Learning to Fly, On Two Wheels

When I crashed the motorcycle, I crashed more than a Suzuki 250. Thanks to integrated crash bars, and the fact that I was going under 30 mph and making a left turn, I wasn’t really injured. I had a small bruise on my right upper arm from where the handlebar bumped me. My left arm and shoulder were sore and jarred because I gripped the handgrip so tight and forgot to let go, once I realized I was about to go down. I managed to keep my right leg clear from under the bike, and the riding coach was close enough to hit the engine kill switch that, in my confusion, I was unable to remember. He helped me right the bike, and told me to get back on and get going.
So, for awhile, I did.

I knew learning to ride was a stretch. I’m closer to 50 than 40. Thanks to some old injuries, including a 12 foot fall from a tree six years ago, I have damage to my neck and back that is not getting better with time. After a minor twisting fall last September on our wedding anniversary, I’ve spent most of 2010 in physical therapy, taking steroids and having spinal blocks on my neck to keep my discs unbulging, and a veritable alphabet soup of painful and debilitating conditions at bay. On my worst days, upright mobility was a stretch. On my best days, I was walking and moving fairly normally. Maybe taking this class really was a bad idea after all.

When I realized I couldn’t feel a thing in my left hand, and I was having to look at the clutch to see if my fingers were actually moving when I thought I was shifting gears, I knew it was time to quit. The rider coach was shouting at me to shift up and go faster. Instead, I pulled over, hit the kill switch and fumbled with the latch of my helmet. He strode up in the no-nonsense way that only a former Navy Senior Chief can do and started yelling at me. I looked at him, flipped up my face screen and said, “No way, Senior Chief. This isn’t my bag.”

I don’t know what surprised him more: that I’d figured out his former rank or that I was giving up. I parked the bike out the way, collected my stuff, shrugged and headed to the car. It wasn’t until I got there that I let the tears come down. It really did stink to give up. I hate giving up and admitting I can’t do something. Accepting the limitations of an aging and battered body is becoming a more frequent challenge. It hurts to look at myself as getting older. Hell, it hurts to fall off motorcycles.

So, I went home, where I found a surprised Norwegian. He consoled me for my hurts, but praised me for trying in the first place, and also for knowing when to cut my losses. We traded our beloved rooster to some farmers. We had lunch. We delivered Dear Daughter from one activity to another. We sat on the couch with the dogs and watched the light rain turn into sunshine.

Then, we drove to the Vespa dealership.

The Truth About Santa Claus

My nearest sister called me yesterday with some tragic news: her youngest daughter, who is not quite 10, found out the day before that Santa Claus is not real. Or as her newly-enlightened classmate who told her put it, "your parents have been lying to you all this time."


My niece is the youngest member of our collective family, so this sad milestone is particularly grievous, as it is the stark demarcation between childhood and the Real World. This marks the moment in time when all her childhood beliefs and fantasies will come into question under the harsh light of reality and be found wanting. Innocence is set aside and is replaced with sly knowing and a gradual forgetting of that in childhood that is sweet and accepting. As Abby passes through this portal, the generational shift moves perceptibly further down the line. Her newfound knowledge reminds me of my own aging, my own loss of childhood joy, my own crumbling mortality.


The year she turned five, Dear Daughter turned to me while we were decorating our scraggly artificial Christmas tree. It was still just the two of us, living in a small apartment with our little bird and our hopes and dreams. "Mom," she said. "Are you lying to me about all of this Santa Claus stuff? Because if it's not true, I don't want to have a tree or presents or Christmas or anything."


My heart sank to my shoes. Who could have been so mean-spirited as to cast the shadow of doubt in the heart and mind of my sweet, trusting little girl, and at such an early age. I pulled her to the couch and we sat and looked at our tree with its polyglot of ornaments--pine cones rolled in glue and glitter, cut-foam figures coated in buttons and marker, a construction paper reindeer with a preschool photo glued to its flank, and assorted strings of beads and lights. We talked about Christmas--the infant Jesus in the manger, the gift of a loving God. We talked about Advent--the candles, the waiting, the time of examining ourselves. We talked about St. Nicholas of Myra and his care for children and how he came to be the figure we know as Santa Claus.


I told her that Santa is most certainly real. That even if there isn't really a man in a red suit with flying reindeer and sleigh, he is real in the love that makes the miracles of Christmas happen. Santa is real in the excitement and preparation that surrounds the season. Santa is real in the love that we share when we give and receive gifts. Santa is another reminder of the love we are given from God through the baby Jesus. Even though we choose to portray him as a portly old man with a smoking habit and questionable fashion sense, he really looks like love.

