Bittersweet

Thanksgiving, 2011

2011-11-23T20:28:00.001-08:00

I passed you, coming out of the morning meeting. You weren’t supposed to be there. You were on your phone; still said “hi” as I went by. I figured that you were just checking in. I wish you’d said something then, but that really wasn’t ever your way of doing things. Later on, you were gone, with the message in my inbox that you’d resigned. I know some of the whys and wherefores, and there’s a lot that I don’t know. I do know that there are some things that I need to tell you. It’s part and parcel of what we talked about in terms of many other people and situations as I tried to help you as we worked together. We just never really talked about what you’ve done for me.

You took action on my behalf at a time when I was out of options. I was out of ideas; mostly I was out of hope. I was hope-less. Trapped from any of the thousand ways I tried to look at it, resigned to a crumbling future. I was beyond hating my job, hating those around me, beyond sick and tired. I was numb. It was not “acceptance,” it was despair. What you gave me - and it was truly a gift – was an opportunity. We both know that it was also good for the company. What you did that others would not was to recognize this and do something about it. I would hope that you could consider this a success. As we discussed, many times, success in your particular position was often very difficult to measure. One of the things you understood was that success as a leader could be measured in human terms, usually ‘off the books’, even when others might not understand. I enjoyed those conversations very much. You most certainly achieved that with and for me. Thank you.

It didn’t mean that I liked my assignments. Not at first, and some of them I will never enjoy. You did, however, treat my attitude and frustrations with a compassion that amazes me, still. These last few years have not been easy for anyone at our workplace, and you were often pretty near the end of that wagging dog’s tail. Though we (ok, me mostly) made fun of some of your statements (“It is what it is”), there was no mistaking that it was what it was, and it likely wasn’t getting any better. You encouraged, cajoled, moved stuff around, didn’t run certain reports at different times, and did your best to make it work. Often, you looked bad for our sake. Some of us recognized that. Thank you.

The opportunities that you provided me have given me quite an education into an aspect of my career that I never thought I’d receive. You have increased my value at least threefold; to Mercy, to myself, and hope-fully, to my future. You’ve helped improved my home and family life – I’m a little easier to live with than I was in my six years in “The Pit.” I actually look forward to going to work, every now and then. Just don’t tell anyone – I have a reputation to maintain. Thank you.

Thank you for looking me in the eye. Thank you for letting me rant when I needed to, to say the wrong thing, to accept my apologies for doing both. Thank you for valuing my opinions. For listening. For your confidences, which I keep. It meant that you valued the ‘working’ me, something that had been taken away. You allowed me to do, to make a difference, to work through a new challenge to the other side, to make something better, not just fill time on the train to oblivion.

I don’t know what the future holds for either of us. I hope what you told me, the last time we talked about it, continues to be true. I know that you’ll be successful and make a difference, whatever happens, because that’s what you do. I’m just thinking about you on this Thanksgiving eve.

Thank you.

“V-8, with a Detroit attitude”

2011-11-12T14:02:00.001-08:00

- from “Livin’ Large in My Malibu”, Steve White

About three months ago, I purchased the above vee-hickle. Two and a half tons of Dearborn steel, an iconic hunk of Americana. This is not my first truck, but it’s been a while, and the last one I called a truck was really an SUV stuck on a small truck chassis. My first truck was a brief yet (nostalgically) satisfying encounter 20 years ago with an ex-forest service truck with a straight-six, three on the floor rattler that I frankly can’t remember what happened to it. This is my first V-8. I’m old enough that I had to do the conversion to be happy; it says 5.4 liter but that means 330 cubic inches, to me. Not quite the 350 of my ‘childhood’, and what we Amurrcans call a “short block”, but it’s the biggest motor I’ve ever put my foot into. I haven’t actually done that, yet, and that’s going to be the point of this essay, eventually.

I didn’t set out to buy this truck. I had smaller things in mind, really I did. I wanted a truck; consumer/homeowners that we are, we accumulate things (like IKEA furniture) that may come home in small packages but require disposal options not available at curbside. We also needed transportation that could accommodate the four of us. Toyotas and Hondas were in my sights. I took Sam along to test back seats. The short story is that I saw this truck, liked it immediately for several reasons, negotiated a reasonable price, and took it home. And yes, I succumbed to its’ ‘bigness.’

So here’s the deal. It took me a good two months to come to the realization that I am rebelling. No, not like the middle-aged (and yes, I am clutching at the outer edge of that precipice) guy who buys a Corvette and gets hair plugs. I can’t say if it’s always been this way, but I suspect not – that I’m living in a society where everything I do is guilt-inducing or otherwise contra-indicated for some reason or another. I know that I consume more on a regular basis than most on this planet and, while I can and do conserve/recycle/etc., there are aspects of my living that I cannot change – right now. Suburban life probably must change significantly if we are to ultimately sustain life on Earth; however, those changes are going to happen pretty slowly in comparison to my tenure. Having said that, there is so much noise around us about what’s “good” and “bad” that I fear none of us should truly enjoy much beyond camping in the woods, eating berries and missing toilet paper. We are made to feel guilty about where we shop, what we buy, how we cook it, what kind of pots and pans we use, what countries the spices come from, how we eat it, how we wash the dishes, and we really should be composting those coffee grounds and watermelon (I’m SURE it was union-picked) rinds. I have been wondering, lately, what ultimately costs more – sending food scraps through the garbage disposal, or putting them in the trash. Water is expensive here in Southern California; at the same time our landfill is pretty full. Yes, really, I can feel guilty about just about anything, anymore. I was getting pretty self-righteous about that whiny, freeloading cat at our house until he reminded me of his worth yesterday by leaving mouse parts on the front porch. Alright, so he’s doing his part, he can stay.

With the truck, it’s gas. Let’s not mince words here, this thing.sucks.gasoline. As an impulse buy, I can claim that I was misled by a CARFAX® report that grossly overestimated the mileage – I later found out that it gets exactly what Ford Says it’s supposed to. It is the heaviest truck in it’s class, and it just takes a lot to move it around. So I, good person that I am, immediately became guilt-ridden and obsessed with improving it. I got online and found lots of expert advice, including a modification to the air intake system that I performed myself with some drain pipe and a hose clamp. Any further efforts will be costly, and must be placed pretty far down the list of things to do, if at all. I can report that the things I have done, which include driving (as one truck forum poster wrote) “like there’s a raw egg between my foot and the gas pedal”), I’ve increased my city mileage by 0.71 mpg. This means a little over 21 more miles per tank of gas (It’s got a 30 gallon tank, fer pete’s sake), or about a gallon and a half savings per tankful. I now measure things/purchases/etc. by tankfuls of gas. I’m also about ready to get over it.

I know it’s new and all (to me, it’s 4 years old. Pretty good lookin’ considering that, huh?), but I have just enjoyed the heck out of this truck. I had been driving the 20 year-old 4-door Honda Civic that the kids grew up in, complete with a back seat so encrusted with happy meal detritus. . . I need go no further. I had no fan, so no heat/defrost/AC action; it bore the scars of domestic bliss and deferred maintenance (kinda like me, but I still have some trade-in value). I enjoy everything about it – the space, the ride, the fact that it has airbags and big ol’ bumpers. I know that I will get used to it, over time. For now, the cost of operating it has turned to an appreciation for what it does for me. Not exactly a guilty pleasure, more like I’ve earned the right to have it and enjoy it. If I could afford it, I would buy one of those little electric cars and use the truck less. I would take public transportation back and forth to work if it were practical, but, last time I checked, it was about an hour and a half each way vs. about 18 minutes by car. That is not a reasonable trade-off.

There has to be a point where one stops bullying themselves about what they can’t do and do more than just make do. Yes, I said that in an obscure way just to over use the word ‘do.’ Must we always be willing to settle for less? Today, this suits me, and I will make the best use of it until such time as my circumstances and abilities change. One day, pretty soon, I think that I will get on a freeway onramp, put the pedal to the floor, and smile.

A Forum Post

2011-09-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

Gasp! a blog post!
This is from me, on a forum. I think if you read it you don't really need more context than that. Just saving it for posterity, thought you might like it.

I understand what and how you are saying it, Oxy, but you are assuming that everyone sees this world the way you do. They do not.
It does no one any good to wish that Emma was anything other than what she is. I, of course, would welcome any treatment that would improve her cognition and abilities, but it would not change who Emma is.
There is nothing special about DS nor autism. Every child is a blessing. Yes.
The blessings are where you find them. I would hope that you could believe that many of the most contented moments of my day revolve around just being with Emma - pure love, pure fun, holds me in her arms like no one else can. I look for those moments, and savor them when they are here. In many ways, including the support I receive here and see others get, she has done more for my faith in our species than anything else. That is backward - she's a 'defective' copy, and yet she displays her humanity in ways that the rest of us inhibit to the point of self-destruction. To miss that message, in my opinion, is to miss a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human - across the spectrum of humanity. Overcoming suffering - in all of it's forms - physical and mental, from within and without - is a component in just about everyone's life, at some point. I am not saying that I am any good at it, I'm doing the best that I can, but this is another thing that has been brought into sharp focus for me through Emma's existence.
Some get way more suffering than others, some are destroyed by little, some (I have some personal heroes here) amaze me with their resiliency and personal resources. I can learn from them, but I cannot be them, I must find my own path. I can certainly appreciate and applaud others' ways of overcoming. I don't agree completely with Viktor Frankl, but what a story of succeeding through the most horrible suffering imaginable.
I put the whole "blessing" thing into the same basket with "all DS kids are happy." It is a very poor reflection of the whole picture. But blessings are there, and they are available.
I cannot follow the thought that I was somehow chosen to have Emma; the implications take me to a place that is completely theologically untenable to me. I won't know the answer to that until after I die.
I've shared the 'revelation' that I once, very grief stricken, had the thought that Emma would be made 'perfect' in heaven. I almost immediately had two thoughts: 1) How would I recognize her, then 2) how would she recognize ME? How imperfect am I?
I'm not attacking you, Oxy. I'm still angry at DS, pretty sure that I always will be. My desire is that you can find your way to see what these folks here have learned, for them, to find meaning for yourself. I'm still working on it, too.

Just Right.

2011-06-01T17:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the reasons that certain things seem timeless can only be revealed in the dead of night. I realized this at about 3 a.m. this morning, as I knelt beside Emma's bed retrieving "Goldilocks and the Three Bears", to drone her back to sleep. The simple refrains of "Too Hot. . . Too Cold. . . Too Hard. . . Too Soft. . . Just Right" hold a rhythmic quality that, frankly, stalls for time when one is looking for quantity over quality. These phrases provide both, and require much less in the way of material to remember. I got almost all the way to the end by the time I could hear her steady breathing; my eyes were too bleary in the dark to see if she was sleeping.

I don't know if the author intended it to provide this sort of comfort to weary zombie parents, their senses dulled in the wee hours, but it is sheer genius.

That I can get away with this old story with a nearly 12 year-old is some of the 'sweet' part.

Emma takes off

2011-04-09T11:07:00.001-07:00

It’s pretty incredible – what happens inside you when you realize that Emma has left the building. She has done this, before. The last time - a while ago, a neighbor brought her to the front door before I knew that she was gone – any realizations were after the fact; she was safe. This time was different. She was gone, through our bathroom, into the garage and a double-locked door (no problem for her), and I didn’t know for how long or which direction she’d gone. A quick search of the house confirms that she’d split. Running down the street, barefoot, trying to guess which way she might have gone, trying to determine the most dangerous, nearest big intersection. Reaching it. Nothing. My cell phone battery’s nearly dead because I’ve been playing Angry Birds on it all morning. Call Sam at home, ask him to stay there. Mom’s out driving around in the car, looking. I wander for another block or two, then head back to the house. Look through the house, again, hoping that she’s under something. What will the police think when they see what our house looks like on a Sunday afternoon of Spring Break with Emma?

