It's a very mundane task that sends me outside before the sun comes up, but the cats must be cleaned up after. I am facing south as I come off the porch. To my left, I can see the barest hint of dawn. Above me and to my right, the black of night remains, as do the stars.
To my left, just past the two fences that mark the end of my yard, there is an interstate highway. To my right, as well as in front of me and behind, are the homes and yards of my neighbors, and the street I live on. Above me, Orion the Hunter, Betelgeuse and Rigel on opposite corners.
To my left, the noise of man and his machines. To my right, the calls of birds and the hums and clicks of insects. Above me, silence, at least until the next plane takes off from the airport 10 miles away.
The early morning air has both the nip of colder air and softness of sun-warmed afternoon. It's a feeling that says Autumn.This moment has more to say. Summer has been here, winter is coming, but now we are poised...
And isn't that much of life, poised? For a choice, for an action? Transcendence, perhaps? It's a rather beautiful thought.
In the meantime, I have cat waste to dispose of, and cat food to give them that will be turned to waste in its turn. I have coffee to make, a wife to wake, a job to go to, and a memory of a poised moment to treasure.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
The Help
There are movies that entertain you, there are movies that move you, and there are movies that make you think. The Help is that rare movie that does all three.
Here are the bare bones of the story: It's 1963 in Jackson, Mississippi. Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan has recently graduated from Ole Miss, she wants to become a journalist/writer, and she would like to work for a publishing house in New York. She finds her vehicle to do so in interviewing the African-American maids of Jackson, getting them to tell her their true stories of what their lives are like. Such candor can easily lead to broken lives.
This was the tail-end of the Jim Crow era in the American South, the last gasp of legal, institutionalized racial segregation. It was the atmosphere I was born into. I once, in my teens, met an elderly black woman who told me that she babysat my father when he was a young boy. She then proceeded to tell me that she'd call him Huston in private but Mr. White in public, because she "knew her place."
That story lead in the movie, and I assume in the original novel, to the publication, credited to "Anonymous", of a book entitled The Help. How very meta.
I took away a few concrete notions from the movie: 1) Courage is defiant. 2) We come to know each other only through sharing our true stories, and truth is the most necessary story of all. 3) Love is subversive.
I'm ashamed that I don't remember my father's babysitter's name, but I hope she'd find that the truth and subversion in The Help would make "her place" a bit wider.
Here are the bare bones of the story: It's 1963 in Jackson, Mississippi. Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan has recently graduated from Ole Miss, she wants to become a journalist/writer, and she would like to work for a publishing house in New York. She finds her vehicle to do so in interviewing the African-American maids of Jackson, getting them to tell her their true stories of what their lives are like. Such candor can easily lead to broken lives.
This was the tail-end of the Jim Crow era in the American South, the last gasp of legal, institutionalized racial segregation. It was the atmosphere I was born into. I once, in my teens, met an elderly black woman who told me that she babysat my father when he was a young boy. She then proceeded to tell me that she'd call him Huston in private but Mr. White in public, because she "knew her place."
That story lead in the movie, and I assume in the original novel, to the publication, credited to "Anonymous", of a book entitled The Help. How very meta.
I took away a few concrete notions from the movie: 1) Courage is defiant. 2) We come to know each other only through sharing our true stories, and truth is the most necessary story of all. 3) Love is subversive.
I'm ashamed that I don't remember my father's babysitter's name, but I hope she'd find that the truth and subversion in The Help would make "her place" a bit wider.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
My World Shook Today
Twice, in fact.
At 1:51 pm, the shaking was quite literal:
I once toured a century old Cone Mills fabric plant. The heart of the factory was the huge room that held around 100 automated looms, all sitting on the second floor of the building. That floor was made of solid oak beams, and when all the looms ran, the floor vibrated, so loudly that I could not think.
My desk started vibrating like that at 1:51; in fact, the entire building thrummed, a deep bass rumble, like it was on top of a huge diesel engine. This only lasted a few seconds, but the questions -- Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake? -- lasted significantly longer.
This is my daughter Gigi. Today, she joined a proud and profound tradition in our family, second generation on her mother's side, third generation on mine. She became a teacher.
Gigi, it's been a hard wait these past 15 months, trying to find that first job in your degree field. You didn't give in to the despair I know you had to sometimes feel; it's frustrating and beyond frustrating to train yourself for four years, to know without doubt that you can do the job, if only someone will take a chance on you.
That is not only admirable, it is the root of all human success. You've kept the faith with yourself; now, you get to pass it on.
I am quite proud of you.
At 1:51 pm, the shaking was quite literal:
I once toured a century old Cone Mills fabric plant. The heart of the factory was the huge room that held around 100 automated looms, all sitting on the second floor of the building. That floor was made of solid oak beams, and when all the looms ran, the floor vibrated, so loudly that I could not think.
My desk started vibrating like that at 1:51; in fact, the entire building thrummed, a deep bass rumble, like it was on top of a huge diesel engine. This only lasted a few seconds, but the questions -- Did you feel that? Was that an earthquake? -- lasted significantly longer.
This is my daughter Gigi. Today, she joined a proud and profound tradition in our family, second generation on her mother's side, third generation on mine. She became a teacher.
Gigi, it's been a hard wait these past 15 months, trying to find that first job in your degree field. You didn't give in to the despair I know you had to sometimes feel; it's frustrating and beyond frustrating to train yourself for four years, to know without doubt that you can do the job, if only someone will take a chance on you.
That is not only admirable, it is the root of all human success. You've kept the faith with yourself; now, you get to pass it on.