Dear Daughter was satisfied with this explanation, and even years later her own eyes were opened by an older cousin, it wasn't a traumatic moment, because she'd already rationalized it in her own mind. Santa still pays his yearly visit to Dachshund Downs, and she's every bit as delighted at 14 by the magic and sweetness as she was at four. I'm sorry to hear that my niece is upset about finding out the "truth," but I know she'll be all right. Santa will still come to her as well, because Santa is love. Santa is magic. Santa is real.

Election Day At Last

Hello friends. If you're reading this within the confines of the 50 United States, then for you, as well as for me, it's election day.

Finally.

We've come a long way, baby, from the early primaries in New Hampshire 20 months ago, to the major party conventions this summer. We've learned more than we ever cared to know about the personal lives, financial condition, voting records, favorite colors, religious proclivities and bad habits of all of the candidates, and their family members as well. We've come to question knuckle bumping as a possible terrorist gesture. We've learned to equate visiting a National Guard armory as foreign policy. We've (hopefully) learned to be more careful about judging others by standards we might not so much wished to be judged ourselves.

There's a lot at stake today, both nationally and locally. If you voted today (and my fondest hope is that you did), then you probably were greeted with a number of referenda germane to your particular locale, and perhaps some Congressional candidates as well. I wouldn't presume to suggest you vote for a particular party or candidate, but I do pray that you found candidates in all areas, and positions on all issues that you could, with good conscience pull a lever, touch the screen, poke the chad or otherwise let "x" mark the spot.

Tomorrow, God willing, the sun will come up regardless of the outcomes, but let us dearly hope that whoever wakes up happy tomorrow also wakes up resolved to occupy his or her respective office with dignity, grace, fairness and compassion. We all deserve to be heard. This land is my land, but just as surely, this land is also your land.

Facing up to Facebook

So, here it is, day two of NaBloPoMo, and amazingly, I'm writing my second post in a row. Okay, my second post in a row for quite a long time. NaBloPoMo is a kind and user-friendly group that encourages creative writing through blogging, by offering advice, support and incentive to bloggers to commit to daily postings for 30 consecutive days in November. Believe me, I WANT to post everyday. I have plenty to post about, and given that blogging is so much cheaper and convenient than therapy, you'd think that I'd be running off at the ...um...fingertips with postings.

I have a deep, dark confession to make. The real reason I have fallen off on blogging is that I've been cheating on my blog with this little hussy. Yes, I can now admit that I've fallen into the clutches of an Internet social networking site. Oh, it started innocently enough--a funny "status" comment here, a peek at a friend's photo album there. I'd check my page in the morning and then again when I got home from work. Every day I added another friend or two--always someone I already knew and either worked with or had social dealings with. Some of my friends were even children of my friends. We all were gradually sucked into the vortex.

Next I found myself surreptitiously checking my page at work. Quickly, and only when I was done with a project or having a short break from the intense and important work of shuffling paper from one beaureaucratic desk to another, I'd bring up my page, and feed my "virtual pet" (as if I don't have enough real ones) or add a plant to my "virtual" green plot (while worrying about how my victory garden was going to get weeded this week.

I started checking my "friends" lists of friends to see who they knew that I might know. I started searching for people from my past--co-workers, classmates, cheating dirty dog ex-boyfriends who by all rights should be in jail or under an NFL stadium end-zone. This simple little tool became a means of checking out people without having to actually deal with them and scope out the lives of those I was better off without in the first place.

Like any other addiction, weaning myself from this black hole of a website has been a challenge. I tell myself "if I check my page before going to work, then I promise I won't even peep once during work." Of course then a message will pop up in my E-mail in-box telling me about a comment or photo post one of my friends has made, and the urge to go check it out is overwhelming. Like the siren song of a coffee pot when you've already had your limit for the morning, these maddening little reminders that someone you know is also online tease and tickle your attention.

I'm getting better though, really. I'm learning to save most of my Facebook checking and posting for the weekend. It really is inconvenient to try and post things during the day. The time I spend on Facebook is time I could spend cooking, helping Dear Daughter with homework, sorting clutter, snuggling with the Norwegian, hugging a bunny or even blogging. I guess it all comes down to remembering that those things that are really important to me are the ones most deserving of my time. And that probably doesn't include a page that takes and takes, and gives only little soundbites in return.