I dial 911. I’m still breathing hard from running. I feel completely sick as I hear myself saying the words, “My daughter is missing. She has Down Syndrome. She’s 11. She cannot speak. . . ” What will happen to us, now? The dispatcher is calm, asking me questions that I don’t readily know the answers to; I have to dig. Part of my job at the hospital is to receive calls like these from nurses reporting missing patients; I now have a new compassion for those trying to answer the most basic questions under circumstances like these. She’s going to stay on the line with me until the police arrive. I’m still taking mental inventory of how bad we’re going to appear, that we’re going to lose both of our kids when they see how we live. . . it’s a feeling beyond desperation. It’s like, well, realizing the diagnosis. It all comes back with the addition of this current failure on my part to keep this from happening in the first place. My mind races with where Emma might be. Time stretches into a string of consciousness; I don’t care that I’m standing in the middle of the street in a pair of shorts and a dirty T-shirt grasping a phone to my ear, making seeming small talk with a woman who’s facilitating my descent into yet another world that I’ve only glimpsed. In my mind, I’m already being questioned, over and again, our life (of which I’m making as much sense as I possibly can) is being turned over and examined by those who’ve got no clue about the hows and whys, and I see them reaching well-meaning-yet-completely-wrong conclusions. It’s all going on as I stand there. Emma will be found safe and our family will then be torn apart. It’s paranoia of the highest order. As desperately as I want the help, I fear their impending potential. Layers of fear, playing out simultaneously on this bright, cool Spring afternoon – yes I even thought this, looking up into the sky between watching for police cars. Still didn’t see any. How long has it been, anyway?

Then, Vicky comes around the corner, with Emma in the back seat. She’d found her, a couple of blocks away. She’d crawled up into a U-Haul truck, buckled herself into the Driver’s seat, and was happily running the steering wheel back and forth. No clue that this was wrong, bad, dangerous, nothing. Happy to see us, although perplexed that we didn’t seem as enthusiastic about her escapade – she’d had a grand time. I thanked the dispatcher, and we went inside. The ultimate frustration in all of this was that there was no opportunity to parent her. I have no way to tell that she received any message that she should not have done this; the act itself is too abstract to connect any behavioral modification to. All we can do is to be more vigilant with containing her. I thought we were, but one button didn’t get set, and the opportunity arose, and it wasn’t even a matter that Emma was looking to escape – she just followed her curiosity.

That evening, Mom went to get some dinner for us. I had been sitting in the same room with Emma most of the afternoon, but she’d gone into her bedroom. It had not been actually 3 minutes when I looked in and saw that she wasn’t there. To make a long story short, I panicked and went running around the block again. Neither Sam nor I had seen Emma in my bed, covers pulled up to her nose, hanging out. I spotted her there a few minutes later doing another once-over before reaching for the phone. I then had to go back out and find the amazing neighbor who had dropped what she was doing in her yard to look for Emma. This is not the way to meet your neighbors, although it’s the sweetest part of this story. All of this happened again – compressed, of course – I’d ‘gone around the bend’, literally, when Emma had only gone about 20 feet.

It’s been six days, and the hole in the pit of my stomach is much better. As always, Emma is Emma. How and what she does just continues to reveal who I am, and it’s not the sort of exercise that I’d recommend. I’m not very proud of what I’ve written here, but it’s pretty close to the truth. Fill in the darker parts as you wish, or, my preference, skip it entirely. There hasn’t been much else this week that’s bothered me; my perspective’s been a bit, er, skewed. It’s a different kind of worry. It’s got to be more constant than it has been. Complacency is the enemy, the cost of relaxation just went up $40 a barrel. The dangers of being locked into one’s home. The dangers of one’s own mind. Looking for a reality check when there really isn’t one. Learning what to let go of and what to hold. Bittersweet.

If Andy Rooney had more than three minutes, this is what it would sound like.

2011-03-19T10:55:00.001-07:00

This is one of several editions that I’ve been stuttering on over the past few months. Let’s see if I can make it to the “Publish” button, today. It’s all the way up there on the menu bar . . . and I seem to be in a strange humor, this morning.
I can’t really blame the meds, this time. There’s a lot going on. As I’ve stated in earlier missives, reasons for omission seem to be overwhelming my desire to capture what’s going on for posterity. In addition, I’ve been reading Samuel Clemens, it’s like going to see Steve White play; you’re not gonna pick up a guitar for a few days afterward. Because the Internet is forever, or seemingly so. Blogging for me has assumed a certain liability - akin to the perils of having “unprotected” sex – the potential implications being enough to inhibit those of us with the proper fears and sensibilities installed. What if my potential employer reads that I think that Healthcare management in this country is insane? It’s a pretty radical concept. There - I’ve said it - no turning back, now.
To my tortured mind, it’s always been the argument between “You’re not talented enough” vs. “You’re not disciplined enough.” There is probably more written about being a writer than any other subject, it only stands to reason. Writing about Writing is the next best thing to, well, Writing. “Being A Successful Writer” – the statement itself contains 4 words that are wildly open to interpretation, individually. I recently read an article that pointed out that having a world-changing “thing” was not enough; it was the implementation and, er, exploitation of that idea that really made the difference. Thank you, Adolph, now PUT YOUR ARM DOWN - I’m not going to tell you again. Exploitation is such an ugly word. Sausage tastes really good, though – you just don’t want to know how it’s made. I know that they use high-pressure water hoses in the manufacturing of SPAM . . .
I’ve been reading more random blogs these past few days. Google Reader has a “recommended” button that somehow aggregates blogs based upon one’s saved blogs/recent activity/shoe size/bank account statement/last physical/?? (I’m sure Google knows what I’ll be doing tomorrow, at least upon the intertubes). People I don’t know. Families with Down Syndrome and Cancer in their lives. I don’t know why, but Cake Wrecks keeps coming up – it’s hilarious. And, of course, tsunami pictures. Blogs from Americans and Japanese who are there and say that it’s not so bad, where they are. News about purported and potential radiation plumes, and the page that proves that my home is 48 miles from the San Onofre Nuclear Plant, just inside that magic 50-mile circle.

This experience has re-affirmed for me that Faith and Love are really the essence of our existence – the best of Human production. They need to be together for us to be worth, well, a plug nickel.
Our lives, individually and collectively, are being recorded ‘seismographically’. The extremes often become defining moments, although (usually) they are the anomalies in an otherwise bumpy but boring pass under the pen. So often, the gritting goal-attainment gets ignored. The Japanese are being described in glowing terms at the moment, based upon their suffering and stoicism. I’m not begrudging this – just noting it. One Japanese official has already made a bonehead statement that this was their Gods’ (purposefully plural, thank you) punishment, then retracted it. It’s nice to be reminded that we don’t hold the exclusive rights on ignoramousness. God gets blamed for a lot; it makes the senseless so much more sensible. I suppose. Our species has such a way of saying the dumbest things at just the wrong times. Of course, I have to put this blog into that category by definition. See how I can talk myself out of this?
I found it so very unsettling to sit here comfortably in my chair while I watched the sea engulf Sendai and the north coast of Japan. Long shots displayed the passionless, inevitable rolling wall of water. Closing in, to watch a thousand tragedies unfold, methodically, without regard, without any reason other than the principles of Newtonian physics. Sensible, yet senseless. To share, at least, a sense of powerlessness with the camera operators, helicopter pilots; those who could only witness what was transpiring below them. It was not so long ago that the world would only learn of these things by eyewitness account, often weeks later – dramatized and/or sanitized by layers of editorial effort. I had a God’s-eye view (if I might be so impetuous to imply) of this as it was happening. Having been made in God’s image, I can understand that I’d be unable to sleep if I were He, having to constantly see that sort of thing. And then get blamed for it.
Emma. She’s becoming more articulate in her own inarticulate way. That I’m having trouble coping with my soon to be 12-year old daughter is as “normal” as it’s supposed to be. The problem is that the problem is me. She’s learning how to get along with other people, not just the three of us, and they don’t treat her as abruptly as I tend to. I haven’t grown out of the “terrible twos” mentality – you know, ask , ask, ask, ask more firmly, ask even more firmly, threaten, threaten, then move you where I asked you to go ten minutes ago. Not so easy when the ‘askee’ is about 100 lbs., a girl, who now has the vocal abilities of Maria Callas with a megaphone and the physical presence to collapse onto the floor in the most dramatic and embarrassing way. I need to respect her more, and not just because it’s inevitable that I’m not going to get my way all of the time, anymore. It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy myself (that would be between the hours of noon – nine p.m.). To put it into whatever context this rambling has produced, I love her dearly. I need to invest more faith in her. So we’ll probably be even later than usual to whatever event you’re hosting, if you invite us. Yeah, both of you.
We’re starting another no-fly-zone. We’re wasting our money on war while those who need caring for are getting less. Ideology and idiocracy overwhelm Faith like paper covers rock. “The Money” is going somewhere. The Golden State is drowning, and our earthquake hasn’t happened yet. We will not be lauded for our orderly society when it does. It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy – oh wait, it’s only 10:30 in the morning. Time to check the news.

Pick a cliché, any cliché

2010-10-31T09:13:00.001-07:00

I am standing in the middle of an eight-way highway interchange. Frozen by tonic immobility as the events of my life whiz by me at speeds that must surely be illegal, immoral, and fattening.

Tomorrow, I will engage with a new ‘smartphone’ that will tell me where I am, where I should go, how I should get there, who’s calling /where they are, and can surely measure my core body temperature if I only insert the appropriate Bluetooth device. In other words, I will be entering into a new relationship. I know this because I see it, everyday. Just now, my computer insisted that I capitalize “Bluetooth.” I have co-workers that stare blithely into these things seemingly at every turn. I truly do not wish to be assimilated as much as I want to just keep up; I too must have something to do while everyone else is checking their YouTube accounts, not just stand there with empty hands and something witty to say. Now I’ll be able to Twitter it for the entire world’s pleasure, just like this blog. My initial enthusiasm for all of this stuff has been replaced by a slight nausea. I think that’s healthy, although my blog continues. . .

I’m facing a practical problem when it comes to this space. I may have written about it, before - I don’t remember, and am too lazy to either tag my posts for later search or look it up, now (Technology does not exist in a guiltless vacuum – it simply enhances it in new and exciting ways). I know that this problem has existed as long as writing has. Mark Twain purposefully stalled his autobiography for 100 years because of it – it’s only being published now. I have taken some solace in this. The problem is one of exposure. I am a pretty open person; I attribute that to being brought up in a Minister’s home where our lives were pretty exposed to a large circle of people - in fact, many aspects of my personal and home life were used as sermon ‘illustrations.’ Just ask my Mom about Walnut Chicken. One of the things that I have learned in my life outside the parsonage is that there is a modicum of privacy available for those who choose it. Most of the things I’ve had to write about, lately, have involved other people, and I ultimately have not felt comfortable (or courageous, if one were to assume a militant stance) enough to make them feel as I often did sitting in those pews as a young boy. I’m not claiming psychic damage here, I’m just making a point. Not clever enough yet to mask my personal relationships with the polite fiction of a novel (that allows deniability), I struggle to write about my life without exposing theirs. It was fairly easy when Emma was more idea than ingénue – when it was mostly about me and how I wrap my head around the implications of her existence, rather than the practical realization that I’ve been changing diapers for nearly 14 years, now (yes, that includes Sam’s warm-up years). If I am to preserve this privacy for my family and friends, can I exclude Emma merely because she’s not ‘aware’ enough to be embarrassed or feel ‘exposed?’ I’m struggling with this.