I am quite proud of you.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Mountain Man
Fifty-one years ago, Herman James, a North Carolina mountain man, was drafted by the Army. On his first day in basic training, the Army issued him a comb. That afternoon the Army barber sheared off all his hair. On his second day, the Army issued Herman a toothbrush. That afternoon the Army dentist yanked seven of his teeth. On the third day, the Army issued him a jock strap. The Army has been looking for Herman for 51 years.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Happy Fourth of July
It's been a busy day at the White manor. First thing, there was reading that simply had to be done, and then it was time to mow the back pasture yard. I have an electric mower that runs not off a battery but a long heavy-duty extension cord, which has to be yanked out of the path I'm mowing repeatedly. And that, of course, makes the mowing take longer than being untethered would.
It's cheaper than gas.
Lisa and I put together a couple of new patio chairs we got from Big Lots. The instructions were detailed and complete, but several of the bolt holes didn't seem so well aligned. Once the "some assembly required" was finished, we did have some very comfortable chairs. Two down, two to go, plus a table.
It doesn't really seem like lot, but it's been a day well spent. We going to watch the High Point fireworks in a little bit, from our upstairs. Should be very good seats.
So, to my fellow Americans, here's to the 235th anniversary of the world's oldest political and social revolution. Long may Old Glory wave!
It's cheaper than gas.
Lisa and I put together a couple of new patio chairs we got from Big Lots. The instructions were detailed and complete, but several of the bolt holes didn't seem so well aligned. Once the "some assembly required" was finished, we did have some very comfortable chairs. Two down, two to go, plus a table.
It doesn't really seem like lot, but it's been a day well spent. We going to watch the High Point fireworks in a little bit, from our upstairs. Should be very good seats.
So, to my fellow Americans, here's to the 235th anniversary of the world's oldest political and social revolution. Long may Old Glory wave!
Friday, July 1, 2011
A Milestone, with Melancholy
My ex-wife Suzanne and I separated on September 7, 1996. It was a Saturday. I remember the date and day vividly, because it was the day after our son Andy's sixth birthday, and it was the day after the end of the work week. A friend was not able to come from Raleigh to help me move into my new apartment because he was cleaning up damage from hurricane Fran, which had passed through the Thursday before. I ended up getting help from Suzanne's partner Ellen.
Almost fifteen years have passed. My youngest son David turns 18 in 32 days. That marks the end of my obligation to pay my ex-wife child support. I sent her the July payment this morning, and I included the pro-rated August amount.
Fifteen years. It's been a long journey through grief at a failed marriage to anger at being alone to white-hot and long-lasting rage at her for taking the children 800 miles away to build her career (and at myself for not formalizing my legal protections) to joy at finding and loving Lisa to forgiving the deep old wounds.
Seven years of monthly checks and seeing the kids twice a week, then eight years of monthly Paypal transactions and seeing the kids two or three times each year.
There's no great lesson or revelation here, just the sense of realizing how much has been missed. And a few other things -- the realizations that I still know and love my children, as they do me; that my home is soon to be my daughter's again, as she moves back to North Carolina at the end of this month; that I am fortunate to have remained in the same workplace since 1998, as the economy cycles up and down; that I have my wife and my parents and my health.
It's enough.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Old News, Part One
Lisa and I have been to Harrisonburg twice this year. The first time was January 8th, for the Shifflett holiday gathering. We used to do this on Christmas Eve, but it's gotten too difficult to get people together from four states and have the celebration the occasion demands. So, we aim for the weekend closest to Christmas. This past holiday season, Christmas and New Year's Day were on Saturdays, so we opted for the following Saturday.
We spent the 3.5 hour drive listening to a book on CD, something suspenseful, probably one of the Ludlums Meki gave Lisa for her birthday. Between that, one serious snowfall just south of Roanoke, and a snow-covered Shenandoah Valley that just begged for Lisa to break out the camera, we never cut on the radio.
Once we got to Harrisonburg, we were busy with last minute preparations for the party. And once the family got in, we were happily engaged in catching up on the last year, eating, and exchanging presents. And after that, once the cleaning up was done, we all collapsed.
Meki likes to take in Headline News first thing in the morning, which always means a bit before daylight when we're there. Actually, I think it means the same thing when we're not there, just not as early as during her Queen of Trash days.
On January 9th, we learned about the Tucson shootings the day before. You've likely heard the hullabaloo. Jared Lee Loughner and his Glock 9mm pistol. Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords wounded while holding one of her "Congress on your Corner" events.
Federal judge John Roll visiting his friend Giffords; congressional aide Gabriel Zimmerman; Dorothy J. Morris, Phyllis C. Schneck, and Dorwan C. Stoddard all attending the event; they died.
As did 9 year old Christina Green, who was born on September 11, 2001, recently elected to her school's student council and was at the event to learn more about how our government works.
Before the next week was out, the political scavengers were circling. Now, for the record, I do not believe that the ads Sarah Palin ran in the past that had Gaby Giffords name targeted with the crosshairs of a rifle scope were the reason Loughner attacked. Neither do I believe Ms. Palin's rhetoric that this was an isolated event completely uninfluenced by the nasty partisan politics of the last few years.
Scratch the surface of any decently competent historian, professional or amateur -- I'm very much an amateur in this arena -- and you're going to find a centrist. We know that history is messy, and that the simplistic cause-and-effect explanations that those on the political extremes love are never sufficient to explain what really happened.
That said, shame on those who tried to exploit this tragedy for their own ends. Shame on them; they worked to diminish us all.
Gabrielle Giffords' survival and recovery after being shot in the head seems miraculous. I sincerely hope so.
As I write this, I've heard the news that Jared Lee Loughner has been declared incompetent to stand trial, being able to neither assist in his own defense nor to comprehend the charges against him. He will be further evaluated to see if he becomes competent to stand trial. I do not know, being neither a mental health nor legal professional, what is involved in this process.
I do know this. Loughner was competent to choose to go to Congresswoman Giffords' event, carry a handgun, select targets, and pull the trigger. There is no doubt that he was the perpetrator. If there is to be any justice here, Loughner should never walk the streets a free man again. Never. Never.