Saints and Sanity

Hello again, from long ago. It's the first day of November, which is not only the feast of All Saints, but also the first day of NaBloPoMo. The former is a collective day to reflect upon all those who served God well and who now rest in glory (but who don't have their own special designated day of remembrance), while the latter is an initiative for bloggers to strive to post at least once per day for 30 consecutive days. Given my recent track record, I can say it's going to be a challenge to pick up that gauntlet, but I'm surely going to give it a try. For today, at least, I'm back.

I've always loved All Saints--the idea of honoring all saints, and the happy music that accompanies this particular low feast. I love the hope and optimism that even someone like me can actually be a good servant and answer the call. I'm still a work in progress. Tomorrow, the children of our parish will come to church costumed as various saints and people from the Bible and join in the opening processional as a reminder that saints do indeed still walk among us.

We've had an interesting couple of weeks filled with great joy and some real sadness and tragedy. Life does that to us. We are lifted up and then brought low. Today the sun was shining and we shared some good times with good people. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but I am fairly certain I will be here to write about it. Good night, all.

Wedding Sweatshop, part 1

I'm getting married in 37 days. It's only taken me fourteen years, countless miles, more bad dates than I care to think about and just a few sleepless nights to get to this point. Some people do marriage the easy way--they find someone wonderful at a young age, get married, have some nice children and live comparatively happily ever after.

I actually tried this route, twice, with Bad Mistake Number One and Bad Mistake Number Two. Without going into a great amount of detail, let's just say I got the worst of my life's crises out of the way while I was still young and healthy enough to withstand them.

So now, at the ripe old age of forty-mumble-something, I'm getting married in 37 days. The Norwegian tells me he loves me, he tells me I'm beautiful and that I'm a good mother, he tells me he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm awed and humbled and excited and amazed at all of this, but in the sweet way that he has, he doesn't just say these things, but helps me to believe them about myself as well. There's so much to love about this man, but I guess to sum it all up would be to say he's just himself, and that is so wonderful.

Planning a wedding at this age is completely different from planning a wedding at an earlier age. Having been down this ahem, aisle before, I'm not only older, but I've learned a few things along the way. Not that there haven't been the giddy moments of bride-like excitement and anticipation, but for the most part, this has been a dream-time of thinking small, looking deep within ourselves and finding what we really want--from life, from marriage and from this one celebratory day as well.

And this is how it really should be.

We're getting married at the best possible place--home. Several reasons--the desire to keep the festivities small and intimate and health and mobility issues of various family members -- played a key role in this decision. In fact, our house-hunting centered as much around "could we have the wedding we want in this house?" as did "could we finish raising our two teenagers in this house?" We found the perfect place in our half-acre of greenspace. The house has been duly blessed by our parish priest and is now a fit place, even in the eyes of the church, to start our life together.

Keeping it small means doing a lot of things ourselves, but that's okay. A lot of the websites and magazines ground out by the behemoth wedding industry devote a great deal of time and space to wedding budgets. There are even charts to advise what "average" weddings generally cost in a given zip code. For instance, the "average" wedding in our zip code of midtown Memphis, Tennessee suggests we should be spending roughly the cost of brand new SUV to tie our particular knot. Thank goodness this wedding will be anything but "average." The Norwegian and I are, admittedly, unusual people, and naturally, our wedding will combine our religious and family traditions, but on a scale manageable enough to keep it enjoyable for everyone involved. And that certainly includes us, first and foremost.

Once we decided on a budget, we immediately began looking for ways to come in lower. This has become something of a game almost, as we delight in great finds at estate sales and thrift stores and continue to come up with accoutrements that are just the right thing. This entire experience has been a great pre-marital exercise for us both, as we have the opportunity to examine closely what truly matters to us individually (him--family traditions and Navy heritage; me -- comfortable shoes and a taste of vintage) and as a couple (all of the above, along with a good photographer and a caterer who understands us). It's been so easy to agree on just about everything--from old Blue Willow serving pieces, to the vintage lace dress for Dear Daughter found at a yard sale, to the quasi-Mediterranean menu Elio the magnificent has planned for us. Along the way, we've ditched everyday wedding expectations (cheesy favors, garter tossing and flower girls) for homemade cakes and candies, a wonderful Gipsy jazz quartet and his family's heirloom wedding solje.

We designed our own save-the-date cards and invitations, using the great Alfred Eisenstaedt V-J day photo, and printed them on the Mac'n'Smac. Here they are, drying on our dining room table. The joy and exuberance captured in this photo illustrates perfectly how we feel about one another and our family, and was the perfect image for the invitations.



