No pictures today. I have no irritated photos.
Someone tell me what I am missing. Sincerely, I mean that. If I am wrong, I would like to know since ignorance is not a quality I desire to espouse. The theme of my irritation is best captured by the Mark Twain quote which forms this post's title.
First, taxes on investment income. I don't understand how this is more than a political slogan. I am not talking about the irony of taxing someone's earnings and then taxing the money he makes on his post-tax remainder. I am talking about the trickle down effect of almost every tax.
Am I not correct that any tax on investment income is going to either reduce the level of investment or increase the cost of investment? Based on what I know about economics, if investment profit is taxed at increased levels, that cost will simply be passed on. If in 2011 I could invest and earn a potential 5%, in 2012, with taxes on that profit, I will only invest if I think I can make the 5% plus the value of the additional tax. Otherwise, the risk of investment was raised without a corresponding rise in potential reward. So, if I now need assurance of a higher return on my investment, the company in which I invest needs to be confident of a higher profit so that it can pay me. The only consistent source of increased profit is to pass down those higher expenses to the consumer. So, in the end, taxing investment profits chills investment activity and incurs higher costs to the end consumer. I see no way around this inevitability.
Second, what is up with reporting (or what passes as reporting)? I increasingly get news reports which simply parroted whatever is given to the reporter. Case in point: today I was listening to the public radio station. The report was on the success marked by the one year anniversary of the no texting while driving law. The proof of success was a comment from the original drafter of the legislation (he announced that the law was a success), and a few comments from some one in law enforcement who said that first, texting while driving was dangerous, second, that 162 citations were issued last year, and third, that the law was a success.
What??? How is it that passes for reporting? It's meaningless. I will not even try to explain all the hypothetical mischief that occurs with these kinds of statistics. My point will need to hang on the sufficiency of a few instead. For example, wouldn't the efficacy of the law be better shown if there were no citations (suggesting that people were so convinced of the purpose of the illegality that they completely gave up texting while driving)? Or, how about researching the number of inattentive driving citations given? If that number went down by about 162, doesn't that suggest that the law simply duplicated something already there? Or how about if they thought they would get 10,000 citations? Or what if they thought they would get 50?
The statistic of 162 citations, absent any real context, is completely useless. The whole point of reporting is to get a body of information which may not be readily available to the rest of the world so that we can be informed and make informed choices. There was no reporting going on here. No one asked the questions which would give meaning to a random fact. And, I guess, by extension, we are just supposed to accept that this law was necessary and good because we were told it was. That doesn't sound like me.
One quick note; I agree with the purpose of the law in that I have no interest in driving down the road with other drivers who are simultaneously texting. It is not the law I find frustrating. It is the reporting. Let me know what you think about these things and whether you believe I am missing something.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Power's Back!
Well, that was exciting. We heard from the weather dudes that a strong storm would be heading our way. They were right. On Thursday afternoon the winds started kicking up and, for the next 36 hours, we had, more often than not, high winds and rain. By 8:20 P.M. we had no power. At home our power turned back on the next afternoon around 4 and, at the store, sometime over Friday evening. Internet came back sometime yesterday.
So we spent Friday surveying the damage to our property (about a square of missing shingles) and checking the local area from Sister Bay to Baileys to Egg Harbor. Peninsula State Park was closed due to significant tree windfall, both Fish Creek and Ephraim had boats on shore, and power was out far more often than not.
Since it appeared the store would need to stay closed for the day, we went back home, grabbed some food, and took off to run a variety of errands. We ended up driving around quite a bit, stopping at just about every water access, and doing a little shopping including getting some apples (really excellent this year considering the summer's rain schedule), and getting to Off The Wheel Pottery so that Jenny could use her birthday gift certificate at Renee's.
By mid-afternoon we were back at the Ephraim beach were we sat in the truck like a bunch of tourists and had a picnic and watched the beached sailboat rock back and forth and the crazy sailboarded fly around and memorized lines and knitted and enjoyed Jen's bunny mug. And everywhere we went we talked with people who were checking on others or driving around to see if something needed to be done or checking on mooring lines or making sure things were OK ... a neat glimpse of community in action.
So we spent Friday surveying the damage to our property (about a square of missing shingles) and checking the local area from Sister Bay to Baileys to Egg Harbor. Peninsula State Park was closed due to significant tree windfall, both Fish Creek and Ephraim had boats on shore, and power was out far more often than not.
Since it appeared the store would need to stay closed for the day, we went back home, grabbed some food, and took off to run a variety of errands. We ended up driving around quite a bit, stopping at just about every water access, and doing a little shopping including getting some apples (really excellent this year considering the summer's rain schedule), and getting to Off The Wheel Pottery so that Jenny could use her birthday gift certificate at Renee's.
By mid-afternoon we were back at the Ephraim beach were we sat in the truck like a bunch of tourists and had a picnic and watched the beached sailboat rock back and forth and the crazy sailboarded fly around and memorized lines and knitted and enjoyed Jen's bunny mug. And everywhere we went we talked with people who were checking on others or driving around to see if something needed to be done or checking on mooring lines or making sure things were OK ... a neat glimpse of community in action.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The Summer In Review
It would be both cliche and untrue to say this summer went by quickly. It was complex, full, rich, and profound, but not hasty. Indeed, I cannot remember a summer more patient nor a time in my life when I have been happier.
Not all has been perfect, by any stretch. Much has been two-steps-forward, one-step-back. But I think that is one of the critical differences. Last fall, at a time when I was really struggling with a haunt from my past, a friend of mine asked a stereotypical question; "What's the worst thing that happens?" I was comfortable with this as I had been asked many times before and knew the pat, almost rhetorical answer she would give. So I shrugged my shoulders in smug complacency and waited from some trite answer of the sort I had heard so many times, comfortable that no one knew my darker secrets.
When she continued with the answer, "That Jen leaves you.", I actually started crying for a bit. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that someone would see that truth. I can handle a lot and have, but so much of my history is defined by making people artificially comfortable and safe and my world so by extension. But to have it named made all the difference, because, even though I knew that I could not control such ephemeral things as someone's love, I did not own that knowledge. I was still acting in ways which presented a version of myself largely divorced from the warty reality. In that moment, I really came to understand how my history of trying to control for certain outcomes had led to some really screwed-up results.
For those romantics out there, fear not. I have it on good authority that my relationship with Jen is stronger than ever. In fact, I posit that releasing that neurological fear of having to do what ever it took to keep her around has been one of the best quasi marriage counseling events ever. I cannot control what she does. All I can do is try to be real and hope that she likes what she sees.
And this relates directly to this summer as it both allowed me to not pretend that all things in my life were perfect (they are not) and to extend this understanding to my children (now all the age or greater than that of my engagement).
So this summer, while working to reinstate my law license, I applied for quite a number of service industry jobs. I got hired for none of them. Sexism is alive and well in Door County. If you are young and blonde and cute and female, you can make serious money. If you are middle aged and male, good luck.
Instead, I focused on simplifying (more on that in coming posts), exercising, seizing tons of opportunities for life (swimming, boating, kayaking, working on the house, volleyball, biking, lying in the sun, running through the park, etc...), relishing in relationship (I think we only spent one night of the week, on average, alone), and diving into rich artistic projects like the PMF's fantastic performance of Verdi's Requiem and, currently, a premiere theatrical performance at the TAP.
Letting go of controlling my children was blessed. Brynn could run her life without my feeling the need to care (care in the bad way not care in the good way). Lars could progress down his path of independence without my feeling the need to protect Jen. And Hannah could fail at her "emotional vow of silence", without my getting dragged into some sense that I had to fix something. Recognizing more fully that Jen is a fully capable woman who will (no doubt) make up her own decisions and act accordingly, has also been a blessing.
Finally, things continue to crawl toward resolution regarding financial clarity. The store is doing well and my past failings have largely been dragged into the light where the shock has killed some, given sudden growth to a few others, challenged my pride in all, and brought a peace to most. I do not have a perfect life, but I am not about to trade.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Lost To A Summer Love
I think my summer hiatus is over. And I am glad that I had one although it lasted somewhat longer than expected. For those of you who encouraged this blog's return, thank you. While it was only a matter of time, the reminders were appreciated.
I had a very good summer, but more of that tomorrow. In the meantime, a synecdochal story. The other day I had the opportunity to perform at The Clearing. It was a short environmental play presented as a dramatic reading. We gathered a few hours early to rehearse and concluded the rehearsal with an hour or so to spare. Fortunately, I have my summer truck.
The summer truck is so named as it is a vehicle of possibility. Some time in early summer I throw kayak racks, a bike carrier, and an oversized, covered storage bin on the truck. Our kayaks and my mountain bike get added and the bin holds an assortment of clothes, sports gear, cameras, towels, soap, etc... At any given moment, it is possible, within a few minute's time, to be engaged in anything from sleeping on the beach to entering a triathlon. In any case, there is rarely a justification for not being actively involved with life if you have even a few minutes to spare. At the end of each day anything that needs cleaning comes out and is replaced. It is a carrier of possibility. It is a summer truck.
So, realizing the surrounding loveliness, I went back to the truck, stripped down, grabbed my running shoes, shorts, and Zen, and headed off down the curving gravel drives that wander the property, Gaither Vocal Band singing loud in my headphones to drown out my gasps. I ran 'til the exit drive T'd into Garrett Bay Road and headed into Ellison Bay. I eventually made my way back to the primary entrance and cut back onto Clearing property, again following the single-lane, gravel path.
Back at the truck I dumped my shoes and music, grabbed a towel and my flips, and went in search of the stairs that dropped off the short cliff to the rock beach below. I stopped once for directions, and, after a quizzical stare, which I assume suggested a complete abhorrence for swimming in that cold water (or so I heard someone mumble as I trotted away), I found the path behind the Lodge and made my way down to the water.
Off shore by 150 feet were two fishermen on a small bass-boat casting for smallmouth. While that was enough to prevent me from jumping in au naturel, it was not enough to prevent me from the experience of swimming along that bluff in the mid-afternoon sun. Actually, "jumping" is a bit of a misnomer. Typically, at the bottom of these bluffs, the water is clear and lovely and gets deep quite quickly. The beaches, however, are rock and the rock continues well into the water. There really are no sandy entrances and the rock, once at the water line or beyond, can get very slippery.
So I didn't jump. I kicked off my flips and threw my towel and sunglasses on a large rock. I then minced my way into the water until about a foot or so deep. At that point, despite the high uncool quotient, the best strategy was to awkwardly flop into my stomach and drag out into deeper water.
I found a larger rock out a ways which allowed me to stand completely submerged except my canted mouth, nose, and eyes. The water was crystal clear and cool. I just hung there, gripping the rock with my toes to counter the slight waves and let the sun beat on my face.
After I had cooled enough, I swam along the shore a little and then pulled, alligator style, eyes and nose just above the water line, into the shallow. I heard a buzzing and glanced to my right. All along the beach, now exposed some 6 or more years, nature was reclaiming dry ground with an assortment of flowers, milkweed, and occasional poplar or cedar sprig, roots crevassing down to the water table. The buzz was a humming bird methodically working from town toward the bay, appearing to visit every stop en route. I watched, nose deep, until far enough away to not be disturbed by my exit, equally ungainly as my entrance.
I toweled off and headed back to the truck and people and dramatic readings and things of apparent greater import. Yet my strongest memory is of the hummingbird, barely 10 feet away, filling its gullet.
I had a very good summer, but more of that tomorrow. In the meantime, a synecdochal story. The other day I had the opportunity to perform at The Clearing. It was a short environmental play presented as a dramatic reading. We gathered a few hours early to rehearse and concluded the rehearsal with an hour or so to spare. Fortunately, I have my summer truck.
The summer truck is so named as it is a vehicle of possibility. Some time in early summer I throw kayak racks, a bike carrier, and an oversized, covered storage bin on the truck. Our kayaks and my mountain bike get added and the bin holds an assortment of clothes, sports gear, cameras, towels, soap, etc... At any given moment, it is possible, within a few minute's time, to be engaged in anything from sleeping on the beach to entering a triathlon. In any case, there is rarely a justification for not being actively involved with life if you have even a few minutes to spare. At the end of each day anything that needs cleaning comes out and is replaced. It is a carrier of possibility. It is a summer truck.