We spent the 3.5 hour drive listening to a book on CD, something suspenseful, probably one of the Ludlums Meki gave Lisa for her birthday. Between that, one serious snowfall just south of Roanoke, and a snow-covered Shenandoah Valley that just begged for Lisa to break out the camera, we never cut on the radio.
Once we got to Harrisonburg, we were busy with last minute preparations for the party. And once the family got in, we were happily engaged in catching up on the last year, eating, and exchanging presents. And after that, once the cleaning up was done, we all collapsed.
Meki likes to take in Headline News first thing in the morning, which always means a bit before daylight when we're there. Actually, I think it means the same thing when we're not there, just not as early as during her Queen of Trash days.
On January 9th, we learned about the Tucson shootings the day before. You've likely heard the hullabaloo. Jared Lee Loughner and his Glock 9mm pistol. Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords wounded while holding one of her "Congress on your Corner" events.
Federal judge John Roll visiting his friend Giffords; congressional aide Gabriel Zimmerman; Dorothy J. Morris, Phyllis C. Schneck, and Dorwan C. Stoddard all attending the event; they died.
As did 9 year old Christina Green, who was born on September 11, 2001, recently elected to her school's student council and was at the event to learn more about how our government works.
Before the next week was out, the political scavengers were circling. Now, for the record, I do not believe that the ads Sarah Palin ran in the past that had Gaby Giffords name targeted with the crosshairs of a rifle scope were the reason Loughner attacked. Neither do I believe Ms. Palin's rhetoric that this was an isolated event completely uninfluenced by the nasty partisan politics of the last few years.
Scratch the surface of any decently competent historian, professional or amateur -- I'm very much an amateur in this arena -- and you're going to find a centrist. We know that history is messy, and that the simplistic cause-and-effect explanations that those on the political extremes love are never sufficient to explain what really happened.
That said, shame on those who tried to exploit this tragedy for their own ends. Shame on them; they worked to diminish us all.
Gabrielle Giffords' survival and recovery after being shot in the head seems miraculous. I sincerely hope so.
As I write this, I've heard the news that Jared Lee Loughner has been declared incompetent to stand trial, being able to neither assist in his own defense nor to comprehend the charges against him. He will be further evaluated to see if he becomes competent to stand trial. I do not know, being neither a mental health nor legal professional, what is involved in this process.
I do know this. Loughner was competent to choose to go to Congresswoman Giffords' event, carry a handgun, select targets, and pull the trigger. There is no doubt that he was the perpetrator. If there is to be any justice here, Loughner should never walk the streets a free man again. Never. Never.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Congratulations Sandy and Brian!
Today, my friend and coworker Sandy Chase becomes Sandy Chase-Wassinger. In fact, unless I have miscalculated (always a possibility), she and her Brian are now married. Congratulations, guys, and may you have as much happiness together as Lisa and I have.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Overheard In Post-Operative Recovery
I'm not going to tell you who said this after having surgery, nor am I going to tell you who overheard it. It's important to respect their privacy, but this is too good not to share:
Oops. What?! My head fell off!
Oops. What?! My head fell off!
This Is The Face Of Inspiration
Meet Anthony Robles, one of the 2011 NCAA wrestling champions:
I had a lot of butterflies going out there. This year I think that was the biggest difference in my wrestling, was my mental game. Going into every match I was real relaxed, real calm. But before that, before this match, it was nothing but butterflies. I felt like I was going throw up, I was so scared I almost started crying. But it's just the atmosphere. It's the true athletes that are able to just overcome that.
He also said he's likely done as a competitive wrestler but would like to remain involved with the sport.
The original story is here.
I had a lot of butterflies going out there. This year I think that was the biggest difference in my wrestling, was my mental game. Going into every match I was real relaxed, real calm. But before that, before this match, it was nothing but butterflies. I felt like I was going throw up, I was so scared I almost started crying. But it's just the atmosphere. It's the true athletes that are able to just overcome that.
He also said he's likely done as a competitive wrestler but would like to remain involved with the sport.
The original story is here.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Weekend To Savor
This has been a singularly enjoyable weekend. It didn't have the usual start for one of my weekends; I worked late Friday evening. This was the culmination of a week's worth of intensive co-ordination of the efforts of several IT groups in the US and Europe in fixing a major application outage. We got the installation of a home grown message queuing system -- think of it as active email, passing messages in a store-and-forward manner between two programs, instead of two people -- up and running, which let my application send supplier evaluation data to a global purchasing app.
It really is cool when efforts pay off that way.
For the rest of Friday evening and early Saturday morning, Lisa and I were straightening the house. Mom and Dad came for a visit on Saturday. They brought us one of the bird houses Dad modeled after the house he grew up in, and a free-standing full length mirror they don't have room for any more. We spent a good while just chatting, catching up on what's going on in our daily lives; then, we took them to Carter Brothers BBQ for lunch. We went back to the house for a bit more conversation and ended up watching the last half of Sweet Home Alabama on Starz. I had forgotten how cute a movie that is, but not how appealing Reese Witherspoon is. By then, Dad and Mom had to head on back home, and we scooted over to Greensboro to attend a Relay For Life fund raiser at Carvel Ice Cream. Such torture.
This morning, we slept in and got to spend time just reading. I watched the championship of the ACC tournament between my UNC Tar Heels and the Duke Blue Devils. Carolina came out very flat. In between Duke's big men dominating to start the game and the Heels having no movement away from the ball on offense, it's no wonder Duke opened by scoring the eight points of the game, leading at the half by 14, if I recall correctly. The Heels finally came to life with about 10 minutes left in the game, which was how they played their first two games of the tournament, but they never got any closer than 8 points. Today, the Blue Devils were simply the better team. Despite the Heels losing today, I've enjoyed college basketball more the last 10 days than I have in the last couple of years.