Friends and family are helping out with decorations. Here, MelBoe and Dear Daughter try out combinations of colored tulle for swathing our side porch. We're draping our leprous old wrought iron railing in the equivalent of two football fields of six-inch tulle. It really makes a difference!


Dear Daughter has started helping me make candies for the reception. Last night we dipped the first batches of about 300 creme de menthe chocolates.


A small, at-home wedding will require at least 100 yards of assorted colored ribbon. Don't try to fight it. Resistance is futile. Just make the run to Michael's. Then plan to go back again for more. At least twice.

A Grace-Filled Poem for Today

Turtle
by Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll,
a four-oared helmet,
she can ill afford the chances she must take
in rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
a packing-case places, and almost any slope
defeats her modest hopes.
Even being practical,
she's often stuck up to the axle on her way
to something edible. With everything optimal,
she skirts the ditch
which would convert her shell into a serving dish. She lives
below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
the sport of truly chastened things.

You're Not From Around Here, Are You?

People are often surprised to learn that I'm actually a native of the south. Though I was born and raised (in sight of water) in Memphis, I avoided cultivating a southern accent, and thanks to my parents' mixed marriage (she being Alabamian and he being Yankee, but not damyankee), I was raised with the best of both worlds. I grew up eating grits, white beans and turnip greens and I do make the best cornbread in the tri-state area, with the possible exception of Miss Baby, who is catching up to me quickly. I also learned that there was so much more to life than the Maid of Cotton pageant, duck-season, walking horses and SEC football.

Both cultures struggled mightily to instill in me the three Ds--dignity, decorum and decency. To some degree, they got through to me, although I do have my moments. By and large, I can with complete humility say that on a daily basis I at least strive not to behave like an absolute jackass. And most of those days, the sun sets on a fairly successful endeavor.

The cardinal rule of growing up in Memphis in the late 1960s and 1970s was "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Blessed (somewhat dubiously) with a sharp tongue and a ready mind, this is a real obstacle for me at times, but I really do try hard not to let some of the awful stuff roiling around in my brain actually spill past my lips.

Or in the case of blogging, drip and ooze out my fingertips. I've spent the worst part of today trying to figure out how to address a blogpost that was brought to my attention today. It not only name-checked me and someone very dear to me, but it lumped us in the same space and time with someone whose behaviour and attitudes are frequently questionable and most certainly do not reflect our values and beliefs. I write, as vaguely as possible, in hopes that those who know me and who might have read this person's blog will recognize the great gap between that writer's perspective and my own.

Blogging is a wonderful medium, allowing a great deal of freedom of expression and creativity, but as in any form of communication, there are rules and standards, often more implied than actually spelled out. Generally, it's a good rule of thumb that if it's something you wouldn't say out loud to someone, perhaps you shouldn't be writing it and launching it out into the ether. Or maybe that's just my upbringing. Another good rule is that unless you have specific permission or a reasonable context, it's unprofessional and just plain bad form to blog about coworkers and events that happen in the workplace or in an environment directly connected with the workplace.

Anyway, suffice it to say, I was not at all pleased to see my blogname linked to this person's immature and racist titter at some local politicians whom I not only hold in rather high esteem, but whose campaigns I have very publicly supported. The attitudes of the writer only support my belief that it truly is best to say nothing if one cannot think of anything original, civil or mature to say. I would also dearly hope that this blogger would study the definitions of "humor" and "racist." In a place like Memphis, where the cultural baggage definitely won't ever fit in the overhead compartment, it is essential to be aware and sensitive to the differences in races and cultures. Suggesting that we simply "lighten up" and be tolerant of remarks that smack of stereotypes and consider developing "a funny bone" serves only to reflect upon the juvenile and narrow-minded attitudes of the speaker.

As a child, I was sometimes farmed out to the churches of various family friends for a few days of Vacation Bible School in the summer. Despite being reared in a High Church Anglican parish, I really enjoyed those informal, hot days of glue sticks, hand clapping, grape juice, sugar cookies and singing songs that were ever so much livelier than the formal hymns we sang in our home church. One that has stuck with me through all the years was the one whose lyrics went "Oh be careful little hands what you do." In the nature of songs for children, the litany went on to include "be careful little eyes what you see" and "be careful little ears what you hear." The last verse reminded us to be mindful of what we say, lest little hop-toads and imps escape our lips and be scattered out into the void. There are those out there who blog who would do well to heed this advice.

Modus Operandi

One of my sweet little friends just sent me this piece of flair on Facebook-- "Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor, the Devil says "Aw crap, she's up."