So, realizing the surrounding loveliness, I went back to the truck, stripped down, grabbed my running shoes, shorts, and Zen, and headed off down the curving gravel drives that wander the property, Gaither Vocal Band singing loud in my headphones to drown out my gasps. I ran 'til the exit drive T'd into Garrett Bay Road and headed into Ellison Bay. I eventually made my way back to the primary entrance and cut back onto Clearing property, again following the single-lane, gravel path.
Back at the truck I dumped my shoes and music, grabbed a towel and my flips, and went in search of the stairs that dropped off the short cliff to the rock beach below. I stopped once for directions, and, after a quizzical stare, which I assume suggested a complete abhorrence for swimming in that cold water (or so I heard someone mumble as I trotted away), I found the path behind the Lodge and made my way down to the water.
Off shore by 150 feet were two fishermen on a small bass-boat casting for smallmouth. While that was enough to prevent me from jumping in au naturel, it was not enough to prevent me from the experience of swimming along that bluff in the mid-afternoon sun. Actually, "jumping" is a bit of a misnomer. Typically, at the bottom of these bluffs, the water is clear and lovely and gets deep quite quickly. The beaches, however, are rock and the rock continues well into the water. There really are no sandy entrances and the rock, once at the water line or beyond, can get very slippery.
So I didn't jump. I kicked off my flips and threw my towel and sunglasses on a large rock. I then minced my way into the water until about a foot or so deep. At that point, despite the high uncool quotient, the best strategy was to awkwardly flop into my stomach and drag out into deeper water.
I found a larger rock out a ways which allowed me to stand completely submerged except my canted mouth, nose, and eyes. The water was crystal clear and cool. I just hung there, gripping the rock with my toes to counter the slight waves and let the sun beat on my face.
After I had cooled enough, I swam along the shore a little and then pulled, alligator style, eyes and nose just above the water line, into the shallow. I heard a buzzing and glanced to my right. All along the beach, now exposed some 6 or more years, nature was reclaiming dry ground with an assortment of flowers, milkweed, and occasional poplar or cedar sprig, roots crevassing down to the water table. The buzz was a humming bird methodically working from town toward the bay, appearing to visit every stop en route. I watched, nose deep, until far enough away to not be disturbed by my exit, equally ungainly as my entrance.
I toweled off and headed back to the truck and people and dramatic readings and things of apparent greater import. Yet my strongest memory is of the hummingbird, barely 10 feet away, filling its gullet.
Monday, June 6, 2011
An Unexpected Rite of Passage
I am certainly proud. And I'm excited for her. And I am happy/relieved that she has a real interest in a professional career and that she has vision for her future. But, if I am going to be a little self-centered, I now feel suddenly older.
My oldest, a daughter, had the day off today. She requested it specifically since she used it to drive down to UW-GB, a hour and a half away, to take the Law School Admission Test. For whatever reason, it really hit me that this was a young woman and not my girl.
I assume she did well; she clearly has an aptitude for the type of mental constructs best used in law. In addition, she is no idiot and has actually been studying aggressively for it. It's fun to see the flash in her eyes as she pulled up after driving home. There is such an energy and drive...
So maybe it's that energy that makes me feel older. Or maybe it's the passing of the torch as I look back at my own LSAT experience. Maybe it's starting to see the next generation really start to make a move on assume the roles of social purpose and direction. Or maybe it's just seeing my daughter take the first real adult step for her future that didn't include me and was her own idea and goal. Whatever. I can get used to this feeling.
My oldest, a daughter, had the day off today. She requested it specifically since she used it to drive down to UW-GB, a hour and a half away, to take the Law School Admission Test. For whatever reason, it really hit me that this was a young woman and not my girl.
I assume she did well; she clearly has an aptitude for the type of mental constructs best used in law. In addition, she is no idiot and has actually been studying aggressively for it. It's fun to see the flash in her eyes as she pulled up after driving home. There is such an energy and drive...
So maybe it's that energy that makes me feel older. Or maybe it's the passing of the torch as I look back at my own LSAT experience. Maybe it's starting to see the next generation really start to make a move on assume the roles of social purpose and direction. Or maybe it's just seeing my daughter take the first real adult step for her future that didn't include me and was her own idea and goal. Whatever. I can get used to this feeling.
Friday, June 3, 2011
It Pays To Be Prepared.
One of the things that I find really fun about summer's in Door County is how so many people live their lives in total preparation for a moment of down time. With the plethora of opportunities to walk, run, bike, swim, boat, read, etc... and everything being fairly close, you can fit a lot into a day if you are ready to go.
Of course the dress code here helps too. Few are sloppy, and urban "costumes" are very rare. Things tend to be simple, crisp and clean, and versatile. My favorite summer outfit consists of quick-dry cargo shorts, a button down oxford cloth dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sport sandals if its casual or leather sandals if its dressy, and my Aussie hat if I'll be on the water. I tend to wear some derivative of this all day, every day. The only thing it doesn't do well is travel into the evening as most get crisp enough to need some other layer.
So when I am out, I bring a polartec of some sort. But, if I am at home, I have something better. Evening fires are kind of a staple event and last week I finally committed to a plan for the east side of the main house. First in, as it is the most important, was a permanent fire pit. Over Memorial Day we fully tried it out with all the kids home, and a handful of other friends to round out the mix. We made burgers and brats on the grill, watched the sunset from "upstairs", and climbed back down to finish the evening with stories, glasses of Port, and people slowly heading home until just my family was left.
Of course the dress code here helps too. Few are sloppy, and urban "costumes" are very rare. Things tend to be simple, crisp and clean, and versatile. My favorite summer outfit consists of quick-dry cargo shorts, a button down oxford cloth dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sport sandals if its casual or leather sandals if its dressy, and my Aussie hat if I'll be on the water. I tend to wear some derivative of this all day, every day. The only thing it doesn't do well is travel into the evening as most get crisp enough to need some other layer.
So when I am out, I bring a polartec of some sort. But, if I am at home, I have something better. Evening fires are kind of a staple event and last week I finally committed to a plan for the east side of the main house. First in, as it is the most important, was a permanent fire pit. Over Memorial Day we fully tried it out with all the kids home, and a handful of other friends to round out the mix. We made burgers and brats on the grill, watched the sunset from "upstairs", and climbed back down to finish the evening with stories, glasses of Port, and people slowly heading home until just my family was left.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Here Comes That For Which I Paid My Three Bucks!
I try to not be one of those who complains about the weather, although I know I fail. And the reason I fail is that, in the end, I really don't like it cold or windy or rainy. So, by extension, I live for these days. June is here, the crickets, mosquitoes, tourists, and all-day-outside stuff is back. I'm a happy man.
I do need to be more disciplined however. I get up early. I make coffee and wake up with the sun and recent emails. I go to bed within an hour or so of sunset. There are a lot of hours in between. What's hard for me is to really live each day fully whether it is to include kayaking, working at the store, taking care of bills, building whatever, sleeping in the sun, running errands, getting together for another lunch or dinner or whatever with friends, ... there are so many excellent things to do that, if I am not careful, I waste too much time just trying to figure out what I want to do.
I think I found a derivative system that helps though. I have always been big on writing notes. Lately, with my morning coffee, I write a separate note of things to do that day. At the end of the day, I throw it away. The next day starts new and I always have a list for that day rather than a list that is impossible in it's length, impossible in its facts (I can't transplant trees if it's supposed to rain all day), or laden with the critique of those things not done yesterday.
This is my season. And I love the title quote. Mary Tyler Moore murmured it to herself as her hunky date, after they had gone to a cheap movie together, leaned in to give her a goodnight kiss. I love how it recognizes the redemptiveness that an excellent finish gives to an arduous process. It's summer and I'm going to get my three bucks worth.
I do need to be more disciplined however. I get up early. I make coffee and wake up with the sun and recent emails. I go to bed within an hour or so of sunset. There are a lot of hours in between. What's hard for me is to really live each day fully whether it is to include kayaking, working at the store, taking care of bills, building whatever, sleeping in the sun, running errands, getting together for another lunch or dinner or whatever with friends, ... there are so many excellent things to do that, if I am not careful, I waste too much time just trying to figure out what I want to do.
I think I found a derivative system that helps though. I have always been big on writing notes. Lately, with my morning coffee, I write a separate note of things to do that day. At the end of the day, I throw it away. The next day starts new and I always have a list for that day rather than a list that is impossible in it's length, impossible in its facts (I can't transplant trees if it's supposed to rain all day), or laden with the critique of those things not done yesterday.
This is my season. And I love the title quote. Mary Tyler Moore murmured it to herself as her hunky date, after they had gone to a cheap movie together, leaned in to give her a goodnight kiss. I love how it recognizes the redemptiveness that an excellent finish gives to an arduous process. It's summer and I'm going to get my three bucks worth.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Congratulations, It's A Child!
Sometimes some things are so silly that even talking about them gives more credibility than is deserved. I risk that event today.
A while back I talked about the great divisors of life. I mentioned that actually being alive was probably the most significant, i.e. you are either dead or you are alive. The next most significant divisor is our sexuality. Again, this is a matter not of absolutes, but of most common, and, for most of us, being male or female will be the most significant identifying feature after life/death. It defines who we are, how we respond to relationships, how we introduce ourselves, and how we view all aspects of life. I love how from the beginning our sex is important ranging from the development of tests that can determine the sex of the child (and the never ending discussion of whether to know ahead of time) to the doctor's stereotypical initial birth announcement, "It's a girl (or boy)!"
So I read an article about a Canadian couple who are committed to raising their most recent child with no reference to it's sex. I wish them the best of luck on that one. Normally I'd be concerned about child abuse issues, but this one is so silly I have no objection. There is no way that this child can be raised gender neutral. The cultural forces, for better and worse, and the base genetic drives will completely overwhelm any good or silly intention for neutrality.
Actually, the biggest surprise to me is that parents who already have a child would still think that the base sexual drive can be neutered. As Ray Kinsella said, "...we're dealing with primal forces of nature..." (extra credit movie quote). I still have the image of my son, our youngest, showing up for one of his sister's birthday parties, one boy in a sea of girls. They had all their American Girl dolls. He ran upstairs, came back with his Darth Vader figurine, and sat still for as long as he could. Unfortunately, some of the American Girls did blow up later in the party ...
The link to the story is here:
http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/05/24/genderless-child-creates-media-firestorm-toronto/?test=latestnews
If you have nothing better to do, read it and share your thoughts.
A while back I talked about the great divisors of life. I mentioned that actually being alive was probably the most significant, i.e. you are either dead or you are alive. The next most significant divisor is our sexuality. Again, this is a matter not of absolutes, but of most common, and, for most of us, being male or female will be the most significant identifying feature after life/death. It defines who we are, how we respond to relationships, how we introduce ourselves, and how we view all aspects of life. I love how from the beginning our sex is important ranging from the development of tests that can determine the sex of the child (and the never ending discussion of whether to know ahead of time) to the doctor's stereotypical initial birth announcement, "It's a girl (or boy)!"
So I read an article about a Canadian couple who are committed to raising their most recent child with no reference to it's sex. I wish them the best of luck on that one. Normally I'd be concerned about child abuse issues, but this one is so silly I have no objection. There is no way that this child can be raised gender neutral. The cultural forces, for better and worse, and the base genetic drives will completely overwhelm any good or silly intention for neutrality.
Actually, the biggest surprise to me is that parents who already have a child would still think that the base sexual drive can be neutered. As Ray Kinsella said, "...we're dealing with primal forces of nature..." (extra credit movie quote). I still have the image of my son, our youngest, showing up for one of his sister's birthday parties, one boy in a sea of girls. They had all their American Girl dolls. He ran upstairs, came back with his Darth Vader figurine, and sat still for as long as he could. Unfortunately, some of the American Girls did blow up later in the party ...
The link to the story is here:
http://www.foxnews.com/world/2011/05/24/genderless-child-creates-media-firestorm-toronto/?test=latestnews
If you have nothing better to do, read it and share your thoughts.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Lost In Translation
I had a conversation the other day which I had to pass on to you. Obviously, I talk a lot about relationship. I also recognize that there are quite a few definitions for relationship. Apparently this can cause some confusion.