After the game, I spent a while doing some research on a new utility I'm going to be using at work over the next couple of months in conjunction with some database upgrades. We still use a fair number of SQL Server 2000 databases, and Microsoft is ending support soon. So, we're upgrading to SQL Server 2005. The SQL Server batch utility has changed significantly between the two releases -- it's the difference between Visual Basic 6 and Visual Basic.Net -- and I get to do the application upgrades.
I read a couple of tutorials on the new (well, newer) version, called SQL Server Integration Services, and I actually created my first executable package. This is going to make the database upgrade project go much more smoothly. Just before I finished my SSIS project for the evening, I heard some familiar music from the living room. Lisa had found Up on one of the movie channels, and so I hustled to finish up my work to catch as much as I could of one of my favorite movies.
It's added up to a pretty sweet couple of days.
It really is cool when efforts pay off that way.
For the rest of Friday evening and early Saturday morning, Lisa and I were straightening the house. Mom and Dad came for a visit on Saturday. They brought us one of the bird houses Dad modeled after the house he grew up in, and a free-standing full length mirror they don't have room for any more. We spent a good while just chatting, catching up on what's going on in our daily lives; then, we took them to Carter Brothers BBQ for lunch. We went back to the house for a bit more conversation and ended up watching the last half of Sweet Home Alabama on Starz. I had forgotten how cute a movie that is, but not how appealing Reese Witherspoon is. By then, Dad and Mom had to head on back home, and we scooted over to Greensboro to attend a Relay For Life fund raiser at Carvel Ice Cream. Such torture.
This morning, we slept in and got to spend time just reading. I watched the championship of the ACC tournament between my UNC Tar Heels and the Duke Blue Devils. Carolina came out very flat. In between Duke's big men dominating to start the game and the Heels having no movement away from the ball on offense, it's no wonder Duke opened by scoring the eight points of the game, leading at the half by 14, if I recall correctly. The Heels finally came to life with about 10 minutes left in the game, which was how they played their first two games of the tournament, but they never got any closer than 8 points. Today, the Blue Devils were simply the better team. Despite the Heels losing today, I've enjoyed college basketball more the last 10 days than I have in the last couple of years.
After the game, I spent a while doing some research on a new utility I'm going to be using at work over the next couple of months in conjunction with some database upgrades. We still use a fair number of SQL Server 2000 databases, and Microsoft is ending support soon. So, we're upgrading to SQL Server 2005. The SQL Server batch utility has changed significantly between the two releases -- it's the difference between Visual Basic 6 and Visual Basic.Net -- and I get to do the application upgrades.
I read a couple of tutorials on the new (well, newer) version, called SQL Server Integration Services, and I actually created my first executable package. This is going to make the database upgrade project go much more smoothly. Just before I finished my SSIS project for the evening, I heard some familiar music from the living room. Lisa had found Up on one of the movie channels, and so I hustled to finish up my work to catch as much as I could of one of my favorite movies.
It's added up to a pretty sweet couple of days.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
A Test
If you'd like to find out whether you really understand American culture, here's a suggestion. Take an Asian work colleague who is in the United States for the first time to a Wal-Mart in a town you don't really know. If you navigate the colleague's shopping list correctly, you're a winner!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Shippensburg Sunset
I'm in Shippensburg, Pennsylvania, in the middle of a two week training assignment. One of the companies under the same corporate umbrella as the IT company I work for has a manufacturing facility here. The manufacturing company had a bill of material and engineering change notice application developed by a third party several years ago, and now that they have decided to "bring it in house", I get to take over primary support and maintenance.
I got here last Sunday, in time to wander around town, find the plant, and have a nice late lunch at the Before And After Café ("...for before and after whatever you're doing...", as the menu put it). I spent the rest of the afternoon lazing around my hotel room. Once I got hungry for dinner, I decided to check with the front desk on what would be a good place to eat on a Sunday evening. I wasn't surprised, this being a town of 7500, when I was told that most places were closed and that my best bet was to head the 15 miles down Interstate 81 to Chambersburg.
It was overcast when I left the hotel, and I simply forgot to grab the camera, which is something I'm always going to regret. Since there is no picture of this, I hope my words do the scene some small justice: As I headed south on the blacktop, the quiet, sleepy fields to my right were covered with a thin blanket of snow. The sun slipped under the dark clouds toward the western horizon, and its red light transformed the closest ones, so that they were not on fire, they were fire. The ones dead in front of me and just to my left became glowing embers, while the ones to the east were gray ash.
As the song says, it's only for a moment, then the moment's gone. But the memory...the memory endures.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
My New Year's Goals
Resolution - A solution. A firmness of purpose. A wrapping up. In other words, an ending.
It's easy to make resolutions and very difficult to keep them. Not everyone has the iron will and determination to say, "There is something in my life that I don't like, and I'm going to completely change it, right now," then follow through on it. I admire those who can, like my father.
In a rare point of fact, I have kept the last New Year's Resolution I made, several years ago. I decided I wouldn't make any more New Year's Resolutions. Things have been just a little bit simpler for me ever since.
I am setting a few goals for 2011. I am going to first give myself a tool to help me measure how I'm doing. I believe this could lead to some big improvements I've been wanting to make. So, without further ado:
I think I can do this.
It's easy to make resolutions and very difficult to keep them. Not everyone has the iron will and determination to say, "There is something in my life that I don't like, and I'm going to completely change it, right now," then follow through on it. I admire those who can, like my father.
In a rare point of fact, I have kept the last New Year's Resolution I made, several years ago. I decided I wouldn't make any more New Year's Resolutions. Things have been just a little bit simpler for me ever since.
I am setting a few goals for 2011. I am going to first give myself a tool to help me measure how I'm doing. I believe this could lead to some big improvements I've been wanting to make. So, without further ado:
- Begin each day with a short task list to get done today, and check each one off as I complete it.
- Move more and eat less. Keep a record; if it isn't written down, it didn't happen.
- Try to write daily.
- I have a cell phone and people with whom I wish to maintain contact. Connect the two.