Hee hee hee.

Golf Mystery?

Can anyone analyze why I might have dreamed last night that this man was my podiatrist? Or why I was giving him putting advice? (Ditch the belly putter.) Or why he was living in my neighborhood or asking me to marry him?

I wasn't even eating anything strange before bedtime. Too bizarre.

To a Young Girl

This from The Writer’s Almanac:

"It's the birthday of Anne Frank , born in 1929 in Frankfurt, Germany. It was on this day in 1942 that she received a red and white plaid journal, from her father, for her 13th birthday, and she started to write her diary, a diary that she called by the name of "Kitty." A few weeks after she started her diary, Anne's older sister Margot got a notice to report to a Jewish work camp, so the Franks went into hiding in an annex in Amsterdam. They couldn't bring suitcases, because it would look suspicious, so Anne had to wear two vests, three pairs of pants, a dress, a skirt, a jacket, a summer coat, two pairs of stockings, a wool hat, and a scarf-even though it was July. Four other people lived in the annex with Anne and her family, and they lived there together for two years. They had family friends who helped them survive, who brought them food and supplies. Anne wrote about being scared, and about injustice, and about missing the sunshine; and she also wrote about things that many 13-year-olds write about in their diaries. She wrote about how mad she got at her mother, and how she wanted privacy; she wrote about her crush on the teenage boy she lived with, and how she thought it was unfair that her parents liked Margot best.

In August of 1944, someone tipped off the Nazis, and they raided the apartment and sent everyone to concentration camps. Anne died of typhus at Bergen-Belsen just a few weeks before British troops came to liberate the camp; and of the eight people who lived in the annex together, only one, Anne's father, Otto, survived. Otto returned to Amsterdam, and a family friend told Otto that she had found Anne's diary in the annex after the Nazis had left. Anne wrote in the diary that she wanted to have it published, and so Otto wanted to try and honor his daughter's wishes. It took a while and was rejected by several publishers, but it was published in Germany in 1947, and the United States in 1952. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl has sold more than 25 million copies, and it is considered the second-best-selling nonfiction book in history, after the Bible."

Anne Frank was born a year after my own father, who died two years ago on the 16th of June. When I try to imagine them as contemporaries, it's somewhat difficult. I only knew my father as an adult, and despite the few photos and family stories, it’s hard to imagine him as anything but. Of course, none of us had the opportunity to know Anne Frank as anything but a young girl, so it’s equally difficult to imagine what she might have been had she survived.

There is so much to consider when making the attempt to wrap your mind around Anne Frank the living, breathing, thinking and feeling person, as opposed to Anne Frank, the emblem of the Holocaust. When I try to imagine Anne as a real person, outside of the larger than life person she’s become thanks to her journal, it helps to look to my own daughter, who will celebrate her own 13th birthday in four months. Naturally, there are some glaring differences between the two of them, but I would venture to suppose that most girls of that age have conflict with their mother, long for privacy, secretly eye some boy or other and harbor resentment toward siblings. I find myself wondering what the sound of Anne’s laugh was like—was it spontaneous and nutty, like the unselfconscious outbursts of Dear Daughter? Did she find wonder in the world of roly-polies under clay pots of flower seedlings? Was bedtime ever a struggle, or did she read aloud to her pets? Through her diary, we are given an all-too-brief look at her day-to-day life, in conditions that, at best, were arduous. Still, questions remain.

Then, what might the 23 year old Anne Frank have been like? Or the 33 year old? Would she be a young mother by then, a university graduate, an accomplished musician? Would she have worked for the creation of the state of Israel, or raised chickens in her backyard? Would she, at 73, been like my own father, slightly irascible, prone to seizures, fond of her grandchildren?

Only three short years separated the day Anne Frank first received the diary that would ensure her immortality and the day she died in 1945. She was forced by unimaginable circumstances to cram a lifetime’s worth of observation and thought into those brief years and somehow make them fit into the pages of a slim volume. She did a remarkable job.

Anne Frank said, "Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love!" God only knows how great she would have been at 80, and how much love she had yet to give.

It's also about giving up

I can't really expound on this right now. Big changes. Sad times. Gonna be okay.

"Welcome to the 21st Century! May I please take your order?"

These were the words spoken to me by Dear Daughter, who is, at last counting, 11 going on 35. I was standing at the service counter in a cell-phone service store, agonizing over what should have been a simple purchase, but what was rapidly becoming a descent straight into h-e-double- hockey-sticks, without passing "GO" and definitely without collecting $200.