Up here there are quite a few old family names with many branches and members. In fact, I've been told that there is a standing rule that no one who lives north of Sister Bay can date any one else north of Sister Bay. Apparently there was a family reunion a few years back where a husband and wife both received invitations. Separately.
Anyway, trying to keep the names and connections straight is sort of a county-wide pastime. The other day I was talking to a Bob Brainerd about buying some lumber. Part way through our conversation he alluded to his wife having worked for the county Parks Department. Something in my mind clicked and I asked, "Oh, are you related to June Brainerd?"
A horrified look crossed his face and he barked, "No, she's just my wife!" I guess I'll never figure out how they had children ...
Up here there are quite a few old family names with many branches and members. In fact, I've been told that there is a standing rule that no one who lives north of Sister Bay can date any one else north of Sister Bay. Apparently there was a family reunion a few years back where a husband and wife both received invitations. Separately.
Anyway, trying to keep the names and connections straight is sort of a county-wide pastime. The other day I was talking to a Bob Brainerd about buying some lumber. Part way through our conversation he alluded to his wife having worked for the county Parks Department. Something in my mind clicked and I asked, "Oh, are you related to June Brainerd?"
A horrified look crossed his face and he barked, "No, she's just my wife!" I guess I'll never figure out how they had children ...
Saturday, May 21, 2011
That's So Gay
It's interesting how these blog posts form. In this case, it stems from a news article I heard this morning while driving to the landfill. In essence, homosexual men are complaining that "gay" is being increasingly used as a synonym for stupid. As soon as I heard the complaint, I started laughing.
Please note that I am not laughing at the man offended, at gays in general, or at sexuality at large. Neither am I laughing at the kids who have hijacked "gay" for their own purposes and meaning (as silly as this one seems to me).
Instead, as an English/Writer/Word dude, I was laughing at the irony and of the abysmal historical knowledge. All language is in flux. Language, by definition, is a cultural construct. As such, it will change to follow the new-cut riverbed of our meandering social stream. At times, the modification of language and word meaning is fairly logical. At others, it seems quixotic.
The irony here, of course, is that "gay" was usurped from its prior meaning of light-hearted happiness to represent, instead, homo-sexual men. I don't understand that etymological shift, but whatever.
In like fashion, I don't understand the current, typically youthful, use of "gay" to mean stupid or silly or lame or dumb or whatever. I do understand that it represents a continued shift of language and, while I am not likely to use the word as such, I am not going to find it anything other than childish.
This is not to say that there should be no constraints on language. I think it appropriate for there to be a tension between modernity and history. This includes the fact that words do have power and that their power should be respected. I, as an example, try to limit "awesome" to that which is not only spectacular, but to that which is spectacular and God created. If I am going to be in "awe" of something, and since I can't think of a higher emotional state, that word should be limited to creation of the highest order and, by extension, that which created it.
The thing that got to me, I guess, is this. I don't really care whether you are single, married, homo-sexual, bi-sexual, in a polyandrous relationship, celibate or any other of the myriad of sexually expressive constructs. Again, whatever. Up here there is a girl my son's age who is now attending a very good college. Smart kid and very talented in her sport. Her mom and dad are divorced (after 3 kids and 8 years), the mom is the managing partner of a local company and the dad, who does not have a ton of educational experience, works as one of the new employee trainers part time, for her, and goes home to his sugar-daddy each night. As mentioned some posts ago, since it is a small community, everyone knows. Indeed, since it is one of the more significant businesses, almost everyone deals with one or both of them fairly regularly. As far as I know, and this is the important part, no one cares. She is kind but a bit aloof; he is a lot of fun to hang out with but not the most responsible. For both, their sexual choices have a part in developing the persons they are today. However, neither are defined by their sexual expression; their sexual choices are not who they are but simply part of who they are. I like that.
So, when I get someone on the radio telling me that "gay" is a sacred word, insisting that it remain the PC term, and leaning heavily on the insinuation that being hip and modern and accepting and contemporary is all delineated by a reverence of this word, I want to gag. So I laugh instead; if he really was so hip and smart and relevant, he would recognize that "gay" was stolen from an entirely different context, that language is ever changing, and that 20 years from now it will likely mean something entirely different again. Underneath his relatively benign request is an insidious implication for protected status. I decline.
Please note that I am not laughing at the man offended, at gays in general, or at sexuality at large. Neither am I laughing at the kids who have hijacked "gay" for their own purposes and meaning (as silly as this one seems to me).
Instead, as an English/Writer/Word dude, I was laughing at the irony and of the abysmal historical knowledge. All language is in flux. Language, by definition, is a cultural construct. As such, it will change to follow the new-cut riverbed of our meandering social stream. At times, the modification of language and word meaning is fairly logical. At others, it seems quixotic.
The irony here, of course, is that "gay" was usurped from its prior meaning of light-hearted happiness to represent, instead, homo-sexual men. I don't understand that etymological shift, but whatever.
In like fashion, I don't understand the current, typically youthful, use of "gay" to mean stupid or silly or lame or dumb or whatever. I do understand that it represents a continued shift of language and, while I am not likely to use the word as such, I am not going to find it anything other than childish.
This is not to say that there should be no constraints on language. I think it appropriate for there to be a tension between modernity and history. This includes the fact that words do have power and that their power should be respected. I, as an example, try to limit "awesome" to that which is not only spectacular, but to that which is spectacular and God created. If I am going to be in "awe" of something, and since I can't think of a higher emotional state, that word should be limited to creation of the highest order and, by extension, that which created it.
The thing that got to me, I guess, is this. I don't really care whether you are single, married, homo-sexual, bi-sexual, in a polyandrous relationship, celibate or any other of the myriad of sexually expressive constructs. Again, whatever. Up here there is a girl my son's age who is now attending a very good college. Smart kid and very talented in her sport. Her mom and dad are divorced (after 3 kids and 8 years), the mom is the managing partner of a local company and the dad, who does not have a ton of educational experience, works as one of the new employee trainers part time, for her, and goes home to his sugar-daddy each night. As mentioned some posts ago, since it is a small community, everyone knows. Indeed, since it is one of the more significant businesses, almost everyone deals with one or both of them fairly regularly. As far as I know, and this is the important part, no one cares. She is kind but a bit aloof; he is a lot of fun to hang out with but not the most responsible. For both, their sexual choices have a part in developing the persons they are today. However, neither are defined by their sexual expression; their sexual choices are not who they are but simply part of who they are. I like that.
So, when I get someone on the radio telling me that "gay" is a sacred word, insisting that it remain the PC term, and leaning heavily on the insinuation that being hip and modern and accepting and contemporary is all delineated by a reverence of this word, I want to gag. So I laugh instead; if he really was so hip and smart and relevant, he would recognize that "gay" was stolen from an entirely different context, that language is ever changing, and that 20 years from now it will likely mean something entirely different again. Underneath his relatively benign request is an insidious implication for protected status. I decline.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Boats, Water, and Swimming
We got the boat in the water. It has been a story of fits and starts. To start with, last fall I had Lee drop it at my house so I could do some work on it. However, this spring has been so cold, windy, and wet that I never did get the time to attack any of the cosmetic things I wanted done.
So, a week or so ago, I put the water impeller and tubing and plugs back in place, re-lubed the lower unit, and fired it up. It started easily. It also leaked easily. I must have had a section of the head which didn’t drain well last fall and the head and corresponding manifold section had splits from freezing.
After talking to Lee I decided to just try JB Weld on the splits and that seemed to work. So Lee stopped by one morning and we loaded it up and brought it down to the docks. Again it fired right up and now didn’t leak. However, since it started up so easily at home, I had never run it long or tried it through its RPM range. Now, down at the dock, even when warmed up, it wouldn’t idle. As soon as I throttled down to anything under 800 RPMs, it just choked out and died.
Lee popped the gas up while holding down the carb air intake to try to create more vacuum to suck out any sludge, and, while it helped some, the problem largely remained. We managed to slide it into reverse and off the trailer and over to one of the slips. Over the next few days I ran the boat a few times and even did a superficial carburetor cleaning, but never really got it fixed.
By now it would idle low enough to safely shift, though and we did get out last Sunday for a few hours. Then, on Monday, I got the call that the slip spaces needed clearing out and that I needed to get the boat out to the mooring. This boat hadn’t been on that mooring so I loaded up the ground tackle I needed and punched through the wind to our mooring spot. However, once there, I found that the guy who stripped the buoys in the fall and re-installed them in the spring had completely messed up hanging it and there was no way I would be able to fix it in those swells.
So we motored back to the dock, explained our frustration, left the boat in the spare slip, and waited for a calmer day. By noon yesterday the wind had slowed some and shifted some and out we went again. This time things went quite well and we both straitened the buoy out and got the main hawser and back ups set properly.
With everything in order, Jen and I went back one more time to the dock, dropped her off, loaded the kayak, and went back to the mooring solo. It’s a good setup and it worked well even single-handedly. After I clipped on to the mooring, I threw the kayak over the edge and tied it to one of the back cleats. I then shut down the boat and grabbed a few ropes that I wanted to bring back home.
Unfortunately, one of those ropes was identical to the line I was using to tie the kayak. The end result of that identity crisis was that I looked up to see the kayak quietly floating away. I waited for 5 seconds to comprehend the limits of my choices, stripped down, and dove into to water that I knew would be cold. In reality, cold would have been an improvement. I swam as fast as I could, got the kayak and swam it back to the boat. I scrambled back on board, double tied the kayak, and toweled off. I flipped the batteries back on and checked the gauges. The water temperature was 42 degrees. Feeling what I believe is referred to as refreshed, I finished shutting the boat down, slid into the kayak, and paddled back to the dock. Problems and misadventures aside, it’s good to be back on the water.
So, a week or so ago, I put the water impeller and tubing and plugs back in place, re-lubed the lower unit, and fired it up. It started easily. It also leaked easily. I must have had a section of the head which didn’t drain well last fall and the head and corresponding manifold section had splits from freezing.
After talking to Lee I decided to just try JB Weld on the splits and that seemed to work. So Lee stopped by one morning and we loaded it up and brought it down to the docks. Again it fired right up and now didn’t leak. However, since it started up so easily at home, I had never run it long or tried it through its RPM range. Now, down at the dock, even when warmed up, it wouldn’t idle. As soon as I throttled down to anything under 800 RPMs, it just choked out and died.
Lee popped the gas up while holding down the carb air intake to try to create more vacuum to suck out any sludge, and, while it helped some, the problem largely remained. We managed to slide it into reverse and off the trailer and over to one of the slips. Over the next few days I ran the boat a few times and even did a superficial carburetor cleaning, but never really got it fixed.
By now it would idle low enough to safely shift, though and we did get out last Sunday for a few hours. Then, on Monday, I got the call that the slip spaces needed clearing out and that I needed to get the boat out to the mooring. This boat hadn’t been on that mooring so I loaded up the ground tackle I needed and punched through the wind to our mooring spot. However, once there, I found that the guy who stripped the buoys in the fall and re-installed them in the spring had completely messed up hanging it and there was no way I would be able to fix it in those swells.
So we motored back to the dock, explained our frustration, left the boat in the spare slip, and waited for a calmer day. By noon yesterday the wind had slowed some and shifted some and out we went again. This time things went quite well and we both straitened the buoy out and got the main hawser and back ups set properly.
With everything in order, Jen and I went back one more time to the dock, dropped her off, loaded the kayak, and went back to the mooring solo. It’s a good setup and it worked well even single-handedly. After I clipped on to the mooring, I threw the kayak over the edge and tied it to one of the back cleats. I then shut down the boat and grabbed a few ropes that I wanted to bring back home.
Unfortunately, one of those ropes was identical to the line I was using to tie the kayak. The end result of that identity crisis was that I looked up to see the kayak quietly floating away. I waited for 5 seconds to comprehend the limits of my choices, stripped down, and dove into to water that I knew would be cold. In reality, cold would have been an improvement. I swam as fast as I could, got the kayak and swam it back to the boat. I scrambled back on board, double tied the kayak, and toweled off. I flipped the batteries back on and checked the gauges. The water temperature was 42 degrees. Feeling what I believe is referred to as refreshed, I finished shutting the boat down, slid into the kayak, and paddled back to the dock. Problems and misadventures aside, it’s good to be back on the water.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Looking Forward To Going Upstairs
We had two nice days in a row. Unfortunately, they occurred last week and it was the only time this year that we have had two nice days in a row. Today was wet, cold, and windy. I look forward to more soft, sweet days of summer warmth and languorous evenings. Not only are they excellent in and of themselves, but they bring the opportunity to go upstairs.
Upstairs, for us, since we live in a one story house, is the roof of the north wing. That portion of the house has a 1:4 single pitch roof. We have a ladder that permanently stays leaned against the east side, the low side, of that roof. Once up and on, it's quite easy to walk around but I also made a small platform of inverted angle which provides a flat deck large enough for a few people to sit. This is our upstairs.
I love to take my cup up in the morning and feel the dual warmth of coffee and rising sun. In the mid-day it provides an occasional nap spot or meteorological station to watch the storm clouds form. In the evening and into the night it is best used as a point from which to bid the day adieu and watch the stars find their stage marks.
Today it is too cold, too wet, too windy. Tomorrow will likely also prove poor reason for use. But next week ... next week holds the hint of promise and the forecast of days of sufficient loveliness to beckon us upstairs to the mystery of a world fourteen feet above ours.
Upstairs, for us, since we live in a one story house, is the roof of the north wing. That portion of the house has a 1:4 single pitch roof. We have a ladder that permanently stays leaned against the east side, the low side, of that roof. Once up and on, it's quite easy to walk around but I also made a small platform of inverted angle which provides a flat deck large enough for a few people to sit. This is our upstairs.
I love to take my cup up in the morning and feel the dual warmth of coffee and rising sun. In the mid-day it provides an occasional nap spot or meteorological station to watch the storm clouds form. In the evening and into the night it is best used as a point from which to bid the day adieu and watch the stars find their stage marks.
Today it is too cold, too wet, too windy. Tomorrow will likely also prove poor reason for use. But next week ... next week holds the hint of promise and the forecast of days of sufficient loveliness to beckon us upstairs to the mystery of a world fourteen feet above ours.
Friday, May 13, 2011
What To Watch?
We turned off our TV. Well, actually, we didn't turn off our TV but we did discontinue our Direct TV subscription. By extension, since we don't get a conventional signal up here, we, de facto, turned off our TV.
There are a number of reasons we did this. First of all, it is economically duplicative. Between Hulu, Netflix, the local library, and other internet sources, broadcast TV is largely reproducible. The other reason is the first.
The explanation of this incongruity is found in the reasons we watch TV. For Jen and me, broadcast TV serves three very specific purposes. First, it provides local information via newscasts including weather information. Second, it allows us to watch the one series TV show we follow (that's a partial tease; that show is likely a near-future blog subject). Finally, it provides a source of distraction.
The last is the largest reason we shut it down. Easy distraction is one of my nemisiseseses (as Dwight Schrute would say) and that thing directly addressed during Lent. I guess this is one of those cut-off-the-hand-that causes- you -to-sin sort of things.
Regarding our followed TV show, Hulu has it the next morning with fewer commercials and the ability to watch on our schedule. And, since early morning tends to include some stupor and coffee filled time anyway, why not watch it then as opposed to the more usable time of the evening?
Local news is quite similar. I can get any of the local TV channel's information from their respective websites. In addition, I remember my Dad telling me something years ago which just stuck. I asked how he kept his desk so clean and he told me that each day presented more new issues than that to which he could reasonably respond. He went on to explain that he had developed both the sense and the habit to know which requests where legitimate and those which were merely the output of someone's angst de jour. Those which appeared to be of the latter sort were set aside for a deliberate period of time. If the issue never surfaced again, the matter was discarded. If it came back, which rarely happened, it was dealt with at that time. I want to remember that he estimated that over 1/4 of the stuff that crossed his desk went into that file set for non-legitimate issues.
I think that a lot of our news, especially in this 24 hour news cycle world, fits this quality. It may seem important at the moment but, when viewed from a historical perspective of even a few days, it is shown as more gossip than anything else. In any case, missing the news for a few days is an effective filter since anything worth knowing will be still around a few days from now. So, for me, I find that the lack of news both morning and night is actually giving me a more balanced overview. And I love following the news ...
Our experiment (for such it is) of dropping TV reminds me a little of the movie Overboard. In it, a rich brat of a woman, via the movie magic of amnesia, ends up spending 3 months or so living and believing that she is the wife of a working class construction dude with 3 kids. After she regains her memory and social position, her butler counsels her by pointing out that she has been given the rare gift of having truly experienced two dramatically different lives. What she does with that knowledge is her choice.
I don't know what I'll do long term. It would be hard to miss the Packer's games in the fall. And the winter evenings are a lot longer than the spring and summer. And I truly like to watch TV. But my real point here is to encourage you to not just think about things and imagine things (which is already far more preferable than just existing in default mode), but to actually effect a change and live there for a while. Experiential knowledge is far more real than intellectual investigation by itself. And I am not talking about TV, but about everything. Shake it up. Try something different. Take something on. Give something up. Most of the things we use to fill our lives are easily obtained and removed. You have little to lose. Experience the change. Then decide how to live. No rules, no guilt, and no one looking over your shoulder. Claim your life for yourself.
There are a number of reasons we did this. First of all, it is economically duplicative. Between Hulu, Netflix, the local library, and other internet sources, broadcast TV is largely reproducible. The other reason is the first.
The explanation of this incongruity is found in the reasons we watch TV. For Jen and me, broadcast TV serves three very specific purposes. First, it provides local information via newscasts including weather information. Second, it allows us to watch the one series TV show we follow (that's a partial tease; that show is likely a near-future blog subject). Finally, it provides a source of distraction.
The last is the largest reason we shut it down. Easy distraction is one of my nemisiseseses (as Dwight Schrute would say) and that thing directly addressed during Lent. I guess this is one of those cut-off-the-hand-that causes- you -to-sin sort of things.
Regarding our followed TV show, Hulu has it the next morning with fewer commercials and the ability to watch on our schedule. And, since early morning tends to include some stupor and coffee filled time anyway, why not watch it then as opposed to the more usable time of the evening?
Local news is quite similar. I can get any of the local TV channel's information from their respective websites. In addition, I remember my Dad telling me something years ago which just stuck. I asked how he kept his desk so clean and he told me that each day presented more new issues than that to which he could reasonably respond. He went on to explain that he had developed both the sense and the habit to know which requests where legitimate and those which were merely the output of someone's angst de jour. Those which appeared to be of the latter sort were set aside for a deliberate period of time. If the issue never surfaced again, the matter was discarded. If it came back, which rarely happened, it was dealt with at that time. I want to remember that he estimated that over 1/4 of the stuff that crossed his desk went into that file set for non-legitimate issues.
I think that a lot of our news, especially in this 24 hour news cycle world, fits this quality. It may seem important at the moment but, when viewed from a historical perspective of even a few days, it is shown as more gossip than anything else. In any case, missing the news for a few days is an effective filter since anything worth knowing will be still around a few days from now. So, for me, I find that the lack of news both morning and night is actually giving me a more balanced overview. And I love following the news ...
Our experiment (for such it is) of dropping TV reminds me a little of the movie Overboard. In it, a rich brat of a woman, via the movie magic of amnesia, ends up spending 3 months or so living and believing that she is the wife of a working class construction dude with 3 kids. After she regains her memory and social position, her butler counsels her by pointing out that she has been given the rare gift of having truly experienced two dramatically different lives. What she does with that knowledge is her choice.
I don't know what I'll do long term. It would be hard to miss the Packer's games in the fall. And the winter evenings are a lot longer than the spring and summer. And I truly like to watch TV. But my real point here is to encourage you to not just think about things and imagine things (which is already far more preferable than just existing in default mode), but to actually effect a change and live there for a while. Experiential knowledge is far more real than intellectual investigation by itself. And I am not talking about TV, but about everything. Shake it up. Try something different. Take something on. Give something up. Most of the things we use to fill our lives are easily obtained and removed. You have little to lose. Experience the change. Then decide how to live. No rules, no guilt, and no one looking over your shoulder. Claim your life for yourself.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Happy Mother's Day!
After today, I wish that every day was Mother's Day. Gorgeous, sunny, quiet, and all together lovely. We had a surprise church service yesterday afternoon, so today didn't even include that commitment. It did start out a little bleary eyed, however, since we went to the drive-in movie theater last night and actually stayed for both features. In truth, I do not remember the last time I stayed out that late.
Today we went and had breakfast at The Cookery and then walked around town and down to the beach and docks. From there we went home, took care of chores, and planted some lilac bushes which were Jen's mother's day gift. Once done we made lunch and headed out on the boat for Adventure Island and then to Chamber's Island. We both actually fell asleep after lunch. It was wonderful.
By late afternoon we were back home and I made a salad and grilled two rib eye steaks on the grill. A simple dinner but excellent especially when combined with the remainder of a gift bottle of Primus, a multi-grape blend from Chile. Apparently the original grape roots came from France in the early or mid 1800's and, after the French vines got clobbered by some mold or something 50 years later, the French actually bought some root stock back and rebuilt their vineyards. However, one grape was never reintroduced but did remain in Chile. That grape is relatively indifferent as a solo grape but makes for an excellent blender; the same idiosyncrasies that prevent it from starring on its own add delightful differences to a blend. In any case this bottle, a 2007, was one of those fun wines which just roll out flavor. 30 seconds after a swig, you are still tasting things not present immediately. Highly recommended and a nice companion to the steak.
But the thing I really enjoy about Mother's Day is that component nearest to me, namely "mother-of-my-children dayness". That a little awkward, but the idea is this; the primacy of my relationship shifted from being my parent's child to being my wife's husband about 25 years ago. So, with all due respect to my own mother, "mother" to me first brings the image of Jen as she is the mother most immediately in my life. However, of course, she is not my mother. But, the fact of her motherhood to our kids only reinforces her status as my wife. To put it simply, were she not my wife, she would likely not be my children's mother.
So I reflect on her status as wife (and by extension, mother). And what I find delightful are the components of woman/wife/mother which are intrinsically different (thank God) and which are un-ascertainable to me as man/husband/father.
In Genesis 2, God looks around and finds no "helper" for Adam. Unfortunately, the beauty of the hierarchical truth found in that comment and in God's solution has been frantically twisted and successfully hijacked for confusion and evil for most of the Christian history.
But truth is truth, and there is a profound truth here hidden from English translations. It is, simply, this; in almost every other instance when that same Hebrew word is used in the Old Testament, it refers to God as our 'helper'. How awesome is it, how profound a calling and purpose, how high a standard is set when God himself sees that human relationship is unfulfilled without the presence of women and refers to their absence in the same term used to identify his aspect as our helper? Women carry in their created marrow the image of God as help to our need. Very cool. Thank God for women and Happy Mother's Day.
Today we went and had breakfast at The Cookery and then walked around town and down to the beach and docks. From there we went home, took care of chores, and planted some lilac bushes which were Jen's mother's day gift. Once done we made lunch and headed out on the boat for Adventure Island and then to Chamber's Island. We both actually fell asleep after lunch. It was wonderful.
By late afternoon we were back home and I made a salad and grilled two rib eye steaks on the grill. A simple dinner but excellent especially when combined with the remainder of a gift bottle of Primus, a multi-grape blend from Chile. Apparently the original grape roots came from France in the early or mid 1800's and, after the French vines got clobbered by some mold or something 50 years later, the French actually bought some root stock back and rebuilt their vineyards. However, one grape was never reintroduced but did remain in Chile. That grape is relatively indifferent as a solo grape but makes for an excellent blender; the same idiosyncrasies that prevent it from starring on its own add delightful differences to a blend. In any case this bottle, a 2007, was one of those fun wines which just roll out flavor. 30 seconds after a swig, you are still tasting things not present immediately. Highly recommended and a nice companion to the steak.
But the thing I really enjoy about Mother's Day is that component nearest to me, namely "mother-of-my-children dayness". That a little awkward, but the idea is this; the primacy of my relationship shifted from being my parent's child to being my wife's husband about 25 years ago. So, with all due respect to my own mother, "mother" to me first brings the image of Jen as she is the mother most immediately in my life. However, of course, she is not my mother. But, the fact of her motherhood to our kids only reinforces her status as my wife. To put it simply, were she not my wife, she would likely not be my children's mother.
So I reflect on her status as wife (and by extension, mother). And what I find delightful are the components of woman/wife/mother which are intrinsically different (thank God) and which are un-ascertainable to me as man/husband/father.
In Genesis 2, God looks around and finds no "helper" for Adam. Unfortunately, the beauty of the hierarchical truth found in that comment and in God's solution has been frantically twisted and successfully hijacked for confusion and evil for most of the Christian history.
But truth is truth, and there is a profound truth here hidden from English translations. It is, simply, this; in almost every other instance when that same Hebrew word is used in the Old Testament, it refers to God as our 'helper'. How awesome is it, how profound a calling and purpose, how high a standard is set when God himself sees that human relationship is unfulfilled without the presence of women and refers to their absence in the same term used to identify his aspect as our helper? Women carry in their created marrow the image of God as help to our need. Very cool. Thank God for women and Happy Mother's Day.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
My Widest Regret
Today was delightful, sunny, quiet, fairly warm, and very spring-like. The projects on which I worked were frustrating, however. It seemed that everything I did took care of the issue needed, but also revealed a problem hidden beneath the original. Caring for the second revealed a third, etc... I think I would have found the day frustrating were it not for the people with whom I had contact in trying to complete the tasks at hand.
This evening, by the way, we had a simple peasant style stew with browned ground beef, and great oversized chunks of vegetables poking above the bowl rim with thin slices of Swiss cheese and a wine that I bought a few months back and haven't gotten around to trying. The wine was a 2005 Vino Nobile Di Montepulciano from the Corte Alla Flora vineyards (Italian). It is a 3 grape wine and we really enjoyed it. It presents from crisp and clean on the front end to earthy and substantial on the back. I kind of thought of a Chianti but it is more sophisticated, both thinner and taller. Not an everyday wine for me, and definitely beyond our simple dinner, but it would be great with anything from an intensely flavorful pasta to a filet mignon and I recommend it.
One of the projects for the day was to finish getting the boat ready to drop in and to clean some of the remnants of projects long planned and long forgotten from the area by the boat so that the trailer can more easily approach. And moving that stuff one more time, without a definite need for it, and looking around at all the other stuff I have accumulated over the years brought me up hard.The truth is that I have acquired and collected stuff over the years as I knew that someday I would find a use for it. In addition, I have taken on innumerable projects under the guise of living a full and well purposed life.
While I have learned much from the handful of projects which I actually took from imagination to reality, I have more frequently obtained parts of the project without ever proceeding with any level of completion. So now I look around my yard and see, quite frankly, a mess. For a while I had storage a mile a way, but that land sold and I needed to move the collection out. As a storage unit for all my false starts would need to be barn big, the only realistic option was to move everything here.
So I am faced with a daily reminder of my varied interests and, at times, convince myself that it shows a richness of interest and even a quality of intellectual pursuit. But I kid myself. What is shown instead is a life habit of taking on projects for distraction's sake. Somewhere along the road I decided that frantic busyness was the same as a rich quality of life. In place of experiencing some things deeply, I experienced many things shallowly. This I regret. While there is time enough in the week to do anything you want, there is not enough time in the week to do everything you want. I think if my yard were more empty, my life would be less. It is good to learn new skills and take on new challenges and be useful and engaged with mind and hand. I need to clear out and start with a new paradigm of that which is worth my time. But how do I get rid of all this cool stuff?
This evening, by the way, we had a simple peasant style stew with browned ground beef, and great oversized chunks of vegetables poking above the bowl rim with thin slices of Swiss cheese and a wine that I bought a few months back and haven't gotten around to trying. The wine was a 2005 Vino Nobile Di Montepulciano from the Corte Alla Flora vineyards (Italian). It is a 3 grape wine and we really enjoyed it. It presents from crisp and clean on the front end to earthy and substantial on the back. I kind of thought of a Chianti but it is more sophisticated, both thinner and taller. Not an everyday wine for me, and definitely beyond our simple dinner, but it would be great with anything from an intensely flavorful pasta to a filet mignon and I recommend it.
One of the projects for the day was to finish getting the boat ready to drop in and to clean some of the remnants of projects long planned and long forgotten from the area by the boat so that the trailer can more easily approach. And moving that stuff one more time, without a definite need for it, and looking around at all the other stuff I have accumulated over the years brought me up hard.The truth is that I have acquired and collected stuff over the years as I knew that someday I would find a use for it. In addition, I have taken on innumerable projects under the guise of living a full and well purposed life.
While I have learned much from the handful of projects which I actually took from imagination to reality, I have more frequently obtained parts of the project without ever proceeding with any level of completion. So now I look around my yard and see, quite frankly, a mess. For a while I had storage a mile a way, but that land sold and I needed to move the collection out. As a storage unit for all my false starts would need to be barn big, the only realistic option was to move everything here.
So I am faced with a daily reminder of my varied interests and, at times, convince myself that it shows a richness of interest and even a quality of intellectual pursuit. But I kid myself. What is shown instead is a life habit of taking on projects for distraction's sake. Somewhere along the road I decided that frantic busyness was the same as a rich quality of life. In place of experiencing some things deeply, I experienced many things shallowly. This I regret. While there is time enough in the week to do anything you want, there is not enough time in the week to do everything you want. I think if my yard were more empty, my life would be less. It is good to learn new skills and take on new challenges and be useful and engaged with mind and hand. I need to clear out and start with a new paradigm of that which is worth my time. But how do I get rid of all this cool stuff?
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Happy Birthday!
It has been a busy last few days but it's time to get back to writing. Today was an interesting variety of events book-ended by music. We had a lot of music this morning in church; it was packed and people sang! The middle of the day included getting blown across the county, selling Lars' trashed Benz, fighting with a stupid music transcription program (how is it that computer programs can be the most patience trying events around?), and taking a walk at the highland meadow section of the state park. This evening we had our first rehearsal for the choral portions of Bach's 77th Cantata. Man, it's fun to sing good music ...
Last night we had a small, day-late birthday party with sweet-and-sour meatballs on Basmati rice, a garbage salad with one of everything and a glazed pecan dressing. And left over grilled shrimp from the night before and some of the good chips and some cheese curds and some good Cabernet and two kinds of carrot cake of which Pam's was better.
The night before Jen and I had our own birthday party for me with grilled shrimp and not a whole lot else. It was interesting to have my first birthday ever with only one other person celebrating. It was a quiet, lovely, cold, rainy evening, a delightful end to a day that started with the serenade of Sandhill Cranes bubbling landing instructions as they glided down to the neighbors field.
One of the most poignant things about my birthday, however, were two moments of pure nostalgia. Both, coincidentally, are about my Dad. The first was earlier in the day when I was working on getting the boat ready to drop in. I needed to replace the brass drain plugs removed last fall to drain the manifolds and winterize the boat. Because of the space constraints at the back side of the engine, no socket wrench would fit and I need a regular box wrench instead. I ran into the house, flipped open the top part of the toolbox where I keep my wrenches and grabbed the first 7/8" wrench I found. While I now have a couple of sets, I once had only one. The wrench I grabbed was from that original set. And my Dad bought me that set at Fleet Farm about 30 years ago. I remember being there with him getting some other stuff and seeing the set on sale. It was my birthday and he asked me if I'd like it. I did and I still do.
Later in the evening, Jen gave me a present of a small mixer-blender appliance designed for smoothies or whatever in a one-serving, easily cleaned size. She washed it and I made a quick protein shake. After I hit the pulse button, though, I was transported back about a million years.
Somewhere in my ancient history, my Dad would cut our hair. That stage didn't last long, so I must have been pretty young, maybe 3 or 4. I'd sit on a high stool and he would use an old-school electric clippers to trim. Beside the nervous buzzing of the tool, I remember best the smell of the heated oil that protected and lubricated the blades. For whatever reason, the new motor of the gifted blender, heated through use and starting it's burn in stage, had the identical smell to that old electric trimmer and, for a couple of moments, I was sitting in some kitchen or basement or hallway, shivering in my underwear, feeling my Dad's arm holding me from tipping off, and smelling burned, light-weight oil while the soft, shivery fluff of cut hair tickled down my back.
Last night we had a small, day-late birthday party with sweet-and-sour meatballs on Basmati rice, a garbage salad with one of everything and a glazed pecan dressing. And left over grilled shrimp from the night before and some of the good chips and some cheese curds and some good Cabernet and two kinds of carrot cake of which Pam's was better.
The night before Jen and I had our own birthday party for me with grilled shrimp and not a whole lot else. It was interesting to have my first birthday ever with only one other person celebrating. It was a quiet, lovely, cold, rainy evening, a delightful end to a day that started with the serenade of Sandhill Cranes bubbling landing instructions as they glided down to the neighbors field.
One of the most poignant things about my birthday, however, were two moments of pure nostalgia. Both, coincidentally, are about my Dad. The first was earlier in the day when I was working on getting the boat ready to drop in. I needed to replace the brass drain plugs removed last fall to drain the manifolds and winterize the boat. Because of the space constraints at the back side of the engine, no socket wrench would fit and I need a regular box wrench instead. I ran into the house, flipped open the top part of the toolbox where I keep my wrenches and grabbed the first 7/8" wrench I found. While I now have a couple of sets, I once had only one. The wrench I grabbed was from that original set. And my Dad bought me that set at Fleet Farm about 30 years ago. I remember being there with him getting some other stuff and seeing the set on sale. It was my birthday and he asked me if I'd like it. I did and I still do.
Later in the evening, Jen gave me a present of a small mixer-blender appliance designed for smoothies or whatever in a one-serving, easily cleaned size. She washed it and I made a quick protein shake. After I hit the pulse button, though, I was transported back about a million years.
Somewhere in my ancient history, my Dad would cut our hair. That stage didn't last long, so I must have been pretty young, maybe 3 or 4. I'd sit on a high stool and he would use an old-school electric clippers to trim. Beside the nervous buzzing of the tool, I remember best the smell of the heated oil that protected and lubricated the blades. For whatever reason, the new motor of the gifted blender, heated through use and starting it's burn in stage, had the identical smell to that old electric trimmer and, for a couple of moments, I was sitting in some kitchen or basement or hallway, shivering in my underwear, feeling my Dad's arm holding me from tipping off, and smelling burned, light-weight oil while the soft, shivery fluff of cut hair tickled down my back.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Just A Fun Small Town Story
The store was closed yesterday so Jen and I decided to jump on the day and make the most of only the second dry, warm day this spring. Of course, by the time we woke our way through a couple of cups of coffee, checked the weather and emails, practiced our French, and tried one last fix on the dying water heater, it was no longer all that early.
Then the phone rang and a friend called and asked if we could drop off the bikes we had been storing for her. And we decided to go to the Y and work out. And take showers as long as they had hot water which we didn't have. And we decided to go open Pam and Kevin's place for them and leave some flowers for them. And that meant we might as well take a circuitous route to the Y.
So we drove down to the grocery store, bought a few groceries and some flowers, decided to drive past the new marina, from there went to drop off the bikes, then to open the condo and finally to the Y.
We had a nice time working for the rest of the day clearing part of the field, making a kayak rack for the truck, and cleaning the boat in preparation for dropping it in the water. In the evening we ran down to Pam and Kevin's, watch the sunset with some good friends and better wine (or maybe I have that backwards), and got back home in time to shut the chickens in before the last light dropped out of the west. In fact, the only unsettling thing was that, when we got back from the Y, I noticed that there were tire prints in the drive that were not mine. Yes, I am wound a little tight.
This morning, I couldn't find my wallet. I actually don't carry it on me much, but I always know where it is. I mentioned to Jen to watch for it, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. In replaying the prior days events, I knew I had taken it to pay for the groceries, but I didn't have it now and the only last place it could be was between the cushions in the truck. But it wasn't there either.
I mentally retraced my steps and remembered one difference. The grocery store we go to insists on carrying your groceries to your car (I'm not joking). This time, though, instead of carrying them, the clerk brought them out in the cart. When we got to the side of the truck I realized that I really didn't want them in the front as we had plenty of other stuff up there, but, instead, wanted the bag handles tied and the bags put in back. I remembered grabbing the bags to tie and move and realized that I had probably put my wallet down (I never carry it in my pocket) in order to do that and had forgotten to grab it again. So I figured I would call the grocery store and see if they had it.
By this time I was driving over to open the store. As I walked in the back door, the phone was ringing. It was the clerk from another store around the corner. She had seen Jen's car go by and wanted to call right away to let me know that she had my wallet. I started laughing, and she went on to tell me the story. Apparently, I did indeed put my wallet down somewhere on the truck. When I turned the sharp corner to turn down to the marina, it slipped off and landed on the road.
The county happened to be running the street sweeper in town and found it as the ground there way around that corner. The sweeper driver gave it to his boss who took off and drove over to our place to give it back to me. When I wasn't there he drove over to the store only to find out that the store was closed on Mondays. But he knew the store around the corner was open and so he drove there and gave it to her to give to me. She had actually already called yesterday, just in case we stopped in but then, as mentioned, quickly called again when she saw Jen's car go by. And, most importantly, now I know why there were tire prints in my driveway.
Then the phone rang and a friend called and asked if we could drop off the bikes we had been storing for her. And we decided to go to the Y and work out. And take showers as long as they had hot water which we didn't have. And we decided to go open Pam and Kevin's place for them and leave some flowers for them. And that meant we might as well take a circuitous route to the Y.
So we drove down to the grocery store, bought a few groceries and some flowers, decided to drive past the new marina, from there went to drop off the bikes, then to open the condo and finally to the Y.
We had a nice time working for the rest of the day clearing part of the field, making a kayak rack for the truck, and cleaning the boat in preparation for dropping it in the water. In the evening we ran down to Pam and Kevin's, watch the sunset with some good friends and better wine (or maybe I have that backwards), and got back home in time to shut the chickens in before the last light dropped out of the west. In fact, the only unsettling thing was that, when we got back from the Y, I noticed that there were tire prints in the drive that were not mine. Yes, I am wound a little tight.
This morning, I couldn't find my wallet. I actually don't carry it on me much, but I always know where it is. I mentioned to Jen to watch for it, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. In replaying the prior days events, I knew I had taken it to pay for the groceries, but I didn't have it now and the only last place it could be was between the cushions in the truck. But it wasn't there either.
I mentally retraced my steps and remembered one difference. The grocery store we go to insists on carrying your groceries to your car (I'm not joking). This time, though, instead of carrying them, the clerk brought them out in the cart. When we got to the side of the truck I realized that I really didn't want them in the front as we had plenty of other stuff up there, but, instead, wanted the bag handles tied and the bags put in back. I remembered grabbing the bags to tie and move and realized that I had probably put my wallet down (I never carry it in my pocket) in order to do that and had forgotten to grab it again. So I figured I would call the grocery store and see if they had it.
By this time I was driving over to open the store. As I walked in the back door, the phone was ringing. It was the clerk from another store around the corner. She had seen Jen's car go by and wanted to call right away to let me know that she had my wallet. I started laughing, and she went on to tell me the story. Apparently, I did indeed put my wallet down somewhere on the truck. When I turned the sharp corner to turn down to the marina, it slipped off and landed on the road.
The county happened to be running the street sweeper in town and found it as the ground there way around that corner. The sweeper driver gave it to his boss who took off and drove over to our place to give it back to me. When I wasn't there he drove over to the store only to find out that the store was closed on Mondays. But he knew the store around the corner was open and so he drove there and gave it to her to give to me. She had actually already called yesterday, just in case we stopped in but then, as mentioned, quickly called again when she saw Jen's car go by. And, most importantly, now I know why there were tire prints in my driveway.
Monday, April 25, 2011
A Time For Reflection
Easter has come. The celebration has subsided. However, there is one thing of a more serious nature that remains to be done. Before the power of the rising has been diluted with life's realities, take some time for reflection.
A while back, at the beginning of the lenten season, I wrote about the power of releasing the control of some issue in your life, a giving back to God what was his to begin with. Now is not the time to revert, but to ponder. What did you give? What did you get? Was it well given or did you struggle? How were you blessed through releasing control? Were you blessed at all? Do you take back that given, permanently release, or modify?
For me it was a struggle. I believe that I did a better job at giving up control of my time and that, mostly, I was blessed by it. When I really effected a release, I was more worry free, happier, and, ultimately, more productive. I don't want to fall into the trap that doing good things is better than contemplation or relaxation, but the area in which I struggled was that of knowing there was work to be done and finding other business to keep me occupied.
The times when I petulantly held on to my desire to escape that which should be done, I struggled. I got defensive, distracted, and self-centered. It also was hard in that I have clung to my time-control for a long time; it is a well ingrained habit.
For me, I need to continue practicing the release of control over my time. I simply do not do as well when I try to control my time as when I give it up and act obediently. I am certainly not as balanced. Going back would be to go backwards.
For others, the return of that given should at least be a source of celebration. I hope, however, that it is even more and that with this reflection each of you find a richer and deeper connection with yourself, your strengths and weakness, with your Lord, and with the path unfolding before you. Through Adam sin entered the world and through Christ redemption. But it's even bigger than that; through Adam sin affected all the world but through Christ, all things are redeemable. The rising brought hope not just for an afterlife, but for redemption de jour as well.
A while back, at the beginning of the lenten season, I wrote about the power of releasing the control of some issue in your life, a giving back to God what was his to begin with. Now is not the time to revert, but to ponder. What did you give? What did you get? Was it well given or did you struggle? How were you blessed through releasing control? Were you blessed at all? Do you take back that given, permanently release, or modify?
For me it was a struggle. I believe that I did a better job at giving up control of my time and that, mostly, I was blessed by it. When I really effected a release, I was more worry free, happier, and, ultimately, more productive. I don't want to fall into the trap that doing good things is better than contemplation or relaxation, but the area in which I struggled was that of knowing there was work to be done and finding other business to keep me occupied.
The times when I petulantly held on to my desire to escape that which should be done, I struggled. I got defensive, distracted, and self-centered. It also was hard in that I have clung to my time-control for a long time; it is a well ingrained habit.
For me, I need to continue practicing the release of control over my time. I simply do not do as well when I try to control my time as when I give it up and act obediently. I am certainly not as balanced. Going back would be to go backwards.
For others, the return of that given should at least be a source of celebration. I hope, however, that it is even more and that with this reflection each of you find a richer and deeper connection with yourself, your strengths and weakness, with your Lord, and with the path unfolding before you. Through Adam sin entered the world and through Christ redemption. But it's even bigger than that; through Adam sin affected all the world but through Christ, all things are redeemable. The rising brought hope not just for an afterlife, but for redemption de jour as well.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Is It For Me?
My mom tells a story that I find charming. Completely coincidentally, it is about me. The story comes from a time when we lived in southern Indiana. I was probably 3.
In the story my mom comes and wakes me up and runs me to the window. Outside the snow is still coming down and there is a light covering of snow on the ground, trees, garage roof, sidewalk, etc... Apparently I stared at it for a while, mesmerized. I then turned to my mom and asked, "Is it for me?"
"Abba, abba, I put my life in your hands." We sang this the other day, a twin statement of Christ's and, imperfectly, ours. Our anxiety at this release is understandable; even Christ himself desired his Father's will so little that he asked for change. But we know the rest of the story.
A practice version, warts and all, of the song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjICVdWX-6g&feature=youtube_gdata
As part of that story I love the almost collegial interchange between Christ and Pilate. Pilate was no idiot. I feel for the guy. He is in an absolutely no win situation. He's not a Jew, so, other than due process and his own conscience, he doesn't really care. Yet the political implications are huge. The Jewish crowd even used his political position to coerce him into acting their way. And I love how Jesus explains to Pilate that given all the events, including scriptural prophecy, Pilate is locked in and Christ even goes so far as to tell him that his sin is less than Judas'. Again, maning-up.
But Christ is killed. We wait, this second day, knowing the promise of tomorrow, but emotion-dulled by the telling for the 1983rd time. What would it be like instead to see for the first time, to be surprised for the first time, to not understand for the first time?
There are times I wish I were still three and standing with my mom by the window. I know I wish for that guilelessness. Would that I could wake tomorrow and hear what happened, and ask, "Is it for me?"
Photo credit: Dennis Ribbens, 2010
In the story my mom comes and wakes me up and runs me to the window. Outside the snow is still coming down and there is a light covering of snow on the ground, trees, garage roof, sidewalk, etc... Apparently I stared at it for a while, mesmerized. I then turned to my mom and asked, "Is it for me?"
"Abba, abba, I put my life in your hands." We sang this the other day, a twin statement of Christ's and, imperfectly, ours. Our anxiety at this release is understandable; even Christ himself desired his Father's will so little that he asked for change. But we know the rest of the story.
A practice version, warts and all, of the song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fjICVdWX-6g&feature=youtube_gdata
As part of that story I love the almost collegial interchange between Christ and Pilate. Pilate was no idiot. I feel for the guy. He is in an absolutely no win situation. He's not a Jew, so, other than due process and his own conscience, he doesn't really care. Yet the political implications are huge. The Jewish crowd even used his political position to coerce him into acting their way. And I love how Jesus explains to Pilate that given all the events, including scriptural prophecy, Pilate is locked in and Christ even goes so far as to tell him that his sin is less than Judas'. Again, maning-up.
But Christ is killed. We wait, this second day, knowing the promise of tomorrow, but emotion-dulled by the telling for the 1983rd time. What would it be like instead to see for the first time, to be surprised for the first time, to not understand for the first time?
There are times I wish I were still three and standing with my mom by the window. I know I wish for that guilelessness. Would that I could wake tomorrow and hear what happened, and ask, "Is it for me?"
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Secrets Of the Divine Brotherhood
There is something profoundly sexual in the Maundy Thursday story. I don't mean sexy sexual, but masculine sexual. Christ is a man. I'll get back to this in a minute as there are multiple elements that need to come together.
Sometimes it is fascinating to watch these blog posts run in and out of life. In this case, yesterday I kind of rambled about friendship. Little did I know that today would bring about a defferent ascpect of friendness.
This morning Jen and I read much of Matthew 26 and I was reminded of the word choice (and ironically reminded given yesterday's post) when Jesus says to Judas, "Friend, do that for which you came." I especially like it that Jesus used excellent grammar.
Then I logged onto my emails and found another from the attorney I mentioned yesterday. Without apologizing, he did back off and provide a direct answer to what was a question that he must have thought was cornering. I found this interesting as my last email to him was along the colloquialism of, "Dude, knock it off", or maybe more formally, "Listen, my friend ..."
But, of course, I did not mean friend at all in the way we usually use it. So I went to the lexicon.
There are three Greek words for friend. One is really a Greek word for man and is almost always used as such. The second is akin to our word friend wherein it suggests an intimacy, knowledge, and mutual care. The third is only used three times and only by Matthew.
The first time it is used is in the story of the workers who fussed after those who worked all day were paid the same as those who only worked one hour. The second is when the king invites people to his wedding but no one comes. So instead the servants gather anyone who wants to come. After they are gathered the king notices one improperly dressed. And the third is when Judas betrays Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.
In the first the landowner says, "Friend, we made a bargain. Why are you now unhappy?" In the second the king says, "Friend, how did you get in here without proper clothes?" Jesus' comment has already been noted.
In the first two instances it doesn't appear that either man knew each other. And while Jesus knew Judas, it wasn't an interaction that should occur between "friends". So Matthew's use of the word can't be that of a collegial acquaintance. Instead, it is in the vein of my challenge to the attorney.
The commonality in each of the examples is that of being called out. Within the relationships men have with each other there is the right to call someone to accountability when one of the rules of relationship are about to be or have been broken. It is simply a last resort warning and, among men, it is understood as right advice. It makes clear that the person about to act has to own his decision. In essence, it is a call to man up.
So, in this context, the word "friend" is code for equal or peer, but also a reminder that this is about relationship and the conduct set which defines acting like a man. And to this extent, Christ's comment is totally male. There are some similar, but ultimately different, cautions used in other human dynamics, but the authority and right and depth of this specific caution is exclusive to the world of man-to-man relationship.
And notice that it is not a threat. This caution is not about consequence but about self determination. It ultimately communicates "Do what you are going to do, but know that you have violated an unspoken rule of how a man should act; whatever decision you make is yours alone."
I fear I am not making my point well, so accept my apologies if I am not being clear. Let me instead give you two references if you want to think more about the idea of a code of conduct that boys learn as they become men and by which men are supposed to act.
First, here is a link to a video of a professional golfer. He had a record setting bad hole, scoring a 16 on a par 4. As it relates here, the point is that he didn't throw a hissy fit, he played by the rules, and he counted all his penalty shots. He sucked, but he was a man.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWTXoNzuk8c
Second, there is a powerful book which I hesitate to recommend. It is written by Norah Vincent and is entitled Self-Made Man. It is not for the faint of heart. In it, Vincent, a very butch lesbian, disguises herself as a man and spends time experiencing life as a man would be treated. She goes through a wide range of emotions, but ultimately comes down to the opinion that there are huge differences between men and women and that the brotherhood of maleness includes a set of behaviors which probably save the world on a regular basis. She also paints a very clear picture of how part of the process of growing up into a man is learning that there are codes of conduct like fair play, winning, strength, and, when necessary, being called out.
She writes in a very direct fashion, is detailed, frequently crude, and, given her sexuality and that of the book, may well be uncomfortable for some. As a sociological study it is fascinating and certainly changed the way I look at human sexuality. And so tonight I celebrate Christ as a man. I love it that he had strength as well as compassion. And I love it that he called out Judas. Dude!
Sometimes it is fascinating to watch these blog posts run in and out of life. In this case, yesterday I kind of rambled about friendship. Little did I know that today would bring about a defferent ascpect of friendness.
This morning Jen and I read much of Matthew 26 and I was reminded of the word choice (and ironically reminded given yesterday's post) when Jesus says to Judas, "Friend, do that for which you came." I especially like it that Jesus used excellent grammar.
Then I logged onto my emails and found another from the attorney I mentioned yesterday. Without apologizing, he did back off and provide a direct answer to what was a question that he must have thought was cornering. I found this interesting as my last email to him was along the colloquialism of, "Dude, knock it off", or maybe more formally, "Listen, my friend ..."
But, of course, I did not mean friend at all in the way we usually use it. So I went to the lexicon.
There are three Greek words for friend. One is really a Greek word for man and is almost always used as such. The second is akin to our word friend wherein it suggests an intimacy, knowledge, and mutual care. The third is only used three times and only by Matthew.
The first time it is used is in the story of the workers who fussed after those who worked all day were paid the same as those who only worked one hour. The second is when the king invites people to his wedding but no one comes. So instead the servants gather anyone who wants to come. After they are gathered the king notices one improperly dressed. And the third is when Judas betrays Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.
In the first the landowner says, "Friend, we made a bargain. Why are you now unhappy?" In the second the king says, "Friend, how did you get in here without proper clothes?" Jesus' comment has already been noted.
In the first two instances it doesn't appear that either man knew each other. And while Jesus knew Judas, it wasn't an interaction that should occur between "friends". So Matthew's use of the word can't be that of a collegial acquaintance. Instead, it is in the vein of my challenge to the attorney.
The commonality in each of the examples is that of being called out. Within the relationships men have with each other there is the right to call someone to accountability when one of the rules of relationship are about to be or have been broken. It is simply a last resort warning and, among men, it is understood as right advice. It makes clear that the person about to act has to own his decision. In essence, it is a call to man up.
So, in this context, the word "friend" is code for equal or peer, but also a reminder that this is about relationship and the conduct set which defines acting like a man. And to this extent, Christ's comment is totally male. There are some similar, but ultimately different, cautions used in other human dynamics, but the authority and right and depth of this specific caution is exclusive to the world of man-to-man relationship.
And notice that it is not a threat. This caution is not about consequence but about self determination. It ultimately communicates "Do what you are going to do, but know that you have violated an unspoken rule of how a man should act; whatever decision you make is yours alone."
I fear I am not making my point well, so accept my apologies if I am not being clear. Let me instead give you two references if you want to think more about the idea of a code of conduct that boys learn as they become men and by which men are supposed to act.
First, here is a link to a video of a professional golfer. He had a record setting bad hole, scoring a 16 on a par 4. As it relates here, the point is that he didn't throw a hissy fit, he played by the rules, and he counted all his penalty shots. He sucked, but he was a man.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWTXoNzuk8c
Second, there is a powerful book which I hesitate to recommend. It is written by Norah Vincent and is entitled Self-Made Man. It is not for the faint of heart. In it, Vincent, a very butch lesbian, disguises herself as a man and spends time experiencing life as a man would be treated. She goes through a wide range of emotions, but ultimately comes down to the opinion that there are huge differences between men and women and that the brotherhood of maleness includes a set of behaviors which probably save the world on a regular basis. She also paints a very clear picture of how part of the process of growing up into a man is learning that there are codes of conduct like fair play, winning, strength, and, when necessary, being called out.
She writes in a very direct fashion, is detailed, frequently crude, and, given her sexuality and that of the book, may well be uncomfortable for some. As a sociological study it is fascinating and certainly changed the way I look at human sexuality. And so tonight I celebrate Christ as a man. I love it that he had strength as well as compassion. And I love it that he called out Judas. Dude!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
What Is A Friend?
I had two experiences today which made me think about relationships. And that made me think of the idea of friends. And that made me think about defining friendship since my personality really likes to block and define and categorize things. And I decided that I don't know.
The first thing that happened is that I had a series of email exchanges with the attorney who handles that portion of the state bar which monitors any outstanding fees. I am in the process of applying to get my law license back and one of the things I need to do is show that my financial house is in order. I know there are monies owed and we have been having a discourse about the amount, timing, and necessity of paying up. What surprised me is the tone of his emails. There is an old joke about 99% of all attorneys giving the rest a bad name and this would tend to fit that trend. It strikes me that it is mutually advantageous to resolve this promptly and equitably. But, and I have noticed this more often than not, lawyers hear that we are in an adversarial system and seem to quickly train themselves to be adversarial pricks right out of the box. Here, we are more colleagues than opponents but still, basic civility is non-existent.
The second thing that happened was that Jen mentioned that one of her sisters stopped by and that they had a lovely time just chatting. There were almost no rules and the conversation just wandered from subject to subject with a freedom she hadn't experienced for a while. i am told that it was lovely. The fact that this is the week we face Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and, thank God, Easter, is also a good reason to ponder both the meaning of relationship and how we are relationally acting. And part of that is friendship.
So I wonder. What is it that defines a friendship? Is it common interests? Compatible personalities? Continued empathy? Physical proximity? Shared experiences? How is it that someone with whom we just clicked initially, frustrates later? Or someone with whom we butted heads becomes a treasure? I don't pretend to be an excellent friend and I am not one who feels the need to have a lot of friends so I am ill suited to advise. But the questions are worth reflection.
I do know this; I count as my friends some whom I see nearly every day. Some I see once or twice a year. Most are a few times a month. The only absolute commonality that I see is that, in each case, the occasion of re-meeting is timeless and the conversation and emotional reaction flows as if never apart. My only other suggestion, for those interested, is to read The Chosen by Chaim Potok and The Human Comedy by William Saroyan. Both are novels that really explore the ideas of friendship and relationship, and, while there are many other excellent reads (since just about every good novel is about relationship) those two have been powerful challenges to me and I recommend them without hesitation.
The first thing that happened is that I had a series of email exchanges with the attorney who handles that portion of the state bar which monitors any outstanding fees. I am in the process of applying to get my law license back and one of the things I need to do is show that my financial house is in order. I know there are monies owed and we have been having a discourse about the amount, timing, and necessity of paying up. What surprised me is the tone of his emails. There is an old joke about 99% of all attorneys giving the rest a bad name and this would tend to fit that trend. It strikes me that it is mutually advantageous to resolve this promptly and equitably. But, and I have noticed this more often than not, lawyers hear that we are in an adversarial system and seem to quickly train themselves to be adversarial pricks right out of the box. Here, we are more colleagues than opponents but still, basic civility is non-existent.
The second thing that happened was that Jen mentioned that one of her sisters stopped by and that they had a lovely time just chatting. There were almost no rules and the conversation just wandered from subject to subject with a freedom she hadn't experienced for a while. i am told that it was lovely. The fact that this is the week we face Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and, thank God, Easter, is also a good reason to ponder both the meaning of relationship and how we are relationally acting. And part of that is friendship.
So I wonder. What is it that defines a friendship? Is it common interests? Compatible personalities? Continued empathy? Physical proximity? Shared experiences? How is it that someone with whom we just clicked initially, frustrates later? Or someone with whom we butted heads becomes a treasure? I don't pretend to be an excellent friend and I am not one who feels the need to have a lot of friends so I am ill suited to advise. But the questions are worth reflection.
I do know this; I count as my friends some whom I see nearly every day. Some I see once or twice a year. Most are a few times a month. The only absolute commonality that I see is that, in each case, the occasion of re-meeting is timeless and the conversation and emotional reaction flows as if never apart. My only other suggestion, for those interested, is to read The Chosen by Chaim Potok and The Human Comedy by William Saroyan. Both are novels that really explore the ideas of friendship and relationship, and, while there are many other excellent reads (since just about every good novel is about relationship) those two have been powerful challenges to me and I recommend them without hesitation.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
So Much With Which To Aquaint You
Actually, that is true. As opposed to the last few days, today I could probably write about a number of things. So I will. Be warned beforehand, these are wildly disparate issues; do not look for some form of continuity.
First of all a wine update. For those who enjoy wine frequently but in modest quantity, buying wine can bring the challenge of how to justify a bottle if you won't drink it relatively promptly. Some box wines really do rise to the challenge of balancing taste and economy. I've already mentioned Bota Box Old Vine Zinfandel. I will now also recommend the Bota Box Riesling for those who prefer a white. Yes, it is a sweeter white, but not intensely so like a Mamartino or Muscato (although those also have their place) but also without that acidity of a Sauvignon Blanc. The thing about a box wine is that it cannot be too categorical as you will be drinking it over a period of days with a variety of foods (or not). So, with a box wine, you are actual looking for a middle ground as opposed to a bottled wine where you are looking for a niche taste. And it's not that there aren't other good boxed wines. Black Box, for instance, rarely is a mistake. But, to be recommended, a wine must be more than acceptable; for it's category, it must be clearly above norm.
One other wine update; I previously mentioned the Clifford Bay 2009 Sauvignon Blanc. I have now picked up 6 bottles. Of those 6, three were truly spectacular and, for the price, the steal of the year. However, the other three were off-colored and ranged from vinegary to rotten. Two I actually returned. The third I threw away after the store owner said that she had taken the last returned bottle home, had consumed it, and had found it delicious. First of all, as to consuming food items returned by a customer, gross (which also suggests that I don't believe she actually did). Second, because of the high rate of skunky wine, I retract my recommendation. By the way, each bad bottle also had seal issues, so maybe it was something specific to a particular run of bottles.
Second, Jen and went to Sturgeon Bay and saw the matinee of "Soul Surfer". Yes, it was a Sunday, but, if you are a cheap bugger and if the weather is annoying you, a matinee is an excellent waste of money. Anyway, I liked it. You probably already know the beginning, middle, and end, but you know the Charlton Heston 10 Commandments also and yet you still watch. Since there really can't be a plot spoiler, the basic line is this. A young, talented surfer loses her left arm to a shark attack. Despite the odds, she both lives and re-learns her surfing skills to become a pro surfer.
It is a softly Christ affirming movie. The family is Christian and their faith plays a role in the plot. I liked it. I am not recommending it as I don't know your tastes, and it is definitely a "type" movie. But if you like a feel good movie with a faith component, you will probably like this one. I usually only tear up in movies when a nice car gets destroyed, but this one got to me a number of times. I remember two times in particular. First was when the youth group leader quoted Jeremiah. I don't exactly know why, but the profession of faith through the public acclamation of scripture always gets me. The second was when the dad had a one-armed surf board prepared for the girl who lost her arm. Must be a dad/daughter thing. I liked it, squishy as it was, and, given that God is in control of all things, must have needed to see it.
One discordant thing that really hit me (regarding the movie) was that, at a deeper level than ever before, I felt really old, like decrepit old. Not a good feeling and I am not sure what that means. And why did God have me be born and live in Wisconsin rather than Hawaii? That can't be right.
Third, there are a number of things for which each of us need to give our parents thanks. In my case, that includes the introduction to Dave Brubeck. I read once that he explained his love of weird rhythm from watching the differing tempo of pumped water drops dripping into cattle watering tubs. Whatever. I love what he has done and how what he has done has done to me. Thanks Mom and Dad.
Finally, in going over the next set of legal filings for my fight with the DOR I re-visited the "delinquent taxpayer" website. I am no longer listed. Why, I am not sure (although, obviously, I agree). I love how the tax man does things without notice. Anyway, in looking up my status, I saw others listed, some of whom I know. It actually made me think of the book, "The Millionaire Next Door". Both are worth reading. The point of the book is that most millionaires live lives of quiet simplicity. It is their understated lifestyle which made them millionaires. The point of the delinquent tax list is to shame. While I did not know that to be the point of the government, I will pass on that for now and simply say this; if you are interested in gossip, don't check it out. Speaking as one who once was, those listed don't need that.
However, just as you may not know that there is a millionaire next door, if you go on the site to be humbled by the fact that someone you may know is fighting to keep face in spite of daunting odds, I encourage you to check it out. The difference in appearance between the millionaire next door and the tax delinquent next door is largely non-existent. Use the information gathered by either of these resources to be non-judgmental. Neither looks that different from yourself and, absent a few life circumstances, neither is different. As I said, it's humbling stuff.
Now, for being a diligent reader, you get a picture cookie from last year, about the same time minus half a month, with a different look than what is out my window right now. Yes, the water is 180' below. And yes, it is that clear.
First of all a wine update. For those who enjoy wine frequently but in modest quantity, buying wine can bring the challenge of how to justify a bottle if you won't drink it relatively promptly. Some box wines really do rise to the challenge of balancing taste and economy. I've already mentioned Bota Box Old Vine Zinfandel. I will now also recommend the Bota Box Riesling for those who prefer a white. Yes, it is a sweeter white, but not intensely so like a Mamartino or Muscato (although those also have their place) but also without that acidity of a Sauvignon Blanc. The thing about a box wine is that it cannot be too categorical as you will be drinking it over a period of days with a variety of foods (or not). So, with a box wine, you are actual looking for a middle ground as opposed to a bottled wine where you are looking for a niche taste. And it's not that there aren't other good boxed wines. Black Box, for instance, rarely is a mistake. But, to be recommended, a wine must be more than acceptable; for it's category, it must be clearly above norm.
One other wine update; I previously mentioned the Clifford Bay 2009 Sauvignon Blanc. I have now picked up 6 bottles. Of those 6, three were truly spectacular and, for the price, the steal of the year. However, the other three were off-colored and ranged from vinegary to rotten. Two I actually returned. The third I threw away after the store owner said that she had taken the last returned bottle home, had consumed it, and had found it delicious. First of all, as to consuming food items returned by a customer, gross (which also suggests that I don't believe she actually did). Second, because of the high rate of skunky wine, I retract my recommendation. By the way, each bad bottle also had seal issues, so maybe it was something specific to a particular run of bottles.
Second, Jen and went to Sturgeon Bay and saw the matinee of "Soul Surfer". Yes, it was a Sunday, but, if you are a cheap bugger and if the weather is annoying you, a matinee is an excellent waste of money. Anyway, I liked it. You probably already know the beginning, middle, and end, but you know the Charlton Heston 10 Commandments also and yet you still watch. Since there really can't be a plot spoiler, the basic line is this. A young, talented surfer loses her left arm to a shark attack. Despite the odds, she both lives and re-learns her surfing skills to become a pro surfer.
It is a softly Christ affirming movie. The family is Christian and their faith plays a role in the plot. I liked it. I am not recommending it as I don't know your tastes, and it is definitely a "type" movie. But if you like a feel good movie with a faith component, you will probably like this one. I usually only tear up in movies when a nice car gets destroyed, but this one got to me a number of times. I remember two times in particular. First was when the youth group leader quoted Jeremiah. I don't exactly know why, but the profession of faith through the public acclamation of scripture always gets me. The second was when the dad had a one-armed surf board prepared for the girl who lost her arm. Must be a dad/daughter thing. I liked it, squishy as it was, and, given that God is in control of all things, must have needed to see it.
One discordant thing that really hit me (regarding the movie) was that, at a deeper level than ever before, I felt really old, like decrepit old. Not a good feeling and I am not sure what that means. And why did God have me be born and live in Wisconsin rather than Hawaii? That can't be right.
Third, there are a number of things for which each of us need to give our parents thanks. In my case, that includes the introduction to Dave Brubeck. I read once that he explained his love of weird rhythm from watching the differing tempo of pumped water drops dripping into cattle watering tubs. Whatever. I love what he has done and how what he has done has done to me. Thanks Mom and Dad.
Finally, in going over the next set of legal filings for my fight with the DOR I re-visited the "delinquent taxpayer" website. I am no longer listed. Why, I am not sure (although, obviously, I agree). I love how the tax man does things without notice. Anyway, in looking up my status, I saw others listed, some of whom I know. It actually made me think of the book, "The Millionaire Next Door". Both are worth reading. The point of the book is that most millionaires live lives of quiet simplicity. It is their understated lifestyle which made them millionaires. The point of the delinquent tax list is to shame. While I did not know that to be the point of the government, I will pass on that for now and simply say this; if you are interested in gossip, don't check it out. Speaking as one who once was, those listed don't need that.
However, just as you may not know that there is a millionaire next door, if you go on the site to be humbled by the fact that someone you may know is fighting to keep face in spite of daunting odds, I encourage you to check it out. The difference in appearance between the millionaire next door and the tax delinquent next door is largely non-existent. Use the information gathered by either of these resources to be non-judgmental. Neither looks that different from yourself and, absent a few life circumstances, neither is different. As I said, it's humbling stuff.
Now, for being a diligent reader, you get a picture cookie from last year, about the same time minus half a month, with a different look than what is out my window right now. Yes, the water is 180' below. And yes, it is that clear.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
We Have Snow On The Ground
I had an interesting day. I spent much of it preparing the next set of filings for my DOR mess, but progress is being made. Well it was being made until 4 hours into the project my browser decided to shut down and the online forms were not save-able. So I went to run a few errands and drive around and see the water and clear my head.
I found some interesting things. For instance, this picture is important.
First of all, it's snowing! I'm really not happy about that. Second, it's windy (check out the flag). Finally, if you look carefully you'll see Dave's white truck on the left side of the white building and if you are exceptionally lucky, you'll see Becky's black SUV just peeking around the right hand side. This means they're down doing something on the boat. However, there is no boat. What this tells us is that they took off for Chambers Island. This further means that the ice is out of the harbor out at the Island. Despite the snow, spring really is here.
I cruised around town for a little bit and was surprised by how fast the snow was increasing. The bluffs were almost completely obscured even when just a block or two away. This is a shot looking at the bluffs up Cottage Row.
I eventually made my way to the top of the bluff and took this picture looking back over part of the harbor. It was cold and wet and beautiful.
I ended up back at home but was struck by the sweetness of this tree (Hawthorne I think) relatively protected, wet with sticky snow melt, and somehow vibrating a life underneath its still winter skin. Have a blessed Palm Sunday.
I found some interesting things. For instance, this picture is important.
First of all, it's snowing! I'm really not happy about that. Second, it's windy (check out the flag). Finally, if you look carefully you'll see Dave's white truck on the left side of the white building and if you are exceptionally lucky, you'll see Becky's black SUV just peeking around the right hand side. This means they're down doing something on the boat. However, there is no boat. What this tells us is that they took off for Chambers Island. This further means that the ice is out of the harbor out at the Island. Despite the snow, spring really is here.
I cruised around town for a little bit and was surprised by how fast the snow was increasing. The bluffs were almost completely obscured even when just a block or two away. This is a shot looking at the bluffs up Cottage Row.
I eventually made my way to the top of the bluff and took this picture looking back over part of the harbor. It was cold and wet and beautiful.
I ended up back at home but was struck by the sweetness of this tree (Hawthorne I think) relatively protected, wet with sticky snow melt, and somehow vibrating a life underneath its still winter skin. Have a blessed Palm Sunday.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Not So Funny
It starts out funny. Lars, my son, and I had a very rocky summer last year. He decided (some months earlier) that while living under my roof and eating my food and driving my car and using my support for travel trips was OK, the expectation of following my rules was not. So he picked the one and discarded the other. Actually, it didn't start out funny at all.
By June, I fully realized the discord in his choices. An ultimatum was given and rejected. The result of the 10 minutes that followed his rejection included calls to dispatch and my chasing him across the neighbor's field. In the end, I was slow and he was fast. That's the last time he lived in my house. For the record; after some subsequent rebuilding of our relationship he was given the opportunity to come back but he chose to stay where he was.
The funny part is this (and funny is the wrong word; what I really mean is something closer to charming); a few weeks later he bought his first car. What I found charming was that he bought a car his old man would have bought, an '89 Mercedes 300e. I soon became very grateful that my belief in quality cars somehow made it through his thick skull.
The next morning, while driving through the southwest section of the state, he called to tell me he had been in an accident. He called at about 7:15 in the morning. He had driven down to Beloit to visit his girlfriend and, after leaving very early in the morning to make it back in time for work, fell asleep while driving. He was only about 15 miles from home and in a light residential area. The car drifted to the right, angled down a moderate ditch embankment, and smashed into a 1 1/2' high driveway culvert that was built up to bridge from the road to the actual driveway.
He must have been going pretty fast. I'd guess it was between 45 and 55 mph. The impact sheared off the front undercarriage and the angle of the drive shot the car up into the air. The front bumper clipped off a small pine about 15' above the ground while the impact of the tree slowly flipped the car over the remainder of its trajectory so that, by the time it landed, it hit on its driver's side.
He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. It was a major accident which totaled the car. This was one of those game-changer deals. He walked away with a 1/4 blister on his left hand where some of the powder from the air bag landed. I don't mean to be dismissive about God's care and providence but I am grateful that my son was driving that car on that day.
Buy good cars. Buy your kids good cars. Encourage them to buy their own good cars. Lars' car still sits on my property and the wind blew the tarp off it the other day. I went up on the ridge and re-attached the tarp. The car is ugly, broken, useless, and sitting with weeds growing around it. I have rarely seen something as beautiful.
By June, I fully realized the discord in his choices. An ultimatum was given and rejected. The result of the 10 minutes that followed his rejection included calls to dispatch and my chasing him across the neighbor's field. In the end, I was slow and he was fast. That's the last time he lived in my house. For the record; after some subsequent rebuilding of our relationship he was given the opportunity to come back but he chose to stay where he was.
The funny part is this (and funny is the wrong word; what I really mean is something closer to charming); a few weeks later he bought his first car. What I found charming was that he bought a car his old man would have bought, an '89 Mercedes 300e. I soon became very grateful that my belief in quality cars somehow made it through his thick skull.
The next morning, while driving through the southwest section of the state, he called to tell me he had been in an accident. He called at about 7:15 in the morning. He had driven down to Beloit to visit his girlfriend and, after leaving very early in the morning to make it back in time for work, fell asleep while driving. He was only about 15 miles from home and in a light residential area. The car drifted to the right, angled down a moderate ditch embankment, and smashed into a 1 1/2' high driveway culvert that was built up to bridge from the road to the actual driveway.
He must have been going pretty fast. I'd guess it was between 45 and 55 mph. The impact sheared off the front undercarriage and the angle of the drive shot the car up into the air. The front bumper clipped off a small pine about 15' above the ground while the impact of the tree slowly flipped the car over the remainder of its trajectory so that, by the time it landed, it hit on its driver's side.
He wasn't wearing a seatbelt. It was a major accident which totaled the car. This was one of those game-changer deals. He walked away with a 1/4 blister on his left hand where some of the powder from the air bag landed. I don't mean to be dismissive about God's care and providence but I am grateful that my son was driving that car on that day.
Buy good cars. Buy your kids good cars. Encourage them to buy their own good cars. Lars' car still sits on my property and the wind blew the tarp off it the other day. I went up on the ridge and re-attached the tarp. The car is ugly, broken, useless, and sitting with weeds growing around it. I have rarely seen something as beautiful.
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