- Be very deliberate in what I buy to read. As Lisa and I put our library together, I am finding more and more books I have yet to read. There are a few authors -- Jim Butcher, Lee Child, and Dean Koontz among them -- whose releases we will purchase in hardcover as soon as possible after their release dates; everyone else should wait while I work on the backlog we already own.
I think I can do this.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
RIP Gerry Rafferty
Gerry Rafferty passed away yesterday. Many people remember him as part of 1970s soft rock group Stealer's Wheel, from their song Stuck In The Middle With You. I recall him especially for his solo hit Baker Street, which was the soundtrack of my summer of transition from high school to college. It fits a bittersweet time in my life, and I'm grateful for the memories. Enjoy.
Monday, December 13, 2010
A Special Ring
An older, white haired man walked into a jewelry store one Friday evening with a beautiful young gal at his side. He told the jeweler he was looking for a special ring for his girlfriend. The jeweler looked through his stock and brought out a $5,000 ring and showed it to him. The old man said, "I don't think you understand, I want something very special."
At that statement, the jeweler went to his special stock and brought another ring over. "Here's a stunning ring at only $40,000," the jeweler said.
The young lady's eyes sparkled and her whole body trembled with excitement. The old man seeing this said, "We'll take it."
The jeweler asked how payment would be made and the old man stated, by check. "I know you need to make sure my check is good, so I'll write it now and you can call the bank Monday to verify the funds and I'll pick the ring up Monday afternoon," he said.
Monday morning, a very teed-off jeweler phoned the old man. "There's no money in that account."
"I know," said the old man, "but can you imagine the weekend I had?"
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
RIP Elizabeth Edwards
You were the essence of grace under fire, and I have no better words than your own:
The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that. And, yes, there are certainly times when we aren’t able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It’s called being human. But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful. It isn’t possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel to everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know.
The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that. And, yes, there are certainly times when we aren’t able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It’s called being human. But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful. It isn’t possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel to everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Privilege
It's rather earlier on Thanksgiving morning than I intended to be up. The cats are fed, the coffee is started, Bach's Brandenburg Concertos are playing, and I have the time before the bustling of the day -- yes, there will be bustling today, preparing the traditional Thanksgiving dinner and packing to travel -- begins to set down these musings.
I've spent a lot of time over the past year reading the thoughts of Internet sages on privilege, the unearned accumulation of advantage. This is nothing I set out to do. These various essays and rants were simply posted where I read anyway. No doubt this confession will affirm in some minds exactly the points about privilege. You see, I'm a 50 year old white male from the American South.
I've never had to remind anyone I was talking to that my eyes are on my face, not my chest. I've never seen employees anywhere I've shopped spending more time watching me to be sure I wasn't slipping merchandise into my pockets than waiting on the customers in front of them. I've never been turned away from voting. And what's more, I've never had to even think about these things.
Privilege.
If you're reading this and your primary assumption amounts to, "Well, it's about time he realized how lucky he is," may I suggest that you learn to recognize the blinders your high horse is wearing. You can learn from me as surely as I can from you.
I am incredibly grateful for the life I have, and even more, for the help I've had getting here. Yes, I have seized the opportunities that have come my way. Yes, I'd be stupid to pass up the advantages that life has afforded me, both for myself and my family.
And yet...
I am striving to live a life of of honesty and integrity. I can give up things so that others can have them and still get far more than I sacrificed. After all, life is hardly a zero-sum game.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I don't want to be treated the same as everyone else. I want everyone else to be treated the same as me.
I've spent a lot of time over the past year reading the thoughts of Internet sages on privilege, the unearned accumulation of advantage. This is nothing I set out to do. These various essays and rants were simply posted where I read anyway. No doubt this confession will affirm in some minds exactly the points about privilege. You see, I'm a 50 year old white male from the American South.
I've never had to remind anyone I was talking to that my eyes are on my face, not my chest. I've never seen employees anywhere I've shopped spending more time watching me to be sure I wasn't slipping merchandise into my pockets than waiting on the customers in front of them. I've never been turned away from voting. And what's more, I've never had to even think about these things.
Privilege.
If you're reading this and your primary assumption amounts to, "Well, it's about time he realized how lucky he is," may I suggest that you learn to recognize the blinders your high horse is wearing. You can learn from me as surely as I can from you.
I am incredibly grateful for the life I have, and even more, for the help I've had getting here. Yes, I have seized the opportunities that have come my way. Yes, I'd be stupid to pass up the advantages that life has afforded me, both for myself and my family.
And yet...
I am striving to live a life of of honesty and integrity. I can give up things so that others can have them and still get far more than I sacrificed. After all, life is hardly a zero-sum game.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I don't want to be treated the same as everyone else. I want everyone else to be treated the same as me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
The Difference Between Legal And Fair
In my last post, I embedded a video from YouTube about a middle school football team using a particularly clever play to score a touchdown. And, in the limited context of the video, it is hilarious.
Frank Deford is one of the most insightful sportswriters ever, and he has some sobering thoughts on this play, put into a larger context:
...it is perfectly legal to act in a game. But the players who do that in the pros are not embarrassing the opposition. They're just trying to con the umpire. It's a benign bit of hustle that would've made for some good Aesop's Fables if old Aesop were around writing a sports blog nowadays.
But the Driscoll team didn't act instinctively to try to put one over on a ref. The middle schoolers didn't even come up with the ruse. Their coach dreamed up the play, and even participated in it, hollering from the sideline. The referees weren't victimized. In fact, they had to play along.
No, it was only the other team's kids who were embarrassed and belittled by a children's coach being a wise guy, a bully of sorts. It wasn't genius at all. Sure, it was legal, but it wasn't fair. Laugh at kids being outslicked by a grown-up, and you're cruel. That isn't sport.
You can read his full commentary here.
My children are all young adults, well past the age to participate in youth sports, but I still find it worthwhile to ask myself, how would they have felt to be on the other side of this legal play? How would I have felt for them? I suspect I would have tended towards Mr. Deford's position, and that gives me an uncomfortable feeling about myself.