Is it important (to whom? to me? to you? to my great friends whom I’ve met through blogging?) that I write about the realization that my 11-year old daughter is now beginning the process of becoming capable of reproduction (How’s that for taking ‘that’ to a new level. . . )? Would any ‘normal’ 11 year old girl be happy that her Dad had announced this to the world? Uh, NOT! I suppose that I should have, could have blogged about it before it happened, but there’s nothing like being in the moment to bring things into sharper focus. I can only imagine that, typically, this is a milestone calling for trepidation – any reasonable thinking Father would be thinking in terms of a triple-walled compound with guard dogs and underground sensors. For me, there are added dimensions of fear. I’m not going to enumerate them now, you’re all smart enough to go down that path as far as you may wish to. Those few ‘outsiders’ that I’ve shared this with give me a look that I haven’t seen in a long time – you can see the torment in their eyes as they need to respond to you, but would much rather be running down the street in the opposite direction screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs. It’s nice to share, if only for the moment as you see it flash across their countenance. I say, “nice”, yeah it’s a guilty serendipitous pleasure, and I’m not sorry.

Well, since that ‘genie is out of the bottle’, I suppose I’ve given us all permission to talk about it some more, and I may. My reason for taking this particular liberty is that I’m trying to focus this blog on my experiences and thoughts about being Emma’s Dad. It’s a bit unique, and I have been told that it’s given some others insight. Although Emma may not ‘mind’ (gosh, that’s a loaded word, there), I do mean to mind her as a whole person. I think it’s why I’ve seen so many be so passionate, publicly, about their kids and experience at first; not so much as they get older. Passions wane, wounds (actual and perceived) heal, and the just plain reality of bumping through those diaper and bedding changes become the numbing ‘normal.’ It’s why I admire my friend Nick; he’s been able to get in position by virtue of who and what he is to make a real difference in the lives of many in Ireland – from my great distance I’ve seen him mold anger and pain into purpose.

These are just a couple of the ‘crossroads’ I’ve been standing in. 51, with all of the incumbent inhibitions. I have great family and friends, a home, and health insurance. I am, by just about any standard, content. Just Bittersweet, that’s all.

It’s the Next, Most, Wonderful Time, of the Year.

2010-09-19T09:16:00.001-07:00

This is the time of year when things get out of routine, although it’s happened about 23 times, now. It’s when we go to Lake Mead for a long weekend on the houseboat.

By things, I mean stuff just happens around this trip. There’s plans to be made, stuff to buy. . . this is the impetus for us to buy music to play on the boat, books to borrow/buy to read on the boat, things to float on (we have a large inflatable shark, for example, from a previous year), meals to plan/cook ahead. This year, it’s been a challenge to find folks to take care of the kids while we’re gone, but we did it. Leaving your children in the care of others for nearly five days is a mental exercise regarding probabilities and possible outcomes that frankly leaves me with a hollow feeling in my stomach. Bittersweet.

There’s a lot of other stuff going on, too. We’re just about mid-way through a project to make the garage a usable space for us. Let’s just say that we put a bunch of junk in there when we moved in 13 years ago and just added to it until it was ‘waste high’. Several trips to the dump and various recyclers has left us with a storage unit half full in the driveway and a nearly drywalled space soon to be filled with grown-up cabinets and, hopefully, some semblance of organization. There’s even talk of a shed for the landscaping accoutrements (that’s French, without the umlauts). There might be “after” pictures, but no “before” pictures were taken for legal reasons, and those who have assisted us are sworn to secrecy.

Friday, as I was cutting someone off on the freeway (hey, she’d jerked her car in front of me on the onramp, I was just returning the favor), Kar-ma (made myself laugh) struck when my sudden acceleration (again joking because it’s a ‘91 Civic sedan, awright?) caused the alternator belt to shred. Savvy motorist that I am, recovering from the interesting sound of it flapping around for 5 seconds or so, followed by the illuminated ‘battery’ idiot light - along with the lack of billowing smoke or remaining recognizable pieces in my rear-view mirror, I ascertained this truth and drove home. Those of you who have worked on Japanese cars will sympathize with me when I opened the hood to the realization that the alternator belt is the first of three belts attached to the main pulley. For the rest of you, this means that one (and this was the moment when I determined that I was not to be that one) must remove the other two to complete the task at hand. And need I remind you that my tools are distributed in about 5 boxes in the previously mentioned storage box in the driveway? So, another day off from work on Monday whilst a younger person with a lift, a real toolbox, and probably a hangover replaces all three belts, with the appropriate grunting and tension on them. Might as well change the oil, too.

In addition, today we’re driving up to Temecula to see an unusual mix of inlaws and outlaws. Another afternoon of chasing Emma around Pat & Oscar’s.

So I’ll need Monday to make the Green Chile Stew in advance; my boatmates are tired of watching me work on it on Saturday afternoon. How else am I to garner their heartfelt appreciation for my culinary efforts – now it’s just another frozen dinner from Costco. Big whoop. I’m.Just.kidding –it’ll taste better after that chemical thing that happens to soups and stews that makes them taste better the next day. Probably.

Like I said, stuff just happens around this excursion. The trip will be great – paying good $$ for a properly maintained boat with a marine radio to complain into (and that is rare) is a worthwhile investment - it’s just the GETTING ON THE BOAT part that requires so much effort. We will not be moving Heaven and Earth, merely the contents of lower Manhattan back and forth over the next 6 days or so. We have gotten better at it, with practice. According to the Park Newsletter(pdf), the Bald Eagle count has soared; we’ll be on the lookout. We’ve seen wild asses (no, not just other boaters), bighorn sheep, and a few other wild things, but I don’t remember seeing our national bird,there. Gazing at the horizon for Bald Eagles is a worthy occupation onboard – it’s about the extent of what’s expected. Therein lies the beauty of the whole situation, if youse gets my drift, and we most certainly will NOT drift (inside joke, sorry).

Diva Dis, Diva Dat.

2010-06-21T19:43:00.001-07:00

Emma's Grade School "graduation" was today. They have a lovely ceremony for the now middle schoolers, where they call each one to the front, present them with a certificate, and then let the parents take pictures of each class. It's age-appropriate.
Emma sat with her 'mainstream' class - she shares time between regular class and a special ed class - and clapped happily for all of the announcements and for her classmates as they were introduced. Then came the announcement - "Emma Goble!". She immediately put her hands to her face, and started to cry.
Now, my little Diva rarely shuns the spotlight, but this, apparently, was just too much for her. I don't know if it was her runny nose, or if she just hadn't been properly introduced (I was told that there was a run-through where she'd done 'just great'), but she wasn't going to leave her chair. My expectation was that she was going to take her sweet time getting to the podium, like Meryl Streep, stopping to thank all the little people on the way. . .
The principal - who is a Wonderful Man, hardly skipped a beat. He said to the teacher, "We'll go to her," and they came down the steps of the stage and handed her her certificate. Applause. Ceremony continued.
I reached her a few moments later, and she perked up when she saw me. I put my arm around her and tried to prompt her to go up on stage, but she'd just pull my arm tighter around her. Let the rest of them stand up there. We were together in that crowded, noisy auditorium, and the rest of it didn't matter.
So, I don't have any pictures of her 'graduating'. Here's a snapshot apre~cake; chocolate cake is always good for celebrating.

You just never know what Emma's going to do; know that she's going to do it her way.

Beta Tester

2010-06-19T08:52:00.001-07:00

I’ve discovered something.
I’ve been taking medicine to control high blood pressure since 1993. Over time, it gets higher, prescriptions change, side effects occur, weight is gained, lost, and regained, you know – the beginning of the slippery slope on the downward turn of the circle of life thing. I’m given a particular mix, sent off with sample bottles, and it takes 3-5 weeks to see if A> it has the required effectiveness (the Doc’s agenda), and B> it doesn’t make me sick, sleepy, not at all sleepy, and/or scream its' way through the synapses of my brain all day(my particular agenda). Sometimes, it has been a process that has taken nearly a year to properly implement to meet both our criteria. A trumps B ( I still maintain the will to live, most days), for the most part , which has produced the subject of this post.
Such experimentation has been underway for the past several months. One of the agents that has been steadily increased has been what’s known as a beta-blocker. In addition to its' overall effect on the cardiac system, it also has an effect upon emotional states, namely anxiety. It is used specifically by some for this purpose. I didn’t realize (I was not paying attention) to this aspect until the dosage reached a point where it was disturbing my sleep (it affects serotonin and melatonin levels), as well as making it harder to stay awake and/or focus during any conversation lasting more than about 90 seconds. Went to see the Doc, and he set me off on a different course, still including a lower dose of the beta blocker. I just happened to have a work schedule that included 3 days of off-site training – sitting in a classroom (i.e. a resting state), so I decided to do an experiment. I quit taking the beta blocker.
I literally felt my head begin to clear after about a day and half. I felt better, I had an attention span again, etc. - I actually read something and teared up a bit. I started posting, and halfway long ones, at that, on the online places I inhabit. Sacre Bleu! I have an excuse for not writing! There has to be a reason for everything, right? This Level-headedness is also passionless-ness, and I realized that it has been hard for me lately to really give two hoots for much of anything enough to do something about it – whatever it might be. I quit playing any music – the guitar broke a string, I put it away. That was two months ago. I bought some strings, yesterday.
Relax, T, I’m back to my full prophylactical potential. I don’t know if the veil will descend; my base med has changed, and the side effects seem manageable, so far. This latest round has fostered renewed resolve to do some of the things I should be doing that could conceivably remove the beta-blocker from the equation, entirely. I do so appreciate your continued interest. I do need to write. And some of you need to write, too. You know who you are.

An Honest Mistake

2010-06-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

I'm finding fewer and fewer reasons to endorse the Human Race, particularly among those who parade and promote in public. I was really quite pleased, then, by the events surrounding an umpire's blown call, that cost a Major League Pitcher a 'perfect game', this week.
This world has seemed so jaundiced, lately, so much so in the 'heroes' category. It seems that even Lance Armstrong cheated while deliberately misleading everyone - lacked even one cajone for the truth. California Ballot initiatives are written so that "No" means "Yes", backed by advertising and endorsements that distort the truth past the point of propriety. Everyone is willing to turn the economy to mush as long as they get theirs. BP turns a tragedy into another toxic lesson about corporate greed, including profits from selling itself the most environmentally damaging dispersant that they happen to manufacture.
How grateful I am, then, to see two men in prominent positions exceed our ever-crumbling expectations of how they should act. One man knew instantly that the other was wrong, along with a sizeable portion of the assembled crowd. In our current society, this was clearly an opportunity to exploit, to assert one's primacy via injury in full prima-donna fashion. Instead, the opposite happened. The player accepted the call, returned to the mound, and finished the game. This is not just good sportsmanship, it was a recognition of many levels of respect - beginning with the player for himself, the umpire, and the rules of the game - that it is a game, with what has always been the possiblity that sometimes the truth suffers. Truth, as it currently stands, is not paramount in Baseball. It has been and continues to be a topic of debate.
The umpire also demonstrated great integrity. I can only imagine what it took him to rise from the replay to go to this player's locker to look him in the eye and apologize. To do so, again, publicly.
To be forgiven, graciously.
Roger Ebert talks about the "elevation" of the human spirit that movies often provide. The conduct of these gentlemen elevate us all. As it should be, the particulars of a game pale when compared to the performance of character.
We needed the lift.

Read the best, then read the rest.

2010-03-29T09:13:00.001-07:00

To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

- William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”

To be or not to be is not the question, today.
One is, and cannot un-be. Unbecoming as that might sound.
One can do, or not do, but that which remains undone can lead to one's undoing.
There can often be quite the to-do about one's to-do list.
Who you be affects what you do; what you do about it can be limited -- or can it be?
I tried to be, got a "B"; I could see that "C" was really a "D" for me. I said, "A!", but could never really make the grade. I sit in the hallway and wait for the bell to ring.
I see the genius that is Shakespeare, and loathe my generations who've squandered beauty for gadgetry and lubricants, discarding elevation in the name of equality, celebrating the mean.
Know what I mean by mean? I mean, 'mean' has many meanings. The average man can be mean, and he can do things that are mean, but this does not make him necessarily the mean of mean, or even mean to be mean, but it's close.
So, in closing, do we mean to do from being, or does our being inherently make us mean in our doing? Surely, most of us look for meaning, and mean to do well, but in the mean we all fall short. That's no mean trick - or is it?

Bittersweetness

2010-03-06T09:43:00.001-08:00

My apologies for not writing, sooner. I’ve been keeping my thoughts to myself, lately, for several reasons that I’m going to continue to keep to myself. Some of you are saying, “Thank you,” I’m sure. I’ve also noticed a drop in postings from my regular haunts; I suspect that something’s in the air – or the water.

I had a quite bittersweet time, this last Tuesday afternoon. Roger Ebert is one of my heroes. If you watch movies, he is an inescapable force. If you appreciate great writing, his reviews and now, his blogging and online offerings are necessary. He continues to live an amazing life, and his writings reflect a mind cultivated by a wide world of experiences, transformed by extraordinary events. It’s difficult for me to write in the same ether.

Roger appeared on Oprah last week(I am going to assume that my European friends know who she is – if not, google away). If you don’t know, he has lost his jaw, along with his ability to eat and speak. Among other things, this appearance debuted a synthesized version of Roger’s voice, which no one had heard for quite some time. It was wonderful to see him, to see Chaz, and learn a little more about them both. I will confess I had tears in my eyes at the end.

That’s the sweet part. I had tears in my eyes before it started.

I get home about 10 minutes before Oprah comes on. I turned on the TV in the bedroom and began changing out of my uniform, ending that part of my day, getting ready to watch the show. It was then that the news came on that Chelsea King’s body had been found in a shallow grave. It was another instance of a community taking another punch in the gut, tenuous hopes giving way to grief. Grief and anger at the being (thankfully, in custody ONCE MORE) capable of such inhumanity. I did not know her, but our city was looking for her; she’d been a main focus of attention since her disappearance the Thursday before. Moments such as these should break every heart.

I’m presenting this to you, backward, because it’s really how I experienced it. I had been anticipating the “sweet” for days, the “bitter” was a 10-minute step into knee-deep sorrow, followed by the good feelings I’d been waiting for. Twenty minutes after that, I turned the TV off and sat on my bed in a moment of stunned silence at the breadth of human experience that I’d just witnessed. I didn’t dwell on it for long, there were things to do, and many of these thoughts are best dealt with alongside the grit and grime of the things we need to do. I’ll leave that thought there.

Bittersweet. Exhibit 476-B, category – Humanity (apologies to Rod Serling)

Again, and as I put it here, I feel such a sense of mystery about what this is all about. Mystery that I should feel that need, that human need, to make it make sense. Can I accept that is not possible for “this” to reconcile?

Can’t dwell on this stuff too long. I won’t get anything done at all.

Love’s Lessons, part 47

2009-11-07T08:20:00.001-08:00

My Grandmother passed away, a week ago Wednesday. Her obituary is here. I think that everyone present would agree that it was a good time, overall, for a far-flung family to gather in a way that will never happen again, to tell stories – new and old, and honor a life well lived.

One of the things that I’ve been personally aware of, for some time, is that a great deal of sorrow can be spawned by ‘unfinished business’ – the good, bad, but not indifferent currency of a relationship. Grandma and I were paid up, our accounts reconciled, with the exception(of course) that I will always owe her my gratitude and respect for her legacy and love – that's off the books. I think you know what I mean. Dementia had taken a large part of her, some time ago, her physical departure was merely an inevitable reality.

Serendipities occurred. I was able to make three quarters of my journey with either my parents or my sister. I seemed to make some new connections with a couple of cousins, whom I’ve only seen once or twice.

The funeral was on Saturday. The last time we were all together was at the graveside, and there weren’t any more ‘group’ plans made after that. Uncle Bob had casually invited me out to his home on Sunday to see his ‘57 Chevy project. I waffled, and decided not to go. It was a 45 minute drive out and back, for maybe an hours visit before I climbed on a plane for another 4 hours or so. I immediately began concocting a plan to bring Sam out to see the car when it was completed, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to Bob about it. I found out later that he and my Uncle Cliff had gone to an OU football game Saturday night – plans made in advance, and which Hazel would have surely approved.

Sunday’s flight was actually pleasant, and I was home in time for dinner. I’d taken Monday off because, well, I could. The phone rang at about 8:15 am. It was Dad, and Uncle Bob had just died. His obituary is here. I think Dad said that he and Cliff had ‘taken down a couple of trees’ at Bob’s on Sunday (I haven’t had any real conversation with anyone, my folks are returning home tomorrow). Clifford is a doctor, and he and my Aunt Althea were staying there. When he had chest pains, I guess Cliff kept him going till they got him to the ambulance and the hospital. His funeral was yesterday.

I’ve written this post, many times and many ways, since Monday. Excuses, mostly. Unfinished Business. I didn’t tell him in person; I actually wanted to send him a letter - in writing to show that I wasn’t saying what I was supposed to in the moment, that I really meant it – telling him how grateful I was to him for taking care of Hazel all of these years, that his example sets the standard. How he waded through the family and personal issues to not only do the job, but do it extremely well. How I wanted Sam to meet him and get to know him, if only as little as I had. I will try and express these things to Aunt Janice, but it just won’t be the same.

I so now wish that I’d been willing to make myself mildly uncomfortable for an hour and a half, last Sunday.This is at least the second time I’ve been taught this lesson, and I hope that it’s the last:

Do not pass up an opportunity to spend time with the ones you love. It could very well be your last.

FB Flashback

2009-08-16T10:54:00.001-07:00

Point Loma College Soccer Team, 1977

I’d just returned from a summer trip to England, with a church group, where I’d actually been asked for autographs after doing my finest Larry Norman impression. It’s now my freshman year in college. I’ve got a steady girlfriend, which kinda messes up my BMOC vibe, but I’m in love. I’ve got a car, which gives me the freedom to get away from the Shangri-La that is PLC, mostly to get to said girlfriend, who goes to State. Classes are fine, dorm life is “Animal House” without the sex, alcohol, and fun – close quarter living with smelly people in a moldy 12-person ‘quad’- “Das Boot” without the camaraderie. Young Hall was awful, even if it was only 400 yards from the Pacific Ocean. Of course, I had no idea at the time, but life was pretty stinkin’ good – and I do mean ‘stinkin’. We had to gang up on Charles at about week 7 to force him into the shower, clothes and all.

Then there were these guys. One of them was already a good friend. Others would become so. This was a team that had started as a ‘club’, and it would be some years before it would became a viable, completely supported, competitive part of the athletic program. I was coming to PLC, having been part of the startup of my high school soccer team - we'd gone from nil to third place in three years - my senior year had been a very good one. At Point Loma, we were doing our best, but usually got our heads handed to us by the likes of Simon Fraser and USIU – teams of international students here on scholarships. I am only aware of one game in my 3 years playing where statistics were kept – I think it was So. Cal Baptist College or something, in 1978. They had 38 shots on goal. We only lost 7-1, that day. For those of you, like me, who don’t care for math, that means that I had 31 saves. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have had a better time, but that has been my nature - still workin’ on that. I do take pleasure in memories like playing in Aztec Bowl, which no longer exists. Even if it was against SDSU's "C" squad.

We usually got to take the little bus to away games. Boredom and bus hijinks, like the time we all mooned the guard shack at the entrance to PLC upon our return. On a couple of rare occasions, we even got to clean out a restaurant or two, out of town, late at night, returning from a game way up the coast. Yeah, we were geeks, but guys like Dan Brown made sure that we had good times.

Dave, third from the left, front row. Left wing. Gets a yellow card for some infraction – continues to yell “I’m not sorry! I’m not sorry!” at the ref. Makes me laugh out loud, today. Dave Oakes, next to the coach - a great fullback and encouraging presence on the field - we cracked knees, one day, his gave way, mine didn't. It killed his entire season. I still feel like crap about that. He made a lousy martyr - I would have done the job much more effectively.

Yeah, I was that skinny, and yeah, that was my real hair. For those of you who weren't there, or otherwise haven't figured out that I was the keeper, I'm #3 on the left, back row.
Robert Martin, third from the right, put this pic up this morning on FB. Just sent me spinning into nostalgia. Thanks, guys.

Emma’s 10th Birthday Bash

2009-07-26T15:05:00.001-07:00

It was everything it was supposed to be. Candles, cake, presents. Emma’s got a bit of a summer cold or something; she was a bit subdued, but always manages to be the life of the party. Here’s the annual video:

Emma's 10th Birthday Cake Video from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

My thanks and appreciation to all who gave us the better part of their day to make Emma’s birthday party a wonderful one for her and us.

Emma’s Birthday is Tomorrow

2009-07-20T19:54:00.001-07:00

I remember it like it was yesterday. I can still see it. It took me about nine years and ten months to gather the courage to watch it on the screen. What I found was not what I remembered. It’s taken the other two months to sort out what did happen. It’s time I wrote it down. I’ve shared parts of this with others, but I’ve never really written it, for myself. My motive is not to make you sad; it is to take you on another part of the journey, with some perspective.

Dressed in my bunny suit and bouffant hat, I stood dutifully in the operating room, holding Vicky’s hand on her side of the drape separating us from the business at hand. I saw the smoke and smelled the smell of the cauterizing scalpel. I watched as Doc Williams pulled Emma out of the (gratefully obscured) field of surgery by one foot, into the air. Emma, moments before had been ‘breech’, with one leg cocked up over her shoulder. Low muscle tone equals amazing flexibility. She started to cry (Emma, not the Doc), and was quickly handed off to the assistants gathered about a warmer. That’s when I started up the camera.

Through the lens, I watched them clean her up, wrap her up, and she was rolled away; about two minutes. What I saw, watching it now, was three women; one picks up Emma’s foot, fingers her toes, kinda flopping her foot back onto the bed, they look back and forth at each other, and then get back to business. At a point between then and now, I’d have been angry enough to find out who they were and tried to get them fired. Emma was evaluated and dismissed within minutes of entering this world. Now it just stings. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that the Doc had had her suspicions, kept them to herself, and probably diagnosed her as she lifted Emma into the air. I’ve never asked her, although I’ve had plenty of opportunities. Doesn’t matter now.

I don’t remember what happened, exactly, next – the show in the OR was over, and I wanted to follow Emma to the nursery to record her first bath and checkup. At some point, I left Vicky and was directed to the Special Care Nursery. There was some cause for concern for her oxygen levels, or something. I wasn’t particularly worried, and headed over there with my camera. When I got there, and checked in, Emma was unattended in a warmer to the right of the nurses’ station. Having worked in there in the past, it was not an alien place to me, the atmosphere and hardware weren’t at all foreboding. I turned the camera on, secured the lens cap, and walked over and bent over to capture my daughter’s face. That’s when I saw her. Her eyes. I froze. This was the moment that I waited ten years to witness again. It wasn’t there on the tape. Evidently, I never pushed the record button.

Emma had Down Syndrome. No one had to tell me. I turned, and sat down at a round table a few feet away. I remember putting the lens cap back on the camera, turning it off, and then something happened that I have not experienced before or since. I saw a little blond girl, running into my arms. I was opening the door to our home, greeting her first date. Watching her drive off. Walking her down the aisle in her wedding dress. Taking a baby from her arms. A lifetime of expectations paraded in front of me in a matter of moments. It was a feeling of deep sadness that struck to my core. It was all gone. I sat there until the Doc came in and told me of her suspicions. I remember saying, “I saw.” I needed no karyotype.

As you all know, I have a little blonde girl who runs into my arms. I have learned that the majority of what I knew of Down Syndrome from what were then 20 year-old textbooks was wrong, but in those moments a lifetime had been lost. The next few hours and days were filled with grief, much of it fed by those around me who either knew nothing about our life ahead, or, in most cases, had no idea whatever to say. Some did and said some extraordinary things, and they hold a dear and precious place in my heart. Teresa. Cliff, the ex-steelworker who, when he saw me, said nothing; threw his arms around me and hugged me like there was no tomorrow (he is raising a granddaughter with CP). There were others.

Emma was born a little before midnight. About 10 a.m., the next day, I headed down to the cafeteria for something to eat. Into the elevator came an acquaintance, a psychiatrist. I told him about Emma, and he turned, looked at me with with surprise, and asked, “Didn’t you have an amnio?” It was not the reaction that I had anticipated from him, not then. In my exhausted honesty, more than any sort of practiced nobility, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered.” I found out later that, at that moment in time, he was involved in a troubled pregnancy, struggling with his own decisions. Her reality precluded any pleasantries, or even any empathy toward me, the idea of her cut his sensibilities like a knife. This has proven to be the case with Emma: She requires you to deal with who you are; you cannot pretend, pretense means nothing. There is no denial available.

I can’t predict the future (I gave up on expectations some time ago), but I will not be surprised when Emma becomes a cheerleader. She’s sitting across from me now, negotiating her way through sesamestreet.org. She may not be completely accurate, but she can be very articulate. Her sense of humor demonstrates an intellect that one can only experience to appreciate. In the realm of human measurement, she can be ‘less than’ and ‘more than’ in the same moment. We were told, on the second day, “She is more like you than she is not.” It was a comfort through a period of learning. It is a partial truth – the reality is that she is you. You just didn’t know it, before now.

Emma’s birth was an end, and it was a beginning. The end of every assumption I’ve ever had, with the possible exception of gravity. The beginning of a widening breadth of the experience of loss, gain, tragedy, joy, but most of all love. Seeing Emma through that lens, I began to see life through different eyes. This piece began, in my head, by wanting to share that moment with you, show you the video. That it doesn’t exist, doesn’t really matter, in the end. What matters is that you’ve been changed, know a wider world, and we share it together with love because of Emma.
Bittersweet.

The cake video and celebratory stuff will be coming, the party’s on Saturday. Sweet!

FaceSpace all a-Twitter

2009-06-14T12:10:00.001-07:00

Now, I don’t know this guy, but I am familiar with all of the hardware
(and no, that’s not me in 1982. I was much thinner)

I finally joined Facebook, yesterday. I’d been resisting it for one main reason; the prompting of a loved one finally pushed me over the brink. Joining was easy, it even scanned my email contacts for friends. Put in your schools, easy enough. Started accumulating friends immediately, and several addicts fed their habits by contacting me within minutes. It was, as I anticipated, overwhelming. It helped me over one other brink – the reason I’d resisted – I can no longer be everywhere, online, all the time, anymore. The truth is that I never was, but I felt a certain proficiency right up until, oh, say 2005, when I added a Steam account. I’ve felt “it” slipping away, ever since, my grip on my control of my online persona.

So, I start weeding through my ‘newfound’ friends, really old friends, but some new info and perspective. That’s great. A few ‘conversations’ with some that haven’t kept up via other means. Really good. Hit the “find friends” link and started looking through those identified as college graduate-mates. See a few familiar names, none that I really knew, started thinking about how few of them I really befriended – having a fiancée at State, and all. Their photos all look so, well, let’s just say I didn’t recognize any of them. On to the Upland High School Class of ‘77. Dallas! No, didn’t add him, just smiled at the thought. Went through several pages. Interesting locations for some, interesting pics of others. Then, WHAM! there it was. One of the reasons I’d forgotten not to get on Facebook. No pic, just the name. A quite unpleasant memory involving physical threats, property damage, and the authorities. Three minutes later, and my new profile settings read “Friends only.” I fully understand that I and my physical location can be found in a matter of moments, online, but I certainly am not going to make it any easier for this person (and yeah, he probably doesn’t know how to get a picture into his profile) to be reminded of me, let alone find me. In about 40 minutes, I’d revisited several snippets of my life history that I’d left by the sides of those roads. Facebook, guess what, bittersweet. Go figure.

So, privacy somewhat assured, we move on. I’m looking forward to communicating with the one person who hasn’t contacted me, yet, of course, the one who kept inviting me. The past lies there in Facebook, just as it always has IRL (‘in real life’ for those of you older than I, like, you know, as if). I’ll check in, but don’t look for me to camp it and hang on your every word. I just can’t, ok? I’ve got all those other accounts to keep up with. And blog. And mow the lawn, every quarter, whether it needs it or not. If you want, you can look up my address on Google Street View and see the dead truck, bald-patched lawn and house in need of painting, too. Let’s keep moving forward, shall we?

Frail Grasp On The Big Picture*

2009-06-06T09:30:00.001-07:00

There was a story related to me, this week. I do not mean to diminish anyone’s faith. This has been bothering me, though. I did not comment on it where it was published; I felt that by doing so, I would incite side-taking and the inevitable hurt that religious discussion causes on the internet. This is different, those reading here should have a grasp of why I’m bringing it forward, why I’m saying what I’m saying, and hopefully possess the grace to forgive me if I don’t meet their expectations – a fundamental requirement for an ongoing relationship with me, anyway. So, with that ominous introduction:

The story is of a head-on collision between a wrong way driver on the interstate; a small vehicle and a van with “differently-abled adults” inside. Both drivers and three of the adults in the van died. The poster goes on to describe their pastor speaking about the accident the following Sunday. One of the surviving adults from the van is a close childhood friend of his. By the pastor’s account, this man’s customary seat was behind the bus driver. He did so on this day, on the way to the destination. On the fatal return trip, he stated that he “was a big boy” and from now on he was sitting in the back. This, of course, saved his life. The pastor used this as an illustration that “he believed that the Holy Spirit was alive and well.”

I know that this pastor is a human being. I know that his good friend has just been spared. He’s reacting to a powerful event with powerful emotions. I think, however, that this is the sort of thing that is quite irresponsible from the pulpit. I have become wary of those who see God’s will when things turn out the way they’d like them to.

Five people were killed, but God spared the pastor’s friend? Why? Was he the only Christian? Were the other 3 adults “not-abled” enough, spiritually? Maybe that was the reason, God was taking them home early to spare them further pain here on Earth. And why was this the event to be celebrated, why assign The Holy Spirit credit for sparing one life over another? Should we do no more than be grateful for what we have, rather than claim Divine Providence? Perhaps that in itself is what Divine Providence is; the rest is what it is. God only knows.

The more I turn the little I know of this event over and around, in my mind, all I come up with are the same things I always come up with: This was either a set of random events, a very small event in a highly choreographed dance that we are deigned to play out, or something in-between. One can place one’s faith at any point along this continuum, balancing the unlimited, omniscient power of God against Man’s free will to choose. The danger, to me, comes in where we assign responsibility for another’s choices – God’s and yours, more specifically. I’ll take responsibility for mine, although there was lead in the paint in that house in Globe, and Mom put Karo syrup in my formula, and. . .

We see through a glass, darkly. The life of Christ, for me, comes to a point of full maturity and near complete purpose when, on the Cross, after submitting to the Father’s will, still cries out “Why have you forsaken me?” God incarnate asking, "Why?" If they are “three in one”, the experience had to have shaken even God’s all-knowing, timeless heart. I cannot and will not, of course, say that the Holy Spirit did none of this. I just have a really hard time understanding how it would be so selective. That a Minister of the Gospel could be so sure, gives me pause. There is a greater message, and I’m not so sure that he was sending the right one.

And no, I don’t feel any better having written this. Thanks for asking.

*credit to Glenn Frey and Don Henley

Barbie will always be older than I am,

2009-05-24T10:03:00.001-07:00

but just barely.

I reached a couple of milestones last week. First, I received my invitation to join AARP. Ironic, in the sense that I seriously doubt that I will ever “retire”; I seem to have inherited most of the physical characteristics of my shortest-living related predecessors, and the government keeps raising the retirement age. I figure that, if I should reach that age, there’ll be a campaign against “the other ‘R’ word” (yeah, small joke). Second, I started using a pocket protector at work. I have been putting it off for some time, oh, at least 12 years or so. The practicality of the object has finally won out over the nerd/geek/maintenance guy stigma. What it does is now more important than what it means. It actually suits my bifocals, when you think about it. Like it or not, I’m one of the old guys, now. You should see the punks they’re hiring, these days. “Smarten up!”, we tell ‘em. They don’t listen.

Achieving a new number with a trailing zero always seems to bring some reflection. It’s an opportunity, welcome or not, to catalogue the things that will forever be lost from your grasp, still remain in the realm of possibility, along with what you do have. These days, I am more content (as in contentment, not volume, ok?) than driven, due more to those around me than from within. I have been blessed in some wonderful and often unbelievable ways.

I would have liked to play a stadium, just once. I did get to perform in Kemper Arena in Kansas City, Mo., one time, but it wasn’t quite the same. 10,000+ people and my Vox Beatle amp to cover the room – not even a meaningless connection to the soundboard to make me feel better about it. It’s amazing, the memories that stick with you. It could still happen, of course, but I’d need to get busy. Short of jumping the stage and wrestling that ugly green axe from Adam Clayton’s hands in November, I don’t see it happening. I have played some amazing venues, even signed a few autographs. Back then, I hoped they were IOU’s for a future payoff.

I’d have liked to have seen more of the world. I’ve seen a bunch, but still. It’s true that I’ve often traded insecurity for security, and I’m comfortable with that. Yes, I’m trying to be funny; that’s a funny sentence. Read it out loud and it’ll be funnier.

One of the things I’ve learned is that I can pick through all of the yardsticks that exist in the human grid, and come up short. I’m not the tallest, wisest, richest, most intellectual, no great talent; I sit squarely near the middle along the bell curve of my species. I do have a few gifts, and I find most pleasure by trying to give them at my best. I’m my harshest critic, most competent and least productive therapist, and, the older I get, more and more grateful for those who bless me with their gifts of time, attention, love, and care.

Me, me, me. Blah Blah Blah. Thanks for reading. Thanks for your friendship and love, some of it crossing seas, continents, and even the difficulties of us both speaking English. I’m now in the running to be considered one of your oldest friends. You’ll just have to be more patient, more often, while I explain how it used to be.

Bittersweet is a way of life

2009-05-16T11:56:00.001-07:00

I have lived in some small towns, although the memories that exist are probably as much Mayberry as they are Globe, Arizona. I have lived in many small communities of various constructions, where everybody knew each other’s “business”. One of the differences between then and now was that, then, you knew more about them than just their “business”, you knew their context. You knew in much more complete way, why.

One of the things about being ‘connected’ in today’s world is that you often learn more than you should about persons that you don’t know in any other, larger way. While this broadens our knowledge, and has created new and diverse communities that span the globe, it is absolutely a different world that’s developing in ways where the old rules can’t apply. It’s also, at least for me, a challenge to the pursuit of contentment on my part, as I suspect it may for some of you. Those connections got to me, this week, in a way that probably wouldn’t have happened even five years ago.

I like to listen to Fresh Air , a PBS interview program. I download them as podcasts and listen to them in the car. As such, I don’t really screen them for content; it’s more often than not a pleasant surprise to hear who’s being interviewed. I’m not going to identify the particular subject of an interview I listened to on Monday afternoon in the car on the way home, but she was describing the abortion of her genetically abnormal baby. I found the first part interesting (and I really didn’t know where she was headed, actually) because she was talking about the different contexts of her world vs. her feminist Mother’s (I am not attacking ‘feminism’, please). Her Mother had been in the fight to win ‘choice’ – and part of that was a metaphorical world (hey! metaphors and meaning) that, for example, used terms like “fetus” instead of “baby”. To this ‘second generation woman’, those obfuscations (my term) were unnecessary – this was a baby that she was aborting. She then went on to describe a very difficult decision-making process with her husband. They didn’t think that their marriage would survive life with a disabled child. Her description of events culminated in a teary request to the doctor that the baby not suffer – he assured her that he’d give it a shot beforehand that would assure this. It was about then that I disconnected the iPod – I didn’t need to go any farther with her. It was not because we disagreed as much as it was just plain disturbing. There was no knowledge to be gained by me from reading her book, I live many of those kinds of moments every day. Her book is for others to read, not me.

These are difficult words to recount, even for me. I don’t present it to you lightly. Please stay with me for the next couple of paragraphs. I’ve had one of those discussions with my wife, before our firstborn, about what and how and what we’d do. We came to a different conclusion, but I fully understand the conversation and the possible outcomes. Now, I’m not that dour a guy, really, but her words continued to mull in my mind.

Thursday, came a reminder from a budding (in the sense that I want it to grow) friendship in Dublin that he’d seen his friend who’d just “buried her baby girl. She takes most comfort from the fact that they got to meet her and know her as a person. Only fifteen days.” Same world, different day. I didn’t get a chance to reply to his email; I spent the remainder of the day thinking of those encounters I’ve had with people – traveling, seminars, camps – where connections are made that affect us for a lifetime. I know what his friend meant. It was gratitude, hope borne of dreams, while, not fulfilled, realized through Love given.

This morning, news that Mya is finally home from the hospital after 55 days. Mya, whose Trisomy 21 became one of the lower priorities for her in light of a medical accident. Mya, the beautiful girl who cannot move, cannot speak, who, when I got to hold her what, 5 years ago?, made an impact on my soul that I can neither adequately describe nor expect you to understand, merely over the course of a few minutes. Mya, who has changed the lives of everyone I know who’s met her.

We have always been beings, seemingly, that do not understand ourselves well enough to know what we are capable of until we realize what we have done. Perhaps there is no other way.

My connections, this week, have taken me round and about, again, through the irreconcilable, the unknowable, the unthinkable, yet often redeemable human experience.
I mentioned contentment. I’m going to define it, for now, as the ability to make the right decision about how one will view one’s current situation. Moving from discontent requires thought, whether or not action is required. As my friend Glen says, “Relationship precedes Function.” Knowing. Being. Doing. I found contentment in the strangest of ways, on this Saturday. Guess what? “The greatest of these is Love.”

Bittersweet.

Happy Birthday, Jeanette

2009-04-27T17:32:00.001-07:00

To prove that I’m not a complete and utter curmudgeon, Here’s our birthday greeting to my sister, yesterday, accompanied by Elmo and his constant companion.

Happy Birthday, Jeanette from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

WhattssametaForU? Part II

2009-04-20T19:08:00.001-07:00

Ok. I’m going to admit now that I’ve forgotten what got me started on this topic. But let’s press on.
I’m going to use single quotes ‘ ’ to denote what I consider to be metaphorical doorways, keys, landmines, pick your own descriptor. These are places where you can take the subject matter off on your own tangent, or try and understand mine. . . good luck.

Let’s take on a favorite topic, Persons with Trisomy 21.
Retarded
Morons (IQ between 51-70)
Imbeciles – (IQ between 26-50)
Idiots – (IQ between 0-24)
Down Syndrome
Mongolism
Demon – Possessed
Judgment for the sin of previous generations

From the top down, all but the last two were pretty much acceptable until the mid-70’s. The mid 1970’s. I have personally experienced the sensation in the presence of certain groups that lead me to believe that the last two have not been abandoned.

“Sometimes I think that we’ve advanced, but then I look at where we are.”
-Larry Norman, “If God is my Father”

I remember reading the IQ classifications in my college textbooks, along with the use of “Mongoloid”, albeit historically, in those 70’s. As you see, they move ‘down’ from the scientific to the spiritual, or ‘up’ if you wish to view them as ‘progression’ or ‘evolutionary’ – in terms of Man’s societal and scientific knowledge have grown. A ‘timeline’ of sorts within a continuum of Human experience – gone but not entirely forgotten. Historically, they overlap, but you get the picture. We’re more ‘sensitive’, which pretty much means that we keep our counsel closer than we used to.

Then there’s the modern medical and societal metaphorical mess. Let’s jump in by posing the following question:

Should I support the March of Dimes? I mean, why wouldn’t I?
Everybody’s against birth defects, right?

It’s about what is, what was, what could have been, what could be. . .

What I’m saying is with the metaphorical mashup is that living with and truly loving Emma means that very little means what it used to.
How does one cuddle and coo with a soul that is the one in ten*, without feeling the loss?
How does one interpret the sidelong glances and stares of what must be the other nine’s mothers and fathers who watch me struggle with Emma at McDonald’s? Moral superiority and societal shame blended into a gut-McFlurry, sometimes. Both at a loss to explain the other’s outcome, unable to fathom the realization of either path, exclusively. And so we exist, uncomfortably, together – so far.
The realization that one sees the world through a very different filter. Alienation. Probably like being very rich or very famous. Without the perks. The realization that talking about it sounds like self-martyrdom. I’m beyond that. This is what it is. Those of you who aren’t in this ‘club’ will be appalled when I say that it’s not even a rare disease that can be capitalized upon, although there are those that try. But those are discussions for other places and other times.

These realizations are not exclusive to me or even Down Syndrome; suffering abounds in many forms and features.This brings me back, ‘full-circle’, and a fine enough place to pause, as it were. We are different, yet we are the same. Nearly all of us ‘suffer’ from something. Those of us that don’t just haven’t reached it, yet.

*just in case I have to explain it, 90% of babies diagnosed with T21 in utero are aborted.

What the Metaphor's For, Part I

2009-04-05T09:54:00.001-07:00

If you'll all just take your seats, we'll begin. Please extinguish all smoking materials, and place your tray tables in their upright positions. Today we have no syllabus, so fasten your seat belts until the "Buckle Up" sign is no longer lit. Thank you.

Dr. C.Eugene Mallory (pg.7) remains an enigmatic player in my thought life. He was the head of the Psychology Department at Point Loma College - an institution of the Church of the Nazarene, Point Loma College, and Point Loma Nazarene University. Yes, the same place, and yes, it's ironic in the context of this missive - - this is not meant to be a Dis-missive, I'm just sayin'. And that's a pun, not a metaphor.

Most of Dr. Mallory's instruction was, while aimed squarely at me, went completely over my head, probably because I was ducking at the time. Just as our parents become more intelligent as we all grow older, the things that he taught and the concepts that he described began to resonate with me in more meaningful ways much later; right about the time that he died in 2003. This, of course, meant that I could neither thank him nor pursue any further insights with him. Such is the nature of our existence. He and I did not have any sort of larger relationship; I was a student with a major in his department, and the son of a schoolmate. These qualified me for a lot of classroom time and some individualized instruction, as well as a few therapy sessions after I left school. He was a gentle man who often suffered his foolish students, gladly, and whose methods baffled me in my 20's, but make perfect sense to this 50 year old man.

One of the things that I have learned is that, in those times when I'm a teacher, learning does not always take place in the teaching moment.

One of the things that I was not mature enough to wrap my head around in my 20's was that the pseudo-science of psychology, and actually, all things, ultimately, are based upon philosophy. Constructs of the human mind.

"Everything you've learned in school as "obvious" becomes less and less obvious as you begin to study the universe. For example, there are no solids in the universe. There's not even a suggestion of a solid. There are no absolute continuums. There are no surfaces. There are no straight lines."
- R. Buckminster Fuller

(Now, is this "true", or do we just not have an accurate and aesthetically pleasing way to describe a straight line or an absolute continuum? Who am I to doubt Dr. Fuller? Hmmmm?)

If I had been a math major (my chances of being an astronaut were better, but not much, cause it required math), then this realization would have come, too, with the addition of the 4th, 5th, etc. dimensions. Even mathematics can and is taken into the realm where it only exists within the human collective mind. There are minds that readily accept and go with these concepts; my limited brain begins to liquefy and slosh around in my cranium until it just sounds like the ocean.

The various giants of psychology, then, were actually philosophers. What wasn't clearly said (or, more to the point, what I didn't realize, then) was that we are all philosophers. That some of us follow the teachings of Emeril Lagasse, while troubling; means that we all end up with a framework of belief and intent that informs our living. Therefore, the successful therapist would be capable of assessing the patient's actual, functional and philosophical milieu, and then be skilled at applying the appropriate therapy based upon what they needed. Now, the giants, of course, were bound to make their patients fit their philosophy. This is where I was coming from as a 20-something church kid. I'd thought there already was "The Answer", and while I didn't know exactly what it was, I thought I had a clue.

Dr. Mallory was all about meaning. Meaning and metaphor. Truly listening to another to understand. It's a fundamental element of the therapeutic process, and yet I've personally experienced therapy where it did not exist. You know what I'm talking about, from those that "get" what you're talking about, instantly, to those that will make the effort, to those that are only in the room with you - therapist or not.

I'm not going to get near where I thought that I was headed, today, with this, although the background is good - if you're still interested. This is now Part I. If you are, then take some time in the next few days to listen to another person. Listen to the language of their life - the imagery that their words create, how their descriptions are framed. Try and get a picture of how they might see the same things you do in a completely different way. These are the things that I've been dwelling on, lately.

I see that the Captain has turned off the seat belt sign, so please feel free to move about the cabin. We do recommend that you keep your belt fastened while sitting, in the event that we hit some unexpected turbulence. Thank you.

Men, Men, Men. . .

2009-03-29T17:19:00.001-07:00

It's a ship that's filled with men. You'll never have to lift the seat, there's no one here but men men men men. . .

We drove through the morning mist to the overlook east of the Indian Casino. Waiting for the remainder of the shooting party, the clouds rose up from the canyon to envelop us even as the sun rose in the East. A few handshakes, then speeding off down I-8 (I was following a police officer, honest!), eventually through downtown Ocotillo (1 store, 2 bars, and about 12 houses) and up the wash to our perfect shooting spot. It consists of a broad place, about an eighth of a mile across. A steep cliff on one side provides safety and crevices for targets like watermelons and bowling pins. Behind, enough scrub and gullies to relieve oneself in the privacy of the wilderness. Our vehicles, in between, laden with firearms, ammo, targets, handi-wipes and snacks. Quickly, but not so quickly that it's work; tables, shades, and chairs appear. Van (the aforementioned policeman and rangemaster) gives the safety lecture, and all pay heed. You listen carefully to each other when there are loaded guns around. Craig Ferguson says that that's why people are so polite in Texas - they're all armed. The safety zone is explained, and Dads are keenly aware of where their sons and daughters are at all times (yeah, there were some girls there, it's o.k. cause they're basically smothered by the testosterone in the air - I'm KIDDING - kinda).

We start with pistols. Load up the clips for the Glock, or grab a handful of .357 bullets for the six-shooter. Noobs and kids are accompanied to the line to make sure that the pointed guns stay pointed at the hill, hands are on the guns in the right manner, and that the gun is actually empty before it's returned to the table. We take our turns shooting above, below, around the targets and plastic bottles. The controlling of danger, explosions, and smell of gunpowder are of course deeply-rooted, endorphin-releasing experiences for most of us, and there can be the satisfaction of actually hitting what one is aiming at, but it is secondary. Earplugs both protect us from the cracking and unnecessary chit-chat. This is serious fun. Your senses are all functioning – straining your eyes at the target, finger on the trigger, arms extended, hold your breath, steady . . . the sting as the gun jumps – some a lot more than others – the zing of the brass casing ejecting, breathe again. The canyon wall provides a resounding crack! after each pop! - from the pfffts of the .22's to the pounding .45.

Rifles. More accurate. More powder. More power, uh uh uh. As someone who shoots virtual guns nearly every day, it is interesting to experience the physical. Particularly when the gun is an M-1, a staple of U.S. troops in WWII, or an AR15, from the Vietnam era.

The M-1, when compared with modern guns, is a piece of furniture. As Van pointed out as he was helping me with it, "Can you imagine slogging through the jungles in the Pacific with this thing?" I can imagine it, but not for very long. It's heavy, but it's also steady. Above, you can see how a clip of eight shells is loaded into the gun. After the eighth shot, the metal clip is ejected with a very characteristic, almost chime-like sound. The stuff of legend. It's also, probably, the most accurate gun I shot, all day.

The AR-15 was another story. Lightweight, yes. Fully automatic on the battlefield, for sure. Handing off the M-1 for the AR-15 though, was like eventually giving up all of those aspirations of finding a girl who could cook just like Mom - life just wasn't going to be the same. It was still fun, sure, but somehow not as satisfying. It probably just means that I'm old enough for old school, now.

Shotguns. Some can hit the clay pigeons, some can't. Sam and I were too pooped to pop at that point; we were pretty sure that all we would get from that would be bruised shoulders.

Heading home, dusty, hands and arms sore, we finished off the bag of chips, wiping our grimy hands on our pants, burping Dr. Pepper into the falling sun. Home in plenty of time for dinner. A world away, if for only half a day. Thanks, guys!

See ya, Monday.

2009-03-24T10:26:00.000-07:00

My friend died, Sunday night. He was a co-worker of mine, since 1986. He's been a teacher, mentor, employee, but mostly a friend. He wasn't that easy to get to know; there is still a lot that I will never know about him. We've been to each other's homes, met each other's families. He's loaned me tools. He's given me rides to and from work; I stuck around and drove him home the day his truck got stolen. He read the paper, and we often talked about yesterday's news. We ate lunch and took our breaks together. It was an everyday thing, part of the ritual of the hourly worker. We reminded each other about stuff that needed to be done. He wouldn't like my use of the word, but it was an intimacy borne of time spent together. We griped. We talked about our kids, our wives, the DMV, the War (past and present), cars, work - of course.
We knew some things about each other that maybe no one else will - in those moments of frustration, talking through the day. There were days when we didn't talk much about anything; didn't need to.
His mother died in mid-December. He took time off, then got sick. He never came back, but about a month ago was admitted to the hospital. Our hospital. Upstairs. Those first few days, they had to put a sign up on the door asking you to check in with the front desk - he was inundated by visitors. He got steadily worse. The visitors dropped off. Our conversations became difficult - there's not a lot to talk about when you've been in the same bed for 3 weeks. I'd miss some days because he'd be out getting another procedure done. The last few days, he'd say hi, grumble a bit, then drop off. I'd sit there for a rew more minutes, then wander back to work. Friday, they moved him to the ICU. I went up there, and there were a couple of people working on him. He was talking back and gesturing; I didn't go in. See ya, Monday.
I know I wasn't his only friend. He was a friend to many, and he was a good Dad. He loved his girls. I know his life didn't turn out the way he wanted it to. He did good work, and he trained many. Like so many of us, his job changed drastically from what he was hired to do; he made the best of it. He did what needed to be done. As his boss, I knew that he knew more than I did about what needed to be done, even so, he did what I asked him to do when I proved it. Boss, or no boss, he treated me the same; it was easier for me not to be.

He was a good guy. He took care of his parents, and was taking care of his father when all of this hit him. He was the guy I could borrow five bucks from for lunch when the ATM was down.

He listened.
I miss you, Steve.

Altered States

2009-01-31T11:00:00.001-08:00

My doctor changed my blood pressure medicine about 3 weeks ago. Now, I've been taking medication for high blood pressure for nearly 20 years, and been through several formulas in the process. My experience has been that, when you start on a different regimen, the drug hits you with with both effects and side-effects, and you learn to tolerate them all. The balance, naturally (or un-naturally, I suppose in this case) is to be found in getting the right imbalance of the desired result over the undesired. What had happened was a change about 7 weeks ago, a follow-up, and then the drug was boosted another 50%. I'm going to try and explain, briefly, what happened to me, for reasoning that I hope will be meaningful.

Beta-blockers basically lower blood pressure by slowing one's heart rate. They are also used as an occasional anti-anxiety drug for this reason. In the first few weeks, I noticed that the slowdown was mental, as well, but, when you tend to be a sullen curmudgeon with occasional outbursts, I didn't see this as that much of a negative. My weight loss continues, albeit more slowly - if I couldn't be fat, then 2 outta 3 (dumb and happy) might not be so bad. As the dosage increased, I found myself having a hard time concentrating, particularly when someone was speaking to me about anything complex; building control programming, the plot of "Burn After Reading." At the beginning of the week, I started experiencing panic attacks, but they were very,very strange because a> I had absolutely nothing to be that anxious about, which only made me more anxious, and b> my heart rate wasn't rising to meet the anxiety, which physically felt a lot like stepping out on a very high ledge covered in Crisco(the ledge, not me- that'd be really creepy). I slept for a couple of days, changed the time of day for taking the stuff - didn't really make any difference. Saw the doc yesterday, I'm starting today with a combination of a couple of old favorites to perhaps mitigate the problems with both. Of course, a possibility is aggregation rather than mitigation, but if that happens, there's always litigation. I'm just kidding. Healthcare and lawyers - now there's a prescription for side effects lasting more than four hours. But I digress.

The reason I'm writing about this is that I was reminded, over and again as I went through the motions, mostly at work, moving through the same spaces that I've traveled in for 20 some years, but feeling so very different, that we're not perceiving this world identically. We may be occupying the same spaces, but our senses and conclusions can be as different as night and day. If I might be so bold, I think it's been a real factor in my unease this year concerning politics - seeing relationships torn asunder because, in my opinion, they were just incapable of understanding/accepting/relating to a different view than their own. I was quite frightened, on Monday, by the prospect that I knew that something was wrong with me and it was somewhat out of my control - fortunately I was aware of what was (probably) causing it, and could do something about it. I've been contemplating what it would be like to be in that position without the last part of that sentence in force. I've been reminded that, if I truly want to be the kind of person I'd like to be, I need to be aware of others' contexts, perhaps even drug interactions, when interacting with them. This is pretty easy to observe, where I work, where there are ready examples of a full spectrum of humanity - from the certified mentally ill to the ultimate ego-driven specimens known as surgeons. It is fortunate that the gemütlichkeit of my workplace includes empathy and compassion; they are inherent in the business plan.

So. How do we come to trust what we trust - our senses, each other, gravity? Experience and Love? What if they're wrong, misplaced, misled? Should I even be asking these questions, are they merely borne by beta-blocking? I'm not sure - but I guess that's the point.

Professor Longhair/Bowfinger/I came, I saw, I sat and sawed.

2009-01-23T19:37:00.001-08:00

We attended our first concert at Sam's Middle School, last Wednesday evening. We told no one (sorry G & G) because a) we didn't know what to expect and b) Sam advised us that his portion would be rather small. He also wasn't thrilled about a white shirt, tie, and shoes, for that matter. Suitably attired, he assumed his position on stage.

This is only the second year that this program has existed at Pershing. It also looks extremely ambitious to me. There were seven separate groups that performed - separate orchestras for 2 grades, bands for all 3 grades, an 8th grade wind ensemble, and the Pershing Panther Jazz Pride band, complete with 3 bass players playing the "Peter Gunn Theme" in unison. It was actually interesting to track the progress of musicianship from one grade level to the next, and that's all I'm going to say about that. I was most impressed by the way the young teacher managed this large, intermingled group of students, music, and logistical swarming between group changes. He certainly seemed up to the task. Initially, I feared for his sanity. Whether he is in fact sane or not is not actually important; I nonetheless admire his fortitude on several levels.

The auditorium was suitably filled with a family crowd out on a school night. Sam's group, first group up, nervously waited with us through the requisite announcements and introductions. The 6th Grade Orchestra dove right into "Beginning String Medley",
"Grasshopper Chomp", and finally, "March of the Metro Gnome". Thunderous Applause, Sam's done, off the stage, and we settled into our seats for the polite finish.

Evening turned to night. Instruments came and went. Tympani were tuned, re-tuned, and, of course, in true ugly American fashion, the crowd began to dwindle. Sure, part of me longed to join them (mostly my middle-aged rear end on that wooden auditorium seat), but we do our best to teach the right things by doing the right things. Emma even eventually lost interest and turned to the Sesame Street-laden iPod from Mom's purse. The numbness from the aforementioned region eventually spread to my cranium as we passed the two-hour mark. Then, gratefully, it was over. We collected our cellist and headed home to a ten-o'clock dinner.

With the exception of some pre-k bell ringing, this is the first time I've been the one in the audience and not the one on stage. I have a few more times to go before I can sort out all of the feelings about that, and I'm more than willing and happy to do so. Pride and awe in my son, first and foremost. Wistfulness for times past. Newfound empathy for that teacher. Joy at hearing the "Peter Gunn Theme" played with a certain juvenile vigor. The cornucopia of sounds that surround "intonation." "Playing Through." Yes, I'm thinking of you, Mark. What smug punks we still are - rightly so, man, rightly so. The confidence of youth I saw in those bass players. The promise of things to come, promises kept, spent, fulfilled and left wanting. It was a good evening. Bittersweet.

March of the MetroGnomes from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Wanna see my Jr. High School AV qualification card?

2009-01-15T19:54:00.001-08:00

***I want to do a lot of things. I don't seem to do many of them. One of my desires is to update this blog at least once very couple of weeks. It's been three, so I've been feeling a certain unnecessary pressure, on top of all of the other stuff that's been not working in my life, lately. So, here we go:***

I have always been a gadget geek, and I suspect that, although there are many varieties of geek, I am one of the worst kind. I tend to buy cheap stuff and spend endless hours finding ways to make them work, rather than spending the money to buy something that works right out of the box, or - better yet - not buying it at all. As I teeter on the precipice of my golden years, I'm tending to buy better stuff, when I can, but even now, on my computer desk, my fabulous iMac suffers the indignities of the insertion of various USB, DVI, and Firewire devices into its ports. The iPod that I received as a Christmas gift confirmed all of this for me. A couple of years ago, I bought my phone, a Motorola RAZR, and soon learned that my carrier had it pretty much locked down in ways that did not please me; capitalistic pig-dogs that they are, trying to maximize their profits by charging me airtime to transfer files! So I hacked it, and have spent probably 3 times more time getting it to do what I want it to do as I have doing what I want to do with it. While there is some satisfaction in this, it's beginning to wane. My iPod does what it is supposed to do, and more, like saving my spot and returning to it in the middle of a podcast. Of course, my Mac-running-Vista-running-iTunes isn't perfect, but it's pretty close. I'm growing more comfortable with irony, every day. HA!

At work, I've been trying to get a PC-based Character Generator/video player thing to work. It's kludgy. It doesn't work anywhere near the way that (what there is of it) the User's Guide says it will. The supplying company, up there in the amorphous mass that is Orange County, has a guy, "Steve" (I think all of the geeks that live in Orange County are named "Steve", I think they're aliens living among us, just biding their time until they can overtake the Disney headquarters and rule the world), who has been extremely helpful, but unable to get me to get it to work. It very nearly does what I want it to do, but fails to complete the entire program. Of course, it does not fail in the same place, nor does it fail in any sort of logical manner that "Steve" has ever experienced. Of course, the implementation of this video programming involves those with political clout in my little world, so I've been under a bit of pressure to make it happen. Because this 'thing' runs on a 24-hour schedule, I've been faced with making a minor change/ticking or unticking a checkbox/etc., then waiting several hours - or until tomorrow - to see if anything positive occurs. After about six weeks, I've finally run out of options, so next week "Steve" will either be coming to visit me, I'll be taking the box up to see him, and/or we'll be buying another box. In this instance, my willingness to "make it work" has probably cost me more in the long run than if I'd given up a month ago. Frugality in the electronic age is not always a virtue, I guess.

Friday afternoon, on the way home, I bought a fairly expensive gadget. I brought it home, hooked it up to my iMac, and it didn't work very well. I goofed and fiddled with it, and figured out that I could eventually get it to do the things I wanted it to do, but it wasn't going to be as easy as either promised, or it should be - it would require geekyness on my part. I resisted my primal urges, packed it all back up into the box, and returned it to the store. I'm still going through withdrawal, and looking for an alternative, but I do feel strangely better. My house is filled with stuff that sorta works, so we keep it (that's probably Vicky's attitude toward me, now that I think about it). I guess I'm trying to behave as if I've learned something, after all of these years.

Merry Christmas, 2008

2008-12-18T14:29:00.000-08:00

I suspect that most of us don't really deal with innocence on a daily basis. There is an aspect to innocence that undermines the way our minds work; the layers that can both deepen and destroy our relationships. Motives and our mindsets color everything we do. It's a function of Christmas that for a time, at least, we're a little more conscious of the things that we really should be all year round.
I've been thinking of Christmas in terms of Emma this year. She's been watching a Christmas Sesame Street video all year as part of her large rotation of DVD's; we've been party to the theme right along with her. I don't have the slightest clue what her understanding of Christmas or birthdays or any other special occasions might be, other than the fact that she loves a party and loves to open presents. She does not appear to suffer from envy or want; there is never disappointment in what is unwrapped - in fact, the unwrapping can be the best part. It also follows that one can't really predict with any success which toy or book will capture her interest - there is no pressure, then, to provide the latest, most interactive Elmo, she prefers one that she can manipulate over one that performs for her.
There's no anticipation, either. It's mostly just keeping her from the tree until the prescribed day. This frustration, for all of us, is just another facet of her innocence, albeit her perhaps not-so-innocent drive to get to the goods.
What it all means is that our Christmas happens in the moment, not so much in all of the trappings and greater meaning that it otherwise implies for the rest of us. Living with Emma - engaging with her in discipline, play, meals, etc. means more in the here and now. Lessons are not always learned the first, second, ninety-eth time. Joys can also be had, over and over again, too, in ways that don't seem to grow old like they often do for those more sophisticated. Certainly, there is reinforcement and relationship. It's just different. This has been my learning and gift, this year, from her.
I deal with Emma's innocence on a daily basis. Realizing this has, I hope, changed the way that I've dealt with who she is. It is frustrating to still be changing diapers, but there is still a cheering demonstration from us when she chooses to use the potty. It's frustrating to pick up her stuff off the floor, at least once a day, and I will probably be muttering to myself every time I do it for some time to come, but she's helping to set the table and often tries to help in ways that she can. My times of anger turned her way are inevitably shamed by her innocence, and I'm taken to a place where I have to examine why I am the way I am. It's just the way it is.
She's no angel. She has her schemes, and, like any parent, it's my job to subvert them and somehow channel them into opportunities for advancement. She's capable of getting into the kitchen and fixing herself a snack. Fortunately, she's innocent enough not to be quiet about it, and is usually caught in the act, banished to the family room, and forced to ask for it. It is also fortunate that none of her snack-making involves using the stove, and the microwave is (at least so far) out of reach. Innocence can be, and often is, dangerous.
She also still loves to run into my arms. Her giggles when I tickle her or chase her around the house make up for an awful lot. She loves to dance with me, and I love to dance with her because she has no idea how goofy I look.
That she will probably remain this way, in some extent, means that I will be faced with this sort of introspection for the rest of my days. Her promise is one of perpetual honesty, too, a gift that should not be overlooked.
Innocence. Purity. Joy. Promise. Love. They are the themes of the season. Just as it was, so long ago, they existed in the midst of personal struggle, societal upheaval, and great uncertainty for the future. In the moment, though, there is great joy to be had in the face and heart of the innocents. That we could all enjoy the day thus will be my wish for all of us, this Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas!

Disturbed

2008-12-13T18:46:00.001-08:00

Is it the nature of modern human life that we multitask ourselves to oblivion?
I'm just askin'.

My routines have been all out of whack. I spent four days, the week before last, under the care of one of the largest companies in the world. I was there for training for our building controls software. It was really quite fun, in a room filled with both state of the art equipment, ready snacks, and a corporate trainer whose mission was to enable 11 of us to fully understand and embrace the curriculum. I was able to sleep in a little later, help get Emma on the bus, a different route to and from, lunch out. . . when you've been institutionalized as long as I have, it feels like cutting school.

This week was the reality that not much had really changed. Let's just leave it at that. The reality is that 'things' are just getting worse, a steady deterioration. They have been for some time. The longer it goes on, the less we keep up appearances, the less appointments we make, the more we withdraw. It's not bad, and we have a very lot to be thankful for. It's Bittersweet all over the map, babaaay. I've just been delaying writing because I've been looking for the clouds to part. A couple of my best online friends are new to this game, the last thing I want to do is discourage them so guys, know that this has as much to do with who I was before Emma was born as it does with her. As with so many other things, she's the magnifying glass, the fulcrum, the point where so many things just have to focus through. That I am feeling so weak and worthless and not able to overcome, like I'm supposed to, is a function of so many things. I got my blood-pressure meds doubled a few weeks ago, I think it's affected my thinking. Gonna talk with the doc this week about it. My passions are muted, modulated. I've been on a short bout or two of anti-depressants over the years, this is not like that.

I'm not wanting to complain, really, it's more a matter of documentation. Don't need to call me with awkward conversation. I'll do better, next time. I've got great friends and family, and I'm talking with them. I had a serendipitous phone conversation with one of you, this week, that still resonates in my heart. Nick, the warmth of your fires, lately, have been both nostalgic and inspiring to me. The realization that some of my scars, while still sore to the touch, have healed some. Keep those fires burning. Tom, your consistency, through your book and music reviews, even - I baffle at my attempts to understand how you manage your time, frankly. I could sure use a conversation with you, about now.

We got the tree today. The lights on the house, that I left up all year, came on last night. Most of them. Christmas is coming a little late this year, and it's already shaping up into a less-than-stellar year. Some years you can just feel it. "People make too much of Christmas, sometimes", Garrison Kiellor just said in the background on the radio ("A Prairie Home Companion", a radio show for those of you across the pond). I don't think I'll be making too much of it, this year. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe it'll kick in a few days before, I won't fight it, but it will be alright if it doesn't. I've had worse ones, for sure.

Sorry, no Dave Barry wackiness this time, no gravitas. Just me. Kinda disturbed. Some good, some bad. Bittersweet.

The TV Generation

2008-11-23T13:10:00.001-08:00

About 45 years ago, give or take a day, is when my memory begins. I remember the black & white TV, on the wire rack stand with the plastic clear wheels, bringing the images of Walter Cronkite, a caisson, a horse with the boots backward in the stirrups, and a little boy, about my age, saluting. I remember realizing that it was very sad. For all that this event has done and meant to the collective consciousness and memory of this nation, it is that benchmark for me.

The fortunes of JFK's memory, from incredible American Hero and martyr to womanizing drug-abusing power-monger to the eventual accommodation that he was all of these things has mirrored my childhood, adolescence, adulthood, including my "middle-age" sensibility whereupon it is indeed possible for one to be all of these things at once, given enough money, power, and opportunity. Was George Washington, who could never tell a lie, also a wildly successful land speculator who rebelled against the government's efforts to limit his holdings? Yep. Is it possible for a leader to have a vision and mission for a nation/group that flies in stark contrast to their own secret desires, flaws, and appetites? Apparently so, it seems to happen all of the time. Does the power corrupt, or is it exactly this quality of capabilities, ambitions, and impulses inherent in these individuals that brings them to these roles? Nature/nurture/chicken/egg? Why do painful childhoods produce stand-up comedians? Why do we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway? Questions for the ages, I suppose.

I have been shaped by the media. There is a CRT or LCD in 5 of the 7 main rooms of my home. My particular background was one where television was regarded with some conflicting emotions and attitudes - awe at the shrinking nature of the world and the growing speed of information, suspicion of the moral impact of such a device into what had, up until then, been the safe moral harbor of the home. There were only a few channels then, too, and the days of JFK were still run by an elite group of old-school newsmen and network heads who had ethical standards that they embodied by their control of the airwaves. The personal lives of public personalities were crafted, accepted, and the realities were off-limits. It was a matter of respect, to some degree, for how we wanted to be as a culture. Today, the results of the abuse of that respect - Vietnam, Watergate, Iran-Contra - pick your poison - along with the explosion of media outlets (including this one) mean that we are all "on", nearly all of the time. I see no need to Twitter, but people do. My workplace is becoming increasingly covered by cameras, and employees and equipment wear badges that pinpoint their presence in the building. I am monitored - for various reasons - when I watch TV via my cable box, when I surf the Internet, when I purchase goods with 'club' cards, etc. etc. etc. I fully anticipate - and sometimes welcome the thought, what with all of the user names and passwords I almost manage - an RFID implant that would provide me with coordinated access to all of the things I now access. I began to leave a trail of minutiae on the Internet that I'm told will last for generations, or until the next great electromagnetic pulse that comes either from outside or off the surface of the planet. We've been provided with many different sets of privileges and responsibilities. Like that 'idiot box', the reality brings awe and fear at the same time.

What's my point? I don't really know, it's just what I've been thinking on this anniversary. Just as my Grandfather saw life go from horses and outhouses to a Lunar Landing and toilets with warm water jets, I'm not sure what's in store for the rest of mine, but I know where it began. It was TV.

Coming of Age

2008-11-15T08:15:00.001-08:00

I am not known for the quality of my memory. I do remember the night when Samuel was born, 12 years ago, yