00 playing low stakes internet poker and fell asleep by ten. Had a can of Coke for dinner, indulging nearly all of my worst habits in one evening, sloth, worry, gambling, avarice, self indulgence, selfishness. I called Marie twice, once after work and once after the gym, but got voicemail. I called again before bed but there was no network. T-mobile, the gift that keeps on giving, and charges you a hundred and fifty a month.
I still have stories to begin and finish, but I have to pry them out. I hope everything is okay with Marie; I know her mother was in the hospital and the doctors found a blood clot in her leg on Sunday.
Sunday we had a picnic in the park. Marie read while I worked on the Gopher story, which was fun to write but looking it over, as Gretchen rightly pointed out, you couldn't hardly say it was appropriate for children. Which is all right. I was just having fun, anyway.. Occasionally the blog will make forays into things that are random or seem to to have no earthly purpose. One of these days I'd like to do an entry on "Twenty tricks to improve your gas mileage" or "Ten things I hate about paying bills." It's a long year, after all, a lot of blogging to do.
That's my commitment. I will blog for a year, and if hasn't grown into something or launched my writerliness (probably not a word, but you get the idea) I will delete it in one glorious huff. But I'll give it a year before I do. Most of my enthusiasms wane long before that.
It's time to leave for work now and I've got to shake myself and hustle because I don't want another demerit. July is a billing month, we just had a rate increase and a service change so the green light is always blinking right now, an agitated and inflamed consumer on the other end of the line with acid in their voice, demanding answers, retribution, or someone to hear their general rage against the machine. Only they can't reach the machine, just me, and I wind up standing in and standing against all their stored rages, all the irritations of paying bills and the general indifference of an indifferent world. It can be a little unpleasant. But we did have free pizza for lunch.
Time to go. I will not have another Coke for breakfast, no matter how good it sounds.
I still have stories to begin and finish, but I have to pry them out. I hope everything is okay with Marie; I know her mother was in the hospital and the doctors found a blood clot in her leg on Sunday.
Sunday we had a picnic in the park. Marie read while I worked on the Gopher story, which was fun to write but looking it over, as Gretchen rightly pointed out, you couldn't hardly say it was appropriate for children. Which is all right. I was just having fun, anyway.. Occasionally the blog will make forays into things that are random or seem to to have no earthly purpose. One of these days I'd like to do an entry on "Twenty tricks to improve your gas mileage" or "Ten things I hate about paying bills." It's a long year, after all, a lot of blogging to do.
That's my commitment. I will blog for a year, and if hasn't grown into something or launched my writerliness (probably not a word, but you get the idea) I will delete it in one glorious huff. But I'll give it a year before I do. Most of my enthusiasms wane long before that.
It's time to leave for work now and I've got to shake myself and hustle because I don't want another demerit. July is a billing month, we just had a rate increase and a service change so the green light is always blinking right now, an agitated and inflamed consumer on the other end of the line with acid in their voice, demanding answers, retribution, or someone to hear their general rage against the machine. Only they can't reach the machine, just me, and I wind up standing in and standing against all their stored rages, all the irritations of paying bills and the general indifference of an indifferent world. It can be a little unpleasant. But we did have free pizza for lunch.
Time to go. I will not have another Coke for breakfast, no matter how good it sounds.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Murray the Golfing Gopher and The Power of Tunnel Vision
My smart, funny, and beautiful daughter Stephanie asked me to write a children's story about a gopher who loved golf, so I did:
Murray the Gopher lived in a small rabbit hole behind the Caddyshack at Applegate Country Club, and he loved three things: he loved the sweet, dark earth to dig in, he loved golf, and he loved his One and Only True Lifetime Love, Marie Bunny.
Now it was kind of unusual for a Gopher to fall in love with a bunny, but Murray was an exceptional Gopher who dreamed big ridiculous un-Gopher sized dreams. Most of the other Gophers he had met were grubby creatures who chattered endlessly and meanly about each other and their various annoyances, like the Caddy Master's Gopher traps. Marie was nice to him and spoke softly, and was hardly ever cross, except when her feelings were hurt. He loved her big dewy blue eyes and the little puff of her white tail, and the sweet rabbity curve of her hip, the studious way she wrinkled her nose when she was nibbling tender leaves of lettuce, the tiny black glasses she wore and the way she concentrated when she was reading, sometimes laughing out loud when she came to the good parts of a story. The very thought of her made him sigh. He dreamed of building her a grand rabbit hole under the big oak tree behind the Caddyshack. with a view of The Lake and Farmer Brown's carrot patch, conveniently located on the left side of town.
Murray Gopher's other dream was to become the Master's Champion. He explained to Marie that the Masters was like the Giant Easter Egg Hunt of golf, held each year in the spring when the azaleas began to bloom, and the winner was awarded a trophy and a nifty Coveted Green Jacket, plus one point two million dollars and a fortune in endorsement contracts. "If I win," he told her one night, when they were dancing under the stars, their favorite thing to do, "We'll pay off all our bills, buy Applegate Country Club, and take out all the rabbit and gopher traps." Marie Bunny smiled her sweetest smile. "Oh goody," she said, "I just know you can." Her confidence in him made his heart soar, and he twirled her gracefully to "Stardust," their favorite song to dance to, written by Hoagy Carmichael and sung by Nat King Cole.
It was a Cinderella story, this dream of his, and he would practice every night in the quiet under the moon. Gophers have excellent night vision and he enjoyed practicing without any humans around, most of whom he had found to be bigoted and ignorant toward Gophers, considering them PESTS merely because Gophers like to dig tunnels.
Why didn't humans understand that tunnels were the easiest way to get from place to place, that they were a joy to dig in the sweet moist earth, they were cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter than the generally harsh world above ground, and they were offered the digger privacy and a deep sense of accomplishment? Murray had noticed that humans liked to dig too when they were small, but generally lost interest once they got to be 10 or 12 and became hopelessly engrossed in TV, computers, Nintendo or Playstation, all ridiculous alternatives if you asked him. There was nothing good on television except golf and reruns of old movies, he thought. Adult humans, meanwhile, seemed to have almost no fun at all as far as he could see. They didn't even enjoy it when they played golf, always muttering and swearing around the course. Most of them were just this deadly serious about everything, always going to work and driving about in big cars on noisy streets that sprawled about this way and that, far less efficient than a good system of tunnels. Adult humans never dug tunnels unless they worked for the gas or cable company or wore yellow hard hats that said "engineer," and even then they scarcely enjoyed it at all. Humans were misguided and their lives were far too complicated and serious but Murray didn't HATE them; he just wished they were a little more tolerant of gophers and his two Big Dreams, and didn't try to chase him off the course with the Caddymaster's silly traps.
You may think it a bit unusual for a Gopher to play golf, but Murray was quite good at it. For one thing, no one knows ground and drainage as well as a Gopher, so he was a masterful putter. He would study his putts with his fierce Gopher eyes, holding his putter in front of him in plumb bob fashion like Tiger Woods, determined to make each one, studying the surface of the green until he knew exactly how the ball would roll. "Cinderella story," he would whisper to himself, "The final round of the Masters, Murray the Gopher versus Tiger Woods, the fierce competitor from Applegate Country Club, a relative unknown stunning the golf world, about to become the Master's Champion." He would take back his putter surely, roll the ball true across the length of the green, rolling, rolling, breaking left toward the lake until it made that nice plock-plock-plick-plick-plick rattle in the bottom of the cup. "Wa na na na na na na NAH!" Murray exclaimed, dropping his putter and raising both stubby arms high in the air. Or at least as high as he could reach. He loved that sound, the rattle the ball made when it fell into the plastic cup. No one knew holes better than a golfer, so putting came quite naturally to him.
His golf clubs were a gift from his friend Kourtney, the beautiful brown-eyed girl with curly hair that lived in a white house on a hill above the apple orchard. The clubs were from her first set when she was six and although she had sprouted up like a spring colt and outgrown them they suited Murray perfectly. They had pink handgrips and sleek graphite shafts and Murray found them quite stylish, carrying them in a burlap grass seed bag he found behind the Groundskeeper's Shed. Murray was a dedicated recycler and seldom wasted anything. Fallen apples made a delicious pie, he had found, and he had made a perfectly good drum set from the palms of leather golf clubs stretched over the halves of a discarded Budweiser can. Murray could really wail on the drums, but he was too devoted to golf and Bunny Marie to take his music seriously right now. The main thing was he knew opportunities were everywhere to take good use of what others didn't need anymore, like Kourtney's little-girl golf clubs or an empty grass seed bag.
Murray wanted to win the Masters almost more than anything. The Master's in particular, because it was the first major tournament of the year and he loved the azaleas blooming along the fairways. He thought he would look spiffy in The Coveted Green Jacket. He could wear it when he and Marie got married, maybe at the Champions dinner the year after he won. "Just imagine it," Murray said to himself. VJ Singh could be his best man. VJ was his favorite golfer, a bit chunky like himself, and he thought they even looked a little alike, although VJ was not quite as handsome.
Murray knew it was a bit unusual for a small underground rodent to plan an assault on one of golf's most prestigious titles, there was nothing in the rules that said he COULDN'T play: he had found a copy discarded in the weeds near an out of bounds stake on the third hole at the Applegate Country Club, and though the rules prohibited carrying more than 14 clubs or grounding your club in a hazard they said nothing about golf being played by a gopher. There wasn't even a height requirement, and besides, he wasn't THAT much shorter than Gary Player or Annika Sorenstam or Tom Watson or Chi Chi Rodriguez or Lee Trevino, who all had fabulously successful careers despite being Vertically Challenged. He would just have to be determined, that's all, and no one digs tunnels night and day without developing a healthy sense of determination.
But to win the Masters, he knew, he would first have to be invited to play and that was a bit of a tall order for a short unknown Gopher. But if Zach Johnson from Cedar Rapids, Iowa could do it, so could he, and he wouldn't win simply because Tiger Woods had an off day. No, Murray would beat him, fair and square, mano a mano, as nature intended. A Gopher is far more resourceful than a Tiger, Murray reasoned, who are quite lazy in the wild. They don't build anything, definitely not tunnels, and lounge about all day sleeping, barely energetic enough to switch away flies. The Tiger was going down, Murray decided.
His plan was simple. The surest of the routes to the Masters was to finish in the top 15 at the previous year's U.S. Open, which you didn't even have to be a professional to play in, just finish in the top two at a sectional qualifier held a few weeks before. Like all good plans, this was elegant and direct in design and fierce in execution, built one good practice shot and midnight putting session at a time: win a sectional qualifier, place in the top ten at the U.S. Open, and win the Masters on his first try. Hey, it could happen. A black man named Barack Obama was running for President. This was America after all.
Every night Murray would practice in the moonlight after his tunnels were dug and the tasty treats gathered for tomorrow's lunch. He borrowed a few carrots from Farmer Brown's patch for Marie. It was a good trade, he thought. His tunnels aerated the soil and improved drainage, growing twice as many carrots and radishes as would have grown otherwise, although Farmer Brown probably wouldn't see it that way. He was decidedly selfish and not a sustainable thinker.
At the first tee Murray stood up on hind legs with his chunky gopher body steeled with just the right amount of tension and studied his first shot. The first fairway, he knew, bent around a crook of trees to the left and sloped toward the lake, and the best shot should be aimed toward a tall alder tree with juicy roots just beyond the corner of the bend. Murray saw the shot in his mind before he hit it, arcing like a hawk after a mouse, soaring high then swooping swiftly over the fairway and coming to rest in the perfect spot near a fallen upside down alder leaf a few feet from the stout trunk of the tree. He knew exactly how it would fly and exactly how he would hit it. He limbered up behind the ball with a couple of practice swings that felt just right, narrating to himself as he warmed up:
"The first tee here at the final round of the Masters," Murray said in an important-sounding Jim Nance voice. Big dreamers have to have a strong inner voice of narration. "The Cinderella story about to unfold. The surprise wire-to-wire leader here at Augusta on the cusp of an historic achievement, the relative unknown Murray Gopher shocking the golf world, holding the favorite Tiger Woods at bay, thwarting Woods' quest for a fifth green jacket, the Gopher entering the competition today with a tenuous one-shot lead. First hole, par 4, 455 yards, a slight dogleg right that requires a precise second shot to an undulating green. Here at the tee at Augusta. He's got about an eight iron."
Murray imagined all this with his fierce dreamer's imagination and took his solid low-to-the-ground stance over the pink ball perched on a yellow tee. Both gifts from Kourtney, who had a fabulous sense of color, and so did he, quite open-minded in matters of style. He twisted his powerful gopher body into a tight twist, stretching back as far as he could stretch, his thick torso strong and supple from years of tunnel digging, and he swung the club surely through the ball with a satisfying thwack! as the club connected and launched the ball skyward, Murray pivoting forward smoothly to a graceful follow through, as though posing for the cover picture in tomorrow's USA Today.
"The diminutive upstart from Applegate Country Club has BOOMED this drive!" Murray exclaimed, again in his best Jim Nance voice. "That will be in great position, just by the alder tree on the right side of the fairway. He'll have a great shot from there." The announcer voice inside his head played over the jazz music of his dream. "Somewhere, Over the rainbow, Way up high," sung by Natalie Cole, Nat's smart funny and beautiful daughter. Aren't all daughters smart funny and beautiful, Murray thought. Some day he would have daughters of his own. Natalie had the most lovely voice he had ever heard from a human, though not nearly as lovely as Bunny Marie's. "There's a place that I heard of, once in a lullaby."
Murray would practice until two or three every night, carefully studying every putt and visualizing every shot, dragging his clubs behind him in the grass seed sack, making a soft rustling sound over the grass, until he finished the 18th hole and reached his home under the oak tree behind the Caddyshack. He'd whisper his dream one more time. "The Masters Champion," he said. And then he would snuggle up to Marie in their small rabbit hole until he fell asleep, and dream his big dreams.
Murray the Gopher lived in a small rabbit hole behind the Caddyshack at Applegate Country Club, and he loved three things: he loved the sweet, dark earth to dig in, he loved golf, and he loved his One and Only True Lifetime Love, Marie Bunny.
Now it was kind of unusual for a Gopher to fall in love with a bunny, but Murray was an exceptional Gopher who dreamed big ridiculous un-Gopher sized dreams. Most of the other Gophers he had met were grubby creatures who chattered endlessly and meanly about each other and their various annoyances, like the Caddy Master's Gopher traps. Marie was nice to him and spoke softly, and was hardly ever cross, except when her feelings were hurt. He loved her big dewy blue eyes and the little puff of her white tail, and the sweet rabbity curve of her hip, the studious way she wrinkled her nose when she was nibbling tender leaves of lettuce, the tiny black glasses she wore and the way she concentrated when she was reading, sometimes laughing out loud when she came to the good parts of a story. The very thought of her made him sigh. He dreamed of building her a grand rabbit hole under the big oak tree behind the Caddyshack. with a view of The Lake and Farmer Brown's carrot patch, conveniently located on the left side of town.
Murray Gopher's other dream was to become the Master's Champion. He explained to Marie that the Masters was like the Giant Easter Egg Hunt of golf, held each year in the spring when the azaleas began to bloom, and the winner was awarded a trophy and a nifty Coveted Green Jacket, plus one point two million dollars and a fortune in endorsement contracts. "If I win," he told her one night, when they were dancing under the stars, their favorite thing to do, "We'll pay off all our bills, buy Applegate Country Club, and take out all the rabbit and gopher traps." Marie Bunny smiled her sweetest smile. "Oh goody," she said, "I just know you can." Her confidence in him made his heart soar, and he twirled her gracefully to "Stardust," their favorite song to dance to, written by Hoagy Carmichael and sung by Nat King Cole.
It was a Cinderella story, this dream of his, and he would practice every night in the quiet under the moon. Gophers have excellent night vision and he enjoyed practicing without any humans around, most of whom he had found to be bigoted and ignorant toward Gophers, considering them PESTS merely because Gophers like to dig tunnels.
Why didn't humans understand that tunnels were the easiest way to get from place to place, that they were a joy to dig in the sweet moist earth, they were cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter than the generally harsh world above ground, and they were offered the digger privacy and a deep sense of accomplishment? Murray had noticed that humans liked to dig too when they were small, but generally lost interest once they got to be 10 or 12 and became hopelessly engrossed in TV, computers, Nintendo or Playstation, all ridiculous alternatives if you asked him. There was nothing good on television except golf and reruns of old movies, he thought. Adult humans, meanwhile, seemed to have almost no fun at all as far as he could see. They didn't even enjoy it when they played golf, always muttering and swearing around the course. Most of them were just this deadly serious about everything, always going to work and driving about in big cars on noisy streets that sprawled about this way and that, far less efficient than a good system of tunnels. Adult humans never dug tunnels unless they worked for the gas or cable company or wore yellow hard hats that said "engineer," and even then they scarcely enjoyed it at all. Humans were misguided and their lives were far too complicated and serious but Murray didn't HATE them; he just wished they were a little more tolerant of gophers and his two Big Dreams, and didn't try to chase him off the course with the Caddymaster's silly traps.
You may think it a bit unusual for a Gopher to play golf, but Murray was quite good at it. For one thing, no one knows ground and drainage as well as a Gopher, so he was a masterful putter. He would study his putts with his fierce Gopher eyes, holding his putter in front of him in plumb bob fashion like Tiger Woods, determined to make each one, studying the surface of the green until he knew exactly how the ball would roll. "Cinderella story," he would whisper to himself, "The final round of the Masters, Murray the Gopher versus Tiger Woods, the fierce competitor from Applegate Country Club, a relative unknown stunning the golf world, about to become the Master's Champion." He would take back his putter surely, roll the ball true across the length of the green, rolling, rolling, breaking left toward the lake until it made that nice plock-plock-plick-plick-plick rattle in the bottom of the cup. "Wa na na na na na na NAH!" Murray exclaimed, dropping his putter and raising both stubby arms high in the air. Or at least as high as he could reach. He loved that sound, the rattle the ball made when it fell into the plastic cup. No one knew holes better than a golfer, so putting came quite naturally to him.
His golf clubs were a gift from his friend Kourtney, the beautiful brown-eyed girl with curly hair that lived in a white house on a hill above the apple orchard. The clubs were from her first set when she was six and although she had sprouted up like a spring colt and outgrown them they suited Murray perfectly. They had pink handgrips and sleek graphite shafts and Murray found them quite stylish, carrying them in a burlap grass seed bag he found behind the Groundskeeper's Shed. Murray was a dedicated recycler and seldom wasted anything. Fallen apples made a delicious pie, he had found, and he had made a perfectly good drum set from the palms of leather golf clubs stretched over the halves of a discarded Budweiser can. Murray could really wail on the drums, but he was too devoted to golf and Bunny Marie to take his music seriously right now. The main thing was he knew opportunities were everywhere to take good use of what others didn't need anymore, like Kourtney's little-girl golf clubs or an empty grass seed bag.
Murray wanted to win the Masters almost more than anything. The Master's in particular, because it was the first major tournament of the year and he loved the azaleas blooming along the fairways. He thought he would look spiffy in The Coveted Green Jacket. He could wear it when he and Marie got married, maybe at the Champions dinner the year after he won. "Just imagine it," Murray said to himself. VJ Singh could be his best man. VJ was his favorite golfer, a bit chunky like himself, and he thought they even looked a little alike, although VJ was not quite as handsome.
Murray knew it was a bit unusual for a small underground rodent to plan an assault on one of golf's most prestigious titles, there was nothing in the rules that said he COULDN'T play: he had found a copy discarded in the weeds near an out of bounds stake on the third hole at the Applegate Country Club, and though the rules prohibited carrying more than 14 clubs or grounding your club in a hazard they said nothing about golf being played by a gopher. There wasn't even a height requirement, and besides, he wasn't THAT much shorter than Gary Player or Annika Sorenstam or Tom Watson or Chi Chi Rodriguez or Lee Trevino, who all had fabulously successful careers despite being Vertically Challenged. He would just have to be determined, that's all, and no one digs tunnels night and day without developing a healthy sense of determination.
But to win the Masters, he knew, he would first have to be invited to play and that was a bit of a tall order for a short unknown Gopher. But if Zach Johnson from Cedar Rapids, Iowa could do it, so could he, and he wouldn't win simply because Tiger Woods had an off day. No, Murray would beat him, fair and square, mano a mano, as nature intended. A Gopher is far more resourceful than a Tiger, Murray reasoned, who are quite lazy in the wild. They don't build anything, definitely not tunnels, and lounge about all day sleeping, barely energetic enough to switch away flies. The Tiger was going down, Murray decided.
His plan was simple. The surest of the routes to the Masters was to finish in the top 15 at the previous year's U.S. Open, which you didn't even have to be a professional to play in, just finish in the top two at a sectional qualifier held a few weeks before. Like all good plans, this was elegant and direct in design and fierce in execution, built one good practice shot and midnight putting session at a time: win a sectional qualifier, place in the top ten at the U.S. Open, and win the Masters on his first try. Hey, it could happen. A black man named Barack Obama was running for President. This was America after all.
Every night Murray would practice in the moonlight after his tunnels were dug and the tasty treats gathered for tomorrow's lunch. He borrowed a few carrots from Farmer Brown's patch for Marie. It was a good trade, he thought. His tunnels aerated the soil and improved drainage, growing twice as many carrots and radishes as would have grown otherwise, although Farmer Brown probably wouldn't see it that way. He was decidedly selfish and not a sustainable thinker.
At the first tee Murray stood up on hind legs with his chunky gopher body steeled with just the right amount of tension and studied his first shot. The first fairway, he knew, bent around a crook of trees to the left and sloped toward the lake, and the best shot should be aimed toward a tall alder tree with juicy roots just beyond the corner of the bend. Murray saw the shot in his mind before he hit it, arcing like a hawk after a mouse, soaring high then swooping swiftly over the fairway and coming to rest in the perfect spot near a fallen upside down alder leaf a few feet from the stout trunk of the tree. He knew exactly how it would fly and exactly how he would hit it. He limbered up behind the ball with a couple of practice swings that felt just right, narrating to himself as he warmed up:
"The first tee here at the final round of the Masters," Murray said in an important-sounding Jim Nance voice. Big dreamers have to have a strong inner voice of narration. "The Cinderella story about to unfold. The surprise wire-to-wire leader here at Augusta on the cusp of an historic achievement, the relative unknown Murray Gopher shocking the golf world, holding the favorite Tiger Woods at bay, thwarting Woods' quest for a fifth green jacket, the Gopher entering the competition today with a tenuous one-shot lead. First hole, par 4, 455 yards, a slight dogleg right that requires a precise second shot to an undulating green. Here at the tee at Augusta. He's got about an eight iron."
Murray imagined all this with his fierce dreamer's imagination and took his solid low-to-the-ground stance over the pink ball perched on a yellow tee. Both gifts from Kourtney, who had a fabulous sense of color, and so did he, quite open-minded in matters of style. He twisted his powerful gopher body into a tight twist, stretching back as far as he could stretch, his thick torso strong and supple from years of tunnel digging, and he swung the club surely through the ball with a satisfying thwack! as the club connected and launched the ball skyward, Murray pivoting forward smoothly to a graceful follow through, as though posing for the cover picture in tomorrow's USA Today.
"The diminutive upstart from Applegate Country Club has BOOMED this drive!" Murray exclaimed, again in his best Jim Nance voice. "That will be in great position, just by the alder tree on the right side of the fairway. He'll have a great shot from there." The announcer voice inside his head played over the jazz music of his dream. "Somewhere, Over the rainbow, Way up high," sung by Natalie Cole, Nat's smart funny and beautiful daughter. Aren't all daughters smart funny and beautiful, Murray thought. Some day he would have daughters of his own. Natalie had the most lovely voice he had ever heard from a human, though not nearly as lovely as Bunny Marie's. "There's a place that I heard of, once in a lullaby."
Murray would practice until two or three every night, carefully studying every putt and visualizing every shot, dragging his clubs behind him in the grass seed sack, making a soft rustling sound over the grass, until he finished the 18th hole and reached his home under the oak tree behind the Caddyshack. He'd whisper his dream one more time. "The Masters Champion," he said. And then he would snuggle up to Marie in their small rabbit hole until he fell asleep, and dream his big dreams.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
We Got Married Again, This time not in a fever
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans
to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a
future."
Jeremiah 29:11
I woke up this morning with a painful leg cramp in my left calf, a stab of agony more effective than any alarm clock. I staggered one-legged to the kitchen feeling decrepit and ridiculous and squeezed a dollop of yellow mustard into my palm and ate it in a hurried gulp. It makes the cramp go away almost immediately. Something to do with the vinegar or turmeric. Pickle juice works too. The pickles in Newton refrigerators are always drying out, their juices sacrificed to counter onslaughts of leg cramps, a curse inherited from our father and exacerbated by a failure to properly hydrate. But nothing can get a morning in motion as decisively as a leg cramp. Sometimes a little pain is a good thing. It prods you into action.
Dahlia needed color pages, although she probably has a stack around the house somewhere that would supply her until Fourth of July weekend 2018. She has a doll house she got yesterday at a holiday garage sale, a pink Barbie bedroom set that folds out in fantastic detail, complete with a used Barbie and a pink Barbie car, and another doll in shimmery silver princess dress. There is a whole social/political argument here about the merits of Barbie and body image, but Dahlia is delighted by her new treasures. She lays them out on the kitchen floor to show them to me, the four-poster bed that folds out with a drapery of delicate pink fabric above it, the white plastic makeup table and a private bathroom with stairs that lead up to the tub. I remark to her that her own room is like that, pretty and pink with nice furniture, but she sagely points out all the features of Barbie's first own room, not to disparage her own but in enthusiasm over her new toy. It's amazing the hours of happiness you can buy for a child for five bucks at a neighborhood garage sale; her mother got it for her on the way to the rodeo yesterday because the family would be busy with occasions and events today and Dally would need something to entertain her when she lost interest in the barrel races and rodeo clowns. It will be a long and joyous day for the Wheeler family. If your family is not busy this weekend you ought to come out and say hello. There's the rodeo featuring the One Armed Bandit and his trained buffalo, the Barbeque Contest, handsome cowboys and pretty girls, and fireworks. Your daughter or niece could play Barbies with Dahlia in the grandstands. I'm sure they'd be fast friends in two minutes. With kids it's as simple as "Want to play?" Color, creed or national origin do not matter, only sharing and taking turns. Kids are way ahead of us in understanding Dr. King's dream and the preamble to the constitution. They are sages in our midst, and the hope and delight of the village.
Marie and I had a marvelous day yesterday, at General Canby Days, held annually at Wait Park in Canby, Oregon on the fourth of July. One of the highlights was strolling around and seeing all the beautiful babies and small children. We have a habit, borne out of a belief, of always to stopping to admire and smile and compliment families we meet on their babies and little ones. For one we both genuinely adore kids, and for another it is tremendously gratifying to see the pride rise to the parents' faces in having their child praised, and we mean every word of it. To see their bright faces and best picture-taking outfits and delighted smiles is a tonic and a joy. Marie adores children, had four of her own she nursed until 24 months, and babies unfailingly smile eagerly when she bends down to greet them. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat children and old people, and my lovely wife has a special light for both.
We strolled about Wait Park and had a banquet from the food booths, chicken curry from a taste of Himalaya, marionberry shortcake, apple pie, Vietnamese chicken skewers, cold lemonade. There was a band playing in the gazebo and they played two hours without a break, a group of older fellows, one in a Hawaiian shirt that looked like Elvis, a heavy set guy on bass, and a lead guitar player in a straw hat. They played Chuck Berry and the Eagles and a tender version of America the Beautiful, and a couple of ten-year-old girls danced with one other on the grass, a few couples joining them around the park. The parade started at two; we were delighted to see we'd gotten there just in time. There was the mayor riding in a beautifully restored yellow 1938 Ford, the junior high marching band, Cub Scout troupe 503, the Canby youth football program, the Community Theater Production of "Lil Abner," veterans in their uniforms, the Greatest Generation taking one last march to scattered applause, clowns tossing candy, fire trucks, antique tractors, ambulances and police cars and the Les Schwab tow truck. Two little boys watched from the corner waving tiny flags. A family across the street clapped for every entrant, the boys and girls who'd decorated their bikes with red white and blue streamers and the library float. Politicians shook hands and their supporters waved signs. Cutsforth's Market had the best float, a old grocery truck with a produce display on its bed, purple cabbage and red peppers and yellow squash and fresh lettuce laid out to form a rainbow. The hokiness of a small town parade is the center of its charm, the open declaration that these simple things are the best we have and we're damned proud of them and we should be, and the real stars of the parade are the shining faces that line up along its route and set out their folding chairs, believing and hoping in their town and the people who work there.
After the parade broke up Marie and I lost $12 playing 50 cent Knights of Columbus bingo, called out cheerfully by a handsome man in a Canby Cougar hat. I tried everything; I did the wave, held my card upward toward the sky, turned my baseball cap into a rally hat, but we were cursed in bingo. We couldn't win. The little girl across from us needed G-47 to win 9.50 and we were rooting fervently for at least her to get a win but another lady rose excitedly to her feet after B-11. Our losses mounted until we gave up, barely escaping Bingo addiction.
We bought some kettlecorn and a couple of bottles of water and toured the crafts booths. There was an art workshop where for 5.00 you got a small mounted canvas and dabs of oil paints, and the instructor would lead you through the creation of your own landscape painting, and some of the resulting efforts were genuinely beautiful to look at. A couple booths down were some hand-carved mahogany statues and delicate vases, and some college students selling Hawaiian shaved ice.
On the other side of the street there was a booth selling inexpensive necklaces and jewelry, and among her wares the lady had a velvet tray of men's rings. Faithful readers of the blog know our story began June 1st and I had just sold my ring in the fourth month of our separation. Marie had pawned her engagement ring by then, although she still wears her wedding band on her right hand, a modest one with small diamonds and tiny pink sapphires. I sold the ring because I was broke and discouraged, and when Marie found out she tore at my face with her fingernails, enraged that I could be so callous and certain I had discarded and dishonored our vows. I hadn't, but her rage was overpowering and real and nothing you could reason with.
Five weeks have gone by now and a lot of patient work and prayer and healing, and this had been the loveliest of days. I pointed to one ring and the vendor, a woman with short gray hair and gray eyes, probably in her late sixties, handed it to me and I turned it over in my hands. Sixteen dollars, just a little more than the cost of two rounds of golf at Frontier, the old Sisul farm. It was thin and cheap, engraved with lotus blossoms and scrollwork. "Will it tarnish?" Marie asked. "It's sterling silver," the vendor replied, eager for a sale, "It will tarnish a little but it will wear best if you wear it everyday and use a little polish from time to time time. It's a traditional Hawaiian design."
I tried it on. I have a broken knuckle on my ring finger, an old Thanksgiving football injury that healed poorly, and it's difficult to find rings that fit. "It's a size 12," she said, "the largest one I have." I tugged it over the enlarged knuckle. It fit perfectly. The wedding band Marie had bought me in February 2006 was thick and sturdy, platinum, polished and manly. This one was slightly effeminate and decidedly cheap. I had $20 left after bingo and our snacks. "At least it's a ring," I said. "We can get a nicer one later." I gave the woman our $20 and took change, and Marie and I kissed. She transferred her wedding band back from her right hand to her left and we went back over to hear some more music from the band.
The rest of our second honeymoon was a simple one. We had no place to lay together so we went over to the golf course and then to Molalla state park, took a hike along the river. Then we bought some fried chicken and grapes and two tall cans of beer at Safeway, and drove over to the field behind Trost school to watch fireworks, a large, lovely display of soaring rockets and brilliant colors. There was another family parked next to us, portable chairs set up in front of their red mini van, and they too had a beautiful baby with pudgy kissy cheeks. We held hands with the top down and watched the fireworks, kissed goodbye, and Marie got in her car and drove home. It had been the most pleasant day, easily our best Fourth of July. Troubled couples particularly struggle around holidays. So much stuff gets dredged up, and expectations are heightened. She is a beautiful, tender girl. And now we are wearing our rings again, and that's a good beginning.
to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a
future."
Jeremiah 29:11
I woke up this morning with a painful leg cramp in my left calf, a stab of agony more effective than any alarm clock. I staggered one-legged to the kitchen feeling decrepit and ridiculous and squeezed a dollop of yellow mustard into my palm and ate it in a hurried gulp. It makes the cramp go away almost immediately. Something to do with the vinegar or turmeric. Pickle juice works too. The pickles in Newton refrigerators are always drying out, their juices sacrificed to counter onslaughts of leg cramps, a curse inherited from our father and exacerbated by a failure to properly hydrate. But nothing can get a morning in motion as decisively as a leg cramp. Sometimes a little pain is a good thing. It prods you into action.
Dahlia needed color pages, although she probably has a stack around the house somewhere that would supply her until Fourth of July weekend 2018. She has a doll house she got yesterday at a holiday garage sale, a pink Barbie bedroom set that folds out in fantastic detail, complete with a used Barbie and a pink Barbie car, and another doll in shimmery silver princess dress. There is a whole social/political argument here about the merits of Barbie and body image, but Dahlia is delighted by her new treasures. She lays them out on the kitchen floor to show them to me, the four-poster bed that folds out with a drapery of delicate pink fabric above it, the white plastic makeup table and a private bathroom with stairs that lead up to the tub. I remark to her that her own room is like that, pretty and pink with nice furniture, but she sagely points out all the features of Barbie's first own room, not to disparage her own but in enthusiasm over her new toy. It's amazing the hours of happiness you can buy for a child for five bucks at a neighborhood garage sale; her mother got it for her on the way to the rodeo yesterday because the family would be busy with occasions and events today and Dally would need something to entertain her when she lost interest in the barrel races and rodeo clowns. It will be a long and joyous day for the Wheeler family. If your family is not busy this weekend you ought to come out and say hello. There's the rodeo featuring the One Armed Bandit and his trained buffalo, the Barbeque Contest, handsome cowboys and pretty girls, and fireworks. Your daughter or niece could play Barbies with Dahlia in the grandstands. I'm sure they'd be fast friends in two minutes. With kids it's as simple as "Want to play?" Color, creed or national origin do not matter, only sharing and taking turns. Kids are way ahead of us in understanding Dr. King's dream and the preamble to the constitution. They are sages in our midst, and the hope and delight of the village.
Marie and I had a marvelous day yesterday, at General Canby Days, held annually at Wait Park in Canby, Oregon on the fourth of July. One of the highlights was strolling around and seeing all the beautiful babies and small children. We have a habit, borne out of a belief, of always to stopping to admire and smile and compliment families we meet on their babies and little ones. For one we both genuinely adore kids, and for another it is tremendously gratifying to see the pride rise to the parents' faces in having their child praised, and we mean every word of it. To see their bright faces and best picture-taking outfits and delighted smiles is a tonic and a joy. Marie adores children, had four of her own she nursed until 24 months, and babies unfailingly smile eagerly when she bends down to greet them. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat children and old people, and my lovely wife has a special light for both.
We strolled about Wait Park and had a banquet from the food booths, chicken curry from a taste of Himalaya, marionberry shortcake, apple pie, Vietnamese chicken skewers, cold lemonade. There was a band playing in the gazebo and they played two hours without a break, a group of older fellows, one in a Hawaiian shirt that looked like Elvis, a heavy set guy on bass, and a lead guitar player in a straw hat. They played Chuck Berry and the Eagles and a tender version of America the Beautiful, and a couple of ten-year-old girls danced with one other on the grass, a few couples joining them around the park. The parade started at two; we were delighted to see we'd gotten there just in time. There was the mayor riding in a beautifully restored yellow 1938 Ford, the junior high marching band, Cub Scout troupe 503, the Canby youth football program, the Community Theater Production of "Lil Abner," veterans in their uniforms, the Greatest Generation taking one last march to scattered applause, clowns tossing candy, fire trucks, antique tractors, ambulances and police cars and the Les Schwab tow truck. Two little boys watched from the corner waving tiny flags. A family across the street clapped for every entrant, the boys and girls who'd decorated their bikes with red white and blue streamers and the library float. Politicians shook hands and their supporters waved signs. Cutsforth's Market had the best float, a old grocery truck with a produce display on its bed, purple cabbage and red peppers and yellow squash and fresh lettuce laid out to form a rainbow. The hokiness of a small town parade is the center of its charm, the open declaration that these simple things are the best we have and we're damned proud of them and we should be, and the real stars of the parade are the shining faces that line up along its route and set out their folding chairs, believing and hoping in their town and the people who work there.
After the parade broke up Marie and I lost $12 playing 50 cent Knights of Columbus bingo, called out cheerfully by a handsome man in a Canby Cougar hat. I tried everything; I did the wave, held my card upward toward the sky, turned my baseball cap into a rally hat, but we were cursed in bingo. We couldn't win. The little girl across from us needed G-47 to win 9.50 and we were rooting fervently for at least her to get a win but another lady rose excitedly to her feet after B-11. Our losses mounted until we gave up, barely escaping Bingo addiction.
We bought some kettlecorn and a couple of bottles of water and toured the crafts booths. There was an art workshop where for 5.00 you got a small mounted canvas and dabs of oil paints, and the instructor would lead you through the creation of your own landscape painting, and some of the resulting efforts were genuinely beautiful to look at. A couple booths down were some hand-carved mahogany statues and delicate vases, and some college students selling Hawaiian shaved ice.
On the other side of the street there was a booth selling inexpensive necklaces and jewelry, and among her wares the lady had a velvet tray of men's rings. Faithful readers of the blog know our story began June 1st and I had just sold my ring in the fourth month of our separation. Marie had pawned her engagement ring by then, although she still wears her wedding band on her right hand, a modest one with small diamonds and tiny pink sapphires. I sold the ring because I was broke and discouraged, and when Marie found out she tore at my face with her fingernails, enraged that I could be so callous and certain I had discarded and dishonored our vows. I hadn't, but her rage was overpowering and real and nothing you could reason with.
Five weeks have gone by now and a lot of patient work and prayer and healing, and this had been the loveliest of days. I pointed to one ring and the vendor, a woman with short gray hair and gray eyes, probably in her late sixties, handed it to me and I turned it over in my hands. Sixteen dollars, just a little more than the cost of two rounds of golf at Frontier, the old Sisul farm. It was thin and cheap, engraved with lotus blossoms and scrollwork. "Will it tarnish?" Marie asked. "It's sterling silver," the vendor replied, eager for a sale, "It will tarnish a little but it will wear best if you wear it everyday and use a little polish from time to time time. It's a traditional Hawaiian design."
I tried it on. I have a broken knuckle on my ring finger, an old Thanksgiving football injury that healed poorly, and it's difficult to find rings that fit. "It's a size 12," she said, "the largest one I have." I tugged it over the enlarged knuckle. It fit perfectly. The wedding band Marie had bought me in February 2006 was thick and sturdy, platinum, polished and manly. This one was slightly effeminate and decidedly cheap. I had $20 left after bingo and our snacks. "At least it's a ring," I said. "We can get a nicer one later." I gave the woman our $20 and took change, and Marie and I kissed. She transferred her wedding band back from her right hand to her left and we went back over to hear some more music from the band.
The rest of our second honeymoon was a simple one. We had no place to lay together so we went over to the golf course and then to Molalla state park, took a hike along the river. Then we bought some fried chicken and grapes and two tall cans of beer at Safeway, and drove over to the field behind Trost school to watch fireworks, a large, lovely display of soaring rockets and brilliant colors. There was another family parked next to us, portable chairs set up in front of their red mini van, and they too had a beautiful baby with pudgy kissy cheeks. We held hands with the top down and watched the fireworks, kissed goodbye, and Marie got in her car and drove home. It had been the most pleasant day, easily our best Fourth of July. Troubled couples particularly struggle around holidays. So much stuff gets dredged up, and expectations are heightened. She is a beautiful, tender girl. And now we are wearing our rings again, and that's a good beginning.
Tia's Speech
Molalla Buckeroo Junior Rodeo Princess Tia had to give a speech when she tried out for Junior Rodeo Court. I love the pride and sincerity of the speech. The national columnists and talking heads say America has a crumbling infrastructure, and while it's certainly true we have to improve our roads and build new bridges, I believe the true infrastructure of America is comprised of its families and children. You probably know a young girl like Tia, and she should give you hope for our country's future:
"Hello. My name is Tia Wheeler. I am nine years old and next year I will be in the fourth grade at Colton Elementary School.
I have been going to the Molalla Buckeroo Grounds since I was a tiny baby and my dad, Mark Wheeler, is the President of the Molalla Buckeroo Association this year.
I compete at the 4d barrel races at the Buckeroo and the Willamette Valley Junior Rodeo Association where I do:
Barrels
Poles
Goat Tail Tying
Steer Daubing
Steer Riding
and this year I want to learn how to break away rope. Last year I was the reserve champion in my division.
My favorite event all summer is the Molalla Buckeroo rodeo. I love to watch the barrel racing and bull riding and the fireworks. I have always wanted to be on the junior court so that I could let other people know about the Molalla Buckeroo and they can learn why I enjoy it so much.
I am excited about representing this year's 85th annual Molalla Buckeroo and invite all of you to come and join me at the rodeo.
Thank you."
Friday, July 4, 2008
Reborn on the Fourth of July
The 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays, and I love holidays in general. I love the fact they give us all a mini vacation, an excuse to gather with family and friends and live a little larger than we normally do. They are usually accompanied by some kind of feast, and I love to eat. I had an anthropology professor in college, Dr. Lou Foltz, and he used to say, "In every culture throughout the world throughout time, food equals love." Think about it. We have a holiday, we gather together and have a feast: the Easter ham, the 4th of July barbeque, the Thanksgiving turkey. Someone gets married, there's a rehearsal dinner and reception and more feasting. Someone dies, family and friends mourn the death and comfort one another over a meal. Food brings us together. Doug and Gretchen's son Tucker is a gifted chef who graduated from the Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris, and he can create food of all kinds that is a fourth of July fireworks display of taste sensations and an expressive parade on the table, amazing to taste and beautiful to look at. He is an artist with kitchen tools and simple ingredients, and expresses his love to his family by preparing incredible meals. If you are ever looking for a caterer for a wedding or special event, you can contact him through Gretchen's blog. I will try to provide a better link later.
I love the whole atmosphere of the 4th of July, the fireworks, certainly, but also the fun and informality. Picnics and cold drinks, a blanket in the shade. It's wonderful to celebrate the 4th of July in a small town, when the whole town dresses up and puts on its sequins and tasseled shoes and throws a party on Main Street. The mayor goes by in a pretty car. A troupe of sweet, smiling young girls twirl down the street with ribbons in their hair, performing a dance they've practiced for months. I love the pride on their faces, the happiness they give out to the crowd. Rodeo queens and mounted sheriffs' posses do the parade wave from the backs of beautiful horses with braided manes. There is a magic in a Fourth of July parade, a hopefulness. And afterwards there is cold lemonade, the most perfect drink in the world if it is made with real lemons. Calories consumed with family, on beach trips and picnics and special occasions, don't count. Oh I know they count in a strict sense, but I believe they are truly good for you, because they are good for your human heart. Just be sure to consume as much conversation and laughter as you do strawberry pie, and you will have a completely balanced Fourth of July diet.
I am especially looking forward to this Fourth, because Marie and I have another date. We're going to play golf at Frontier, a little nine hole pitch and putt tucked away in the country a couple of miles west of Canby. Years ago Mr. Sisul turned a piece of his farm into a golf course, and it is a quiet, beautiful place, golf scaled down with 90-yard holes and a gentle pace, just right for families and first dates. I've fallen in love with Marie all over again many times on the eighth hole. She'll be wearing some summer clothes and the wind will be playing with the wisps of her hair and I just can't believe how beautiful she is, how happy I am just to be where she is. I need to write a book, get a $25,000 advance, pay our bills so we can be together and be happy; I just want all the longing and sad phone calls to end. This weekend her mother is in the hospital: her blood pressure got down to something like 60 over 30 and she was extremely dehydrated and weak after some intestinal problems. I offered to drive Marie down to Crescent City to see her but Gladys seems to be recovering and it doesn't seem necessary. We'll wait and go down when she's home and happy and ready for a visit. And we'll celebrate with a good meal, because that's what families do. Food does equal love. You just have to choose the right portions of each.
I love the whole atmosphere of the 4th of July, the fireworks, certainly, but also the fun and informality. Picnics and cold drinks, a blanket in the shade. It's wonderful to celebrate the 4th of July in a small town, when the whole town dresses up and puts on its sequins and tasseled shoes and throws a party on Main Street. The mayor goes by in a pretty car. A troupe of sweet, smiling young girls twirl down the street with ribbons in their hair, performing a dance they've practiced for months. I love the pride on their faces, the happiness they give out to the crowd. Rodeo queens and mounted sheriffs' posses do the parade wave from the backs of beautiful horses with braided manes. There is a magic in a Fourth of July parade, a hopefulness. And afterwards there is cold lemonade, the most perfect drink in the world if it is made with real lemons. Calories consumed with family, on beach trips and picnics and special occasions, don't count. Oh I know they count in a strict sense, but I believe they are truly good for you, because they are good for your human heart. Just be sure to consume as much conversation and laughter as you do strawberry pie, and you will have a completely balanced Fourth of July diet.
I am especially looking forward to this Fourth, because Marie and I have another date. We're going to play golf at Frontier, a little nine hole pitch and putt tucked away in the country a couple of miles west of Canby. Years ago Mr. Sisul turned a piece of his farm into a golf course, and it is a quiet, beautiful place, golf scaled down with 90-yard holes and a gentle pace, just right for families and first dates. I've fallen in love with Marie all over again many times on the eighth hole. She'll be wearing some summer clothes and the wind will be playing with the wisps of her hair and I just can't believe how beautiful she is, how happy I am just to be where she is. I need to write a book, get a $25,000 advance, pay our bills so we can be together and be happy; I just want all the longing and sad phone calls to end. This weekend her mother is in the hospital: her blood pressure got down to something like 60 over 30 and she was extremely dehydrated and weak after some intestinal problems. I offered to drive Marie down to Crescent City to see her but Gladys seems to be recovering and it doesn't seem necessary. We'll wait and go down when she's home and happy and ready for a visit. And we'll celebrate with a good meal, because that's what families do. Food does equal love. You just have to choose the right portions of each.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Then something terrible happened. Sometimes, though, something terrible turns out to be a great thing...
Have you ever found yourself in the grip of a hateful, rigid person, a true enemy of hope? Someone hopelessly devoted to charts and policy, incapable of hearing or appreciating a dream, or a devotion to a larger cause? Who, when faced with a problem, will never say, Dale, what's going on? How can we help you? But will instead haul out the color-coded chart and the written action statement. The sad part is, people like that usually become in charge of something. They become supervisors of business units with 100% turnover every 18 months.
Suppose you had an employee who had won two national customer service awards in their first year on the job, an award that was given to only ten people in an entire nation-wide publicly-traded company each month. Suppose that employee was employee of the month for February and had achieved perfect attendance in May, took 90 calls a day with a 4.0 (out of 5) quality rating. Suppose that employee came to their immediate lead and said, "I have a problem. I'm pursuing a dream that means a lot to me and is demanding a lot of my time. I need some flexibility in my schedule. I need to ask if can adjust to a part-time schedule, perhaps 9-5, 10-5 to accomodate my dream." Would you listen? Would you at least attempt to understand what the employee was saying?
It's a weird deal--I am so much my father's son, to my own undoing. I am suspicious of authority, chafe at criticism, and hate conflict. When faced with situations like this, I usually make them worse and then wind up starting over. And now I'm probably going to do it again.
The biggest problem is, I hate working for a living. I'm not lazy; in fact I'm a pretty hard worker. But I hate the fact that you have to sell the biggest part of your life to an organization that doesn't care about you and is hopelessly wedded to ineffectual cheerleading and slogans, that doesn't know how to "smile, care, know, own, step up" when it involves a member of their staff.
I know the blog is only a blog, and there are millions of them out there. But it is important to me, and so is the dream of telling stories, particularly my mother's story, and the stories of those I know who have led such inspiring, noble lives. I probably won't make a dime from this. But it's more important to me than my crummy job. I can always get another crummy job. Although putting this out on the blogosphere probably won't help. Fortunately there are millions of people and employers who have never heard of me.
I hate writing posts like this, self-indulgent and whiny and elliptical. I'd rather write about big things and real emotions, the good stuff of life. But this is where I am today, and we'll have to make the best of it.
Suppose you had an employee who had won two national customer service awards in their first year on the job, an award that was given to only ten people in an entire nation-wide publicly-traded company each month. Suppose that employee was employee of the month for February and had achieved perfect attendance in May, took 90 calls a day with a 4.0 (out of 5) quality rating. Suppose that employee came to their immediate lead and said, "I have a problem. I'm pursuing a dream that means a lot to me and is demanding a lot of my time. I need some flexibility in my schedule. I need to ask if can adjust to a part-time schedule, perhaps 9-5, 10-5 to accomodate my dream." Would you listen? Would you at least attempt to understand what the employee was saying?
It's a weird deal--I am so much my father's son, to my own undoing. I am suspicious of authority, chafe at criticism, and hate conflict. When faced with situations like this, I usually make them worse and then wind up starting over. And now I'm probably going to do it again.
The biggest problem is, I hate working for a living. I'm not lazy; in fact I'm a pretty hard worker. But I hate the fact that you have to sell the biggest part of your life to an organization that doesn't care about you and is hopelessly wedded to ineffectual cheerleading and slogans, that doesn't know how to "smile, care, know, own, step up" when it involves a member of their staff.
I know the blog is only a blog, and there are millions of them out there. But it is important to me, and so is the dream of telling stories, particularly my mother's story, and the stories of those I know who have led such inspiring, noble lives. I probably won't make a dime from this. But it's more important to me than my crummy job. I can always get another crummy job. Although putting this out on the blogosphere probably won't help. Fortunately there are millions of people and employers who have never heard of me.
I hate writing posts like this, self-indulgent and whiny and elliptical. I'd rather write about big things and real emotions, the good stuff of life. But this is where I am today, and we'll have to make the best of it.
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photo by Kajo123 from the website flickr.com
The Hawthorne Bridge at sunrise, Portland Oregon. Photo by Joe Collver, from flickr.com
"It's a Wonderful Life"
George returns home to everything he ever wanted.