Frank Deford is one of the most insightful sportswriters ever, and he has some sobering thoughts on this play, put into a larger context:
...it is perfectly legal to act in a game. But the players who do that in the pros are not embarrassing the opposition. They're just trying to con the umpire. It's a benign bit of hustle that would've made for some good Aesop's Fables if old Aesop were around writing a sports blog nowadays.
But the Driscoll team didn't act instinctively to try to put one over on a ref. The middle schoolers didn't even come up with the ruse. Their coach dreamed up the play, and even participated in it, hollering from the sideline. The referees weren't victimized. In fact, they had to play along.
No, it was only the other team's kids who were embarrassed and belittled by a children's coach being a wise guy, a bully of sorts. It wasn't genius at all. Sure, it was legal, but it wasn't fair. Laugh at kids being outslicked by a grown-up, and you're cruel. That isn't sport.
You can read his full commentary here.
My children are all young adults, well past the age to participate in youth sports, but I still find it worthwhile to ask myself, how would they have felt to be on the other side of this legal play? How would I have felt for them? I suspect I would have tended towards Mr. Deford's position, and that gives me an uncomfortable feeling about myself.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Surprise!
I saw this on Good Morning America yesterday, and I laughed until the tears were rolling down my face and my belly hurt. It was worth it.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Hereafter
Hereafter is the story of three people touched by death.
Marie Lelay is an investigative journalist on vacation in Indonesia with her producer/lover. It is their last morning before returning to Paris, and she realizes her companion has not gotten any souvenirs for his kids. She tells him she is going shopping for them and asks him to come along, but he just wants to sleep as long as he can. As she is running her self-appointed errand, a tsunami strikes. She drowns, and then we're...somewhere else...with her. Back in our world, a couple of strangers try, and fail, to revive her, but she comes back on her own. Changed.
Marcus is a young boy, ten, maybe eleven. He seems a little ethereal to begin with, sweet, slight. His twin Jason, always wearing a cap, decisive, is Marcus' anchor in this world. In fact, Jason is the anchor of his family. We first see them getting their picture struck, paying the photographer with change scraped together dearly. Then, at home, they put the framed picture and a cupcake topped with a single candle out on the kitchen table, a birthday surprise for their Mum. She never shows up before they go to bed. The first thing we see the next morning is the photo and the cupcake, with the candle melted down all over it. The first thing we here is a loud knock on the door, followed by shouts demanding entrance. It's child protective services. Mum, you see, is a heroine addict. The twins, with Marcus following Jason's lead, work around the social workers, cleaning up the apartment, finding Mum and bringing her in the door just after the social worker, with bags of groceries. See, all is right with our world!
Once the social workers are gone, Mum sees the picture her boys made for her. Even as she's still coming down off her latest high, we see that she does love her sons and is trying. She says something about a drug that may help her kick the addiction. Jason -- strong, decisive Jason -- calls the chemist (we're in London), determines that he has the medicine, instructs Marcus to stay with Mum, and runs off to get help for Mum.
After he has gotten the medicine and is on his way home, Jason is accosted by some neighborhood toughs. "What's with the cap? What's in the bag? It's the basic we're bigger, we're bored, and you're our toy attitude. Only this time, Jason runs! But Jason can't outrun the lorry on the street. Unlike after Marie's drowning, no one tries to revive Jason. Marcus knows with a twin's certainty that something wrong has befallen his other half. When he arrives on the scene, he finds Jasosn' unbloodied cap, picks it up, dons it. He, too, is changed.
Those who sacrifice for others, it seems, are sacrificed along the way.
George Lonegan is a very rare thing, a genuine psychic. He can actually see that somewhere else Marie went while she was dead, and he can tell people the Truth. His brother Billy considers this a gift, something that is a license to print money. George considers it a curse, because the Truth sets him apart. And that being set apart is why he works as a longshoreman and takes a cooking class. His love of Charles Dickens is simply his own.
Every other "psychic" we see in the movie, and we see quite a few, is a charlatan. They each put on a show with scientific gadgets or candles and shadows or limited seating seminars when they're doing a reading or contacting the other side; it's all smoke and mirrors. George simply asks whomever he is reluctantly reaching beyond the veil for to let him hold their hands for a moment. "It makes a connection, and that helps", he tells them.
From this set up, we see how Marie moves from a hard-hitting journalist after her next expose to a seeker, asking "What happens to us when we die?"; how Marcus, wearer of his twin's cap and resident of the foster care system, persists in trying to reach Jason to tell him that he can't do this life alone and needs him back; how George is seeking connections. And we see how their stories eventually intertwine. This is where George is changed, not by death, but by life.
Of the actors, it's worth noting that Jay Mohr as Billy Lonegan plays an excellent sleaze. And Matt Damon...the man is a chameleon. I believe in him as totally as George Lonegan as I do in him as Jason Bourne.
The movie is paced slowly, deliberately, in a way that reminds me of Gattaca. Other than the tsunami and the car accident, there is no action, which is hard to believe of a Clint Eastwood directed movie. And, in the tsunami, where it awkwardly overruns those trying to flee it, we see that Eastwood is not at all at ease with CGI special effects.
The movie is all exposition and character study. As Lisa put it when we were talking about it, "I was expecting some great revelation."
You see, despite the advertising, Hereafter has next to nothing to do with the supernatural. That's a head fake, in the spirit of Randy Pausch's Last Lecture. This movie has to do with curiosity, persistence, integrity and connections. It's about how to live.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Of Old Spice And Sesame Street
I'm sure many of you remember this most clever of advertisements from the 2010 Super Bowl:
When my children were very young, I watched Sesame Street with them after work. If you've never seen it, you won't realize that it, like the old Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons, was made with multiple levels of humor, just so that parents like me could comfortably watch with their kids. Believe me, it wasn't excruciating to sit through an hour of Sesame Street the way it was through five minutes of Barney!