I have a perfectly fine cell phone. Calls come in. Calls go out. I can also send and receive text messages on it, although exactly how to do this is actually beyond my scope. This phone was given to me by my sociopathic ex-boyfriend, and therefore carries with it more karma than I'd ever care to examine. Still, it was free, it works and works cheaply. I've been the object of ridicule on billions of occasions because of this phone, which Dear Daughter has nicknamed "the Brick." One of my co-workers saw it on my desk one day and asked if I'd brought my home phone to work with me.

But, I kind of like the Brick. There's not a chance in the world that anyone else would mistake it for their own and take it accidentally. It's easy to use (because it has only about four features--all of which make sense). It's so hopelessly obsolete no one would steal it. Plus, it's size, shape and heft make it a formidable weapon, should I ever need to use it as such. I'm pretty sure I could bring down your average sized thug with it, although I hope I never have to try. All in all, it's been the perfect phone for me for the past three years or so.

Enter the rabbit.

Now really, should a three pound, five inch tall rabbit be able to wreak much havoc in the world of an educated, emancipated adult? Not likely, but this is, as they say, no ordinary rabbit. This is the THUNDER-BUN, three pounds of tufted terror! Actually, she's not so bad, but she does have a history of destruction, despite only having six teeth. Her name is Roselle and she's a lovely silvery-grey Netherland dwarf with dark points on her paws and nose. In her six years on this planet, she's destroyed an HP printer (by jumping on it), blown up a halogen torchiere lamp (by biting the cord in two), murdered umpteen cardboard boxes and left a couple of good bruises on Dear Daughter.

About a year ago, she nibbled a little bit on the charger cord of the Brick. No problem--a little electrical tape, and it's good as new. Except electrical tape really doesn't hold up well, at least not in my world. Gradually, it all came off and in my laziness, I never repaired the cord again. Lately, I've been noticing that the phone doesn't always charge, or it cuts off while charging. The little copper wires in the cord are looking pretty frayed, and frankly, I'm getting a little frightened of plugging it in. So, today it was off to the cellular store to replace it.

The nice ladies in the shop were kind enough not to actually snigger when they saw what I wanted. Obviously, I'm the only person in the world that doesn't automatically upgrade a phone every time a new feature becomes available or a new color is released or the wind starts blowing from the east. Apparently the Brick can't even be donated to those non-profits for recycling or to be given to a domestic violence shelter. Maybe I'll use it for a paperweight in the future.

Anyway, it took almost thirty minutes of discussion, examination, hand-wringing, pacing and whining before I finally made a decision. The saleslady was very patient and kind with me. Dear Daughter danced excitedly the entire time. You would have thought I was buying her a new set of kidneys. Nice Saleslady even discovered that my job as anonymous paper shuffler for the military-industrial complex entitles me to a great honking discount on the phone and the service.

So now, I'm the owner of a very cute little phone that takes photos, shoots video, text messages, has voice mail, a plethora of ringtone choices, downloads music and video, slices, dices, makes julienne fries and will apparently sort my dirty socks. Naturally, I don't have a clue how to do any of these things with it. But I'm reading the two manuals that come with it, and in the first hour I have successfully learned how to charge the battery (in a rabbit-free zone, of course).

Next step--how to make calls go in and out. Wish me luck!

America's Game

Here's a secret about me, folks. I actually like baseball. The real game of base ball, not the bloated, lethargic, scandal-ridden travesty that is MLB. What I like even better than baseball is movies about baseball. This time of year, I like to rent things like Eight Men Out, Major League (the first one, although in a pinch, I will watch the second one), The Babe, The Natural and of course, the immortal Bull Durham.

Remember in Bull Durham when Susan Sarandon's character, Annie Savoy, reads Walt Whitman? "I see great things in baseball. It's our game, the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us." He was right then, and his words still hold true today. Baseball represents much of what is good and wholesome and innocent about America. I identify strongly with the simple truths of baseball. Again, quoting from BD, it's a very simple game: you throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. All of life should be so easy, and what's not to love?

Unfortunately, MLB has turned this delightfully simple game into Massive Lurching Business, with the main objective no longer being a contest between 18 men armed with leather gloves and bats, but a high-stakes game of screw-your-neighbor in which organized gangs attempt to separate fans from their money by selling them $7 beers, $80 tickets, $120 replica jerseys. The proceeds of these go to pay the overinflated salaries of stellar "role models" such as Barry Bonds, A-Rod, Mark McGwire and the ilk. When these guys aren't making headlines for winning games, they're making them for testifying about drug use, or being busted for DUI, or for merely signing a new multi-million dollar contract for simply throwing, catching and hitting a ball.

Hey, nice work if you can get it.

But still, I like baseball. And I like going to games. Where I live, we have a rather good AAA team, and on a nice warm spring day, going out to see a game is a beautiful thing. We are also fortunate to have one of what is the most beautiful ballparks in minor-league baseball -- AutoZone Park. This green urban jewel smack in the downtown area shines with grace and dignity. It was built in harmony with the historic buildings surrounding it, and was designed with hard-core fans and casual family attendees in mind as well. There's plenty to do for groups with children, but just sitting in a row seat under the first deck, watching a young pitcher with a 91 mph fastball is truly a thing of beauty.

This was the first game we saw this season, and the impetus was actually the opening act. Another secret about me is that I'm an absolute patriot and a sucker for our National Anthem. I'm very happy and relieved to have been born in this wonderful country, and the Anthem brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it performed in public. Today was an extra-special rendition, because it was a choir of schoolchildren that just happened to include Dear Daughter.

Now, she was behind home plate in a group of about 30 children, so perhaps it was just my imagination that I could hear her sweet little voice ringing out on "the land of the free-eee!!!" but then again, maybe it wasn't. It was a great moment for both of us.

Best Friend of Dear Daughter went with us to the game. We stayed until just before the seventh inning, so we had to sing the stretch in the parking garage. It was a beautiful day in the sun with two of my favorite girls watching a game played by men still young enough and hungry enough to love it. It was--all in all--a beautiful thing.

Happy Birthday!

1872 -- Bertrand Russell
1883 -- Walter Gropius
1897 -- Frank Capra
1912 -- Perry Como
1919 -- Dame Margot Fonteyn
1920 -- Pope John Paul II

There was a funny joke I heard some years ago about screen star Jean Harlow meeting Dame Margot Fonteyn. I don't know if it's true or not, but it makes me laugh.

"At a party, screen siren Jean Harlow heard that Margot Fonteyn was also in the room. She asked to be introduced to the prima, and gushed, "Oh Dame Mar-gott, I'm so happy to meet you! This is the happiest moment of my life!" La Fonteyn replied, "Thank you, but the 't' in my name is silent. Like in 'harlot'."

:-P

Stop struggling

I've been tired and busy and struggling with coming up with some topics (and time) to write. I just scanned CNN for the current news and found this story. When I worked at St. Jude, I knew a lot of patients like this young man. Read his story. Read his blog. There's an entry there and information on how to navigate to his postings.

And for those of you reading this from the Jude, please know that I think about you all daily.

God's in His heaven

It's the birthday in 1812 of English poet Robert Browning. My favorite passage of his is the Song from "Pippa Passes." Yeah, it's sweet, but that's it: it's sweet. I like it. It makes me happy on summer mornings.

It's also the day in 1915 that the Cunard liner Lusitania was torpedoed and sunk by a German U-boat. More than 1,100 passengers and crew lost their lives in this attack, among them at least 100 Americans. The Lusitania was a sister ship to the Mauretania and Aquitania, and were smaller -- though faster -- than the ships of the White Star Line (Olympic, Titanic and Britannic). The ship was built in Clydebank, Scotland, and launched in 1906.

The German submarine U-20 was operating in the Irish Channel in the spring of 1915. Despite warnings of submarine activity and the discovery of three German spies on the ship, Captain William Turner continued on his voyage. At about 2:20 p.m. Captain Schwieger of the U-20 ordered fire on the Lusitania. Struck below the bridge, a subsequent explosion below decks caused the ship to sink in less than 20 minutes. Lifeboats were hindered by the ship listing dangerously because of water pouring through its side and poor design of the hull plates. The dead recovered from the water are buried in the Church of St. Multose in Kinsale, Ireland. Others still lie in the wreck, near the point of Old Head of Kinsale.

Schwieger was branded a war criminal by the international press for firing on an unarmed passenger ship. Speculations abounded in later years that the Lusitania may have actually been carrying munitions and war materiel. These have never been proven.

War is a funny thing. It causes humans to take actions that are inexplicable and irrational. I can't get my head around the idea of firing on an unarmed ship full of people in the middle of a channel. How do you live with having given the order to fire, or actually being the finger on the trigger?

A Hemidemisemiquaver in Time

Mstislav Rostropovich has died and the world goes on, although somewhat less than it was before. I’m trying to remember if he was one of the guest performers brought to town by the Memphis Symphony Orchestra in my youth. I used to usher at the performance halls downtown, and thereby saw lots of wonderful concerts, opera shows, Broadway musicals and ballet performances for free. If I did see him, it was obviously lost on me at the time; in retrospect, I guess there's a lot of things I did then I wish remembered better.

Rostropovich played cello, which is, I’m pretty sure, the preferred instrument of heaven. I can’t get my head around the concept that mere humans could have created such a sublime instrument, and then gone on to compose music suitable for it. It just seems beyond our puny reach. I never learned a stringed instrument, and it’s one of the few real regrets I have about my life. I like to think I’m not too old to learn cello, but at the same time, how could I possibly be worthy?

Here is a rather good story about Rostropovich, along with some comments by Lynn Harrell, another master of the cello. He made me weep openly at a concert a few years back.

Are there young people coming up in the ranks of classical performing artist to replace those whom we are losing? Pablo Casals is long gone, and now Rostropovich. Yo-Yo Ma and Lynn Harrell are both 50-something. Who is to follow?

Truth, Justice and the boy from Polecat Creek

On this day in Polecat Creek, NC, Egbert Roscoe Murrow came into this world. It was 1908, and his family lived in a small log cabin and supported themselves on the few hundred dollars per year that subsistence farming brought them. Egbert’s family later relocated to Washington state, and it was there during his high school years that he acquired the nickname “Ed.” In college, he would formally change his name to “Edward,” thus becoming Edward R. Murrow. By his death in 1967, the boy from Polecat Creek would become one of the most recognized voices and faces in the world, and would set a standard for journalism that, although still remembered, is rarely emulated today.

In late 2005, George Clooney (whose legendary charm still eludes me) wrote, directed and played a supporting role in “Good Night and Good Luck,” the brilliant ode to Murrow’s fight against the rising taint of McCarthyism. David Straithairn (whose lanky charm leads me to insist on watching “Passionfish” alone so I can concentrate) portrayed Murrow in an Oscar-nominated performance. If you haven’t seen the film, do make a point of it. You’ll be glad you did.

Murrow’s career began in radio with on-the-ground coverage of the Anschluss in the late 1930s. Broadcasting from Vienna, Murrow provided eyewitness accounts of Hitler’s first move into Austria. Later, he covered the aftermath of the Buchenwald liberation, and stunned the world with the description of the suffering and death found there.

Edward Murrow made the jump to the nascent field of television in the 1950s, first guest-appearing on the CBS Evening News and then on his own show, “See It Now,” an updated version of “Hear It Now,” which he and producer Fred Friendly (Clooney’s role in the film) created for CBS radio after the war. In 1954, Murrow and Friendly produced a 30 minute special entitled “A Special Report on Senator Joseph McCarthy.” This well-researched and carefully produced segment highlighted McCarthy’s increasingly upward-spiraling against the so-called “Red Scare” in the American entertainment industry. Murrow and Friendly paid a hard price for exposing the truth about McCarthy. Their hard-hitting approach to news was discomfiting, and turned off viewers who were quickly becoming addicted to the novel game shows and talk shows that were beginning to crop up on the airwaves.

Those who know me know how little television I watch. We have cable at the house, but flipping through the channels leaves me tired and disgusted. Despite 50+ channels (I know, we only have a few!), it gets more and more difficult to find something worth watching, especially when Dear Daughter is around. She’d love to watch the reality shows and pre-teen sit-coms her fifth grade classmates discuss, but the couple of times we’ve actually tuned in, we’ve both quickly realized we just can’t sit through very much of that kind of drivel. At the day’s end, it’s nice to know that we can lead fulfilling lives without knowing the latest scoop on Britney, Brangelina, Sanji-whoosis or Hannah Montana (which is actually fairly tame and less smart-ass than most shows aimed at grade-schoolers).
But the absolute worst is when I try to watch broadcast news –either local or national. It’s sad and disturbing how little we’re willing to settle for in the arena of vital information. Completely overlooking the nauseating level of violence and despair in the news, the reporting itself is too frequently shallow, glib and uncaring. Coupled with Chiron misspellings, perky announcers who can’t read or pronounce names and who make inappropriate comments, the prospect of sitting through an entire 30 minute newscast pretty much sends me into a keening, thumb-sucking fetal position.

And don’t even get me started on the reporters and camera work…

Anyway, today is the birthday of the boy from Polecat Creek. Celebrate by skipping the news and taking a walk around with your eyes, ears and mind wide open.

We miss your work, Egbert. Good night and good luck.