I hope you enjoy Grover's interpretation of the Old Spice commercial as much as I did:
When my children were very young, I watched Sesame Street with them after work. If you've never seen it, you won't realize that it, like the old Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons, was made with multiple levels of humor, just so that parents like me could comfortably watch with their kids. Believe me, it wasn't excruciating to sit through an hour of Sesame Street the way it was through five minutes of Barney!
I hope you enjoy Grover's interpretation of the Old Spice commercial as much as I did:
Moss Man, Thwarted
Gregory Liascos of Portland, Oregon is a rather clever man, but probably not a dog lover.
A caretaker at the Rice Northwest Museum of Rocks and Minerals in Hillsboro, Oregon found a hole cut in a wall of an exterior bathroom last Wednesday and called the local police. The police, including a K-9 team, were on the scene around 5:00 am Thursday morning. The dog alerted his handler that he smelled something, then bit the ground, which cried out in pain.
It was Liascos, wearing a ghillie suit -- think Marine snipers -- that made him look like a patch of grass.
He is currently a guest of Washington County, pending a hearing on charges of burglary and criminal mischief.
A caretaker at the Rice Northwest Museum of Rocks and Minerals in Hillsboro, Oregon found a hole cut in a wall of an exterior bathroom last Wednesday and called the local police. The police, including a K-9 team, were on the scene around 5:00 am Thursday morning. The dog alerted his handler that he smelled something, then bit the ground, which cried out in pain.
It was Liascos, wearing a ghillie suit -- think Marine snipers -- that made him look like a patch of grass.
He is currently a guest of Washington County, pending a hearing on charges of burglary and criminal mischief.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Colder Weather
Well, it's a winding road
when you're in the lost and found.
You're a lover, I'm a runner,
and we go round and round.
This is the heart of the story the Zac Brown Band tells in Colder Weather, the latest song I can't stop listening to.
Like many a song of loneliness and loss on the road, it sounds gorgeous. Every musical detail, from the instrumental arrangement to the vocal harmonies to the melody, is as exquisite as I've ever heard.
Unlike many a song of loneliness and loss on the road, the road isn't the storytelling device. We get a couple of vignettes, first hers, then his. In both vignettes, we get details that we can see -- taillights shining through a window pane, a night as black as a cup of coffee -- so that this story feels lived in.
There's a highly expressive vocal bridge after the verses, and structurally, it's a rather conventional climax to the song. It does deliver an effective emotional payoff.
Nothing else in the song works quite as well as the emotionally devastating coda. There's enough ambiguity here that we're unsure if the guy is about to climb into his car again to wander after another phone call to her, or if he's standing next to her grave, remembering and regretting.
I'm with your ghost again,
It's a shame about the weather...
when you're in the lost and found.
You're a lover, I'm a runner,
and we go round and round.
This is the heart of the story the Zac Brown Band tells in Colder Weather, the latest song I can't stop listening to.
Like many a song of loneliness and loss on the road, it sounds gorgeous. Every musical detail, from the instrumental arrangement to the vocal harmonies to the melody, is as exquisite as I've ever heard.
Unlike many a song of loneliness and loss on the road, the road isn't the storytelling device. We get a couple of vignettes, first hers, then his. In both vignettes, we get details that we can see -- taillights shining through a window pane, a night as black as a cup of coffee -- so that this story feels lived in.
There's a highly expressive vocal bridge after the verses, and structurally, it's a rather conventional climax to the song. It does deliver an effective emotional payoff.
Nothing else in the song works quite as well as the emotionally devastating coda. There's enough ambiguity here that we're unsure if the guy is about to climb into his car again to wander after another phone call to her, or if he's standing next to her grave, remembering and regretting.
I'm with your ghost again,
It's a shame about the weather...
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
It's Just As Well They Can't Read
I told Sheldon and Leonard, our male kittens, that, since they were going to be asleep during the procedure and didn't have to shave their testicles beforehand, getting neutered today was no big deal. I don't think they bought it.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Marching To The Beat Of A Different...Guitarist?
David is, among many other fine things, a guitarist. We were driving from some point A to some other point B during his last visit a couple of months ago, and, being fans of classic rock, we were listening to Boston's debut CD. Long Time was playing, the song reached the bridge between the first and second verses, and as it went into the brief strummed acoustic guitar passage, David said, "This is my favorite guitar riff." I made some sound of absent-minded agreement, and we went on with our day.
I didn't think about this exchange for probably another month, until the next time I heard the song. Then, I really thought about what he said.
I think of a riff as a lead part, but the piece David commented on was definitely rhythm guitar. It is a catchy piece of musicianship, one that lingers in the mind, but it's rhythm guitar. David is intensely serious about his music, so he's very qualified to recognize a riff. But, it's rhythm guitar!
Music is one of life's great pleasures, both intellectual and visceral, and is there any real reason I should have hesitated to embrace a new perspective on it? On mature consideration (don't laugh), I didn't think so, and I have found that my musical enjoyment is enhanced by listening to it a bit differently, a bit more attentively.
So, here's a thank you to one of my favorite guitarists, my youngest son David.
I didn't think about this exchange for probably another month, until the next time I heard the song. Then, I really thought about what he said.
I think of a riff as a lead part, but the piece David commented on was definitely rhythm guitar. It is a catchy piece of musicianship, one that lingers in the mind, but it's rhythm guitar. David is intensely serious about his music, so he's very qualified to recognize a riff. But, it's rhythm guitar!
Music is one of life's great pleasures, both intellectual and visceral, and is there any real reason I should have hesitated to embrace a new perspective on it? On mature consideration (don't laugh), I didn't think so, and I have found that my musical enjoyment is enhanced by listening to it a bit differently, a bit more attentively.
So, here's a thank you to one of my favorite guitarists, my youngest son David.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
An Oral History
I subscribe to a periodic email newsletter from Mental Floss, and on a day home sick from work, while I was cleaning out my inbox, I came across a message in which Mangesh, one of the founders of the magazine and website, shared some of his 9/11 stories. From his name, it sounds like he "ain't from around here." I think that really means that he may have a far keener appreciation of this country than many of us who are of European descent. Whether or not that's true, he included a link to a short piece at StoryCorps, an oral history site.
Go and listen to John Vigiano tell about his sons, New York City firefighter John Jr. and New York City policeman Joe. His story will both break your heart and put a smile on your face.
September 11th has been on my mind a great deal lately. I was beyond disappointed in the news coverage from the major news outlets, especially since so much attention, on that day, was paid to the proposed Islamic Center near Ground Zero and to the Florida Koran-burning-that-wasn't. On that day, of all days, we needed to remember what happened in 2001. We needed to remember how we weren't Southerners or New Englanders or Midwesterners right after that day. We weren't black or red or white or yellow. We were just Americans. United in grief, in loss, in anger, in outrage.
I don't speak for anyone but myself, but I'd like to be just an American again. I don't need any other label for the world to know me. I don't need to start a fight with anyone over it, but I'd love to finish one that anyone else starts. Give me a chance, and if I can, I'll help anyone who needs it.
And honestly, I hope that I speak for Mangesh from Mental Floss, as well as for John Vigiano. They both spoke for me.
Go and listen to John Vigiano tell about his sons, New York City firefighter John Jr. and New York City policeman Joe. His story will both break your heart and put a smile on your face.
September 11th has been on my mind a great deal lately. I was beyond disappointed in the news coverage from the major news outlets, especially since so much attention, on that day, was paid to the proposed Islamic Center near Ground Zero and to the Florida Koran-burning-that-wasn't. On that day, of all days, we needed to remember what happened in 2001. We needed to remember how we weren't Southerners or New Englanders or Midwesterners right after that day. We weren't black or red or white or yellow. We were just Americans. United in grief, in loss, in anger, in outrage.
I don't speak for anyone but myself, but I'd like to be just an American again. I don't need any other label for the world to know me. I don't need to start a fight with anyone over it, but I'd love to finish one that anyone else starts. Give me a chance, and if I can, I'll help anyone who needs it.
And honestly, I hope that I speak for Mangesh from Mental Floss, as well as for John Vigiano. They both spoke for me.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Changing Homes
This morning, around 10:15, I drove back over to Greensboro to pay a visit to the old apartment. I had a step stool with me, so I could change out the few compact fluorescent bulbs we had installed for some inexpensive -- ok, cheap -- incandescent bulbs. Before I walked out of the first home Lisa and I shared, I took a last look around and whispered, "You served us well, thank you" to the walls that no longer held any reflection of our personalities. Then, I went by the complex office, turned in all our keys, and left without another glance back.
It's been an arduous task, this moving. It's not that far between Greensboro and High Point, not in physical distance. But, it's a world away, going from renting an apartment to owning a house. Not just financially, but mentally and philosophically.
After all, what does home really mean?
There are the cliches: Home is where the heart is. Home is where, when you show up, they have to take you in.
There's the thought that home is your place. There are many people who would die before giving up their piece of land.
For many others, home is wherever their family is.
I find truth in all of these. I had a time in my life when, between school and several part-time jobs, I was never at the apartment I lived in then. And when I was, my then wife wanted to go out, to eat, to shop, to visit her family. For a time, I was rootless.
By the time I really had a place to be, years and children later, I was losing that marriage. And after that, I had an apartment, joint legal custody of my children but only part-time physical custody, and so I was largely alone.
I found in my Lisa and in the apartment we lived in the last six years both the person and the place; I fully understand what home means to me. It's where the rhythms of shared lives come together. We learned the little things, where the smooth places were in the roads leading to the apartment, which restaurants had not only the good food but the good people who came to know us and always make us feel welcome, when the upstairs neighbors were going to be loud, when the maintenance staff would be mowing and blowing leaves onto our patio, when the garbage trucks would make pickups, when traffic would be favorable to our movements.
Now, it's time to learn all those things anew, in a new place. Our home.
It's been an arduous task, this moving. It's not that far between Greensboro and High Point, not in physical distance. But, it's a world away, going from renting an apartment to owning a house. Not just financially, but mentally and philosophically.
After all, what does home really mean?
There are the cliches: Home is where the heart is. Home is where, when you show up, they have to take you in.
There's the thought that home is your place. There are many people who would die before giving up their piece of land.
For many others, home is wherever their family is.
I find truth in all of these. I had a time in my life when, between school and several part-time jobs, I was never at the apartment I lived in then. And when I was, my then wife wanted to go out, to eat, to shop, to visit her family. For a time, I was rootless.
By the time I really had a place to be, years and children later, I was losing that marriage. And after that, I had an apartment, joint legal custody of my children but only part-time physical custody, and so I was largely alone.
I found in my Lisa and in the apartment we lived in the last six years both the person and the place; I fully understand what home means to me. It's where the rhythms of shared lives come together. We learned the little things, where the smooth places were in the roads leading to the apartment, which restaurants had not only the good food but the good people who came to know us and always make us feel welcome, when the upstairs neighbors were going to be loud, when the maintenance staff would be mowing and blowing leaves onto our patio, when the garbage trucks would make pickups, when traffic would be favorable to our movements.
Now, it's time to learn all those things anew, in a new place. Our home.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Peaked At 5
Cammie King Conlon, age 76, passed away two days from lung cancer. She was billed as "Cammie King" when she portrayed Bonnie Blue Butler in Lisa's favorite movie, Gone With The Wind. And frankly, my dear, we do give a damn.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Carolina Emperor
This emerald was found, in August 2009, near Hiddenite, NC:
It's called the Carolina Emperor, and it was 310 carats uncut. I had forgotten that North Carolina has such things to offer.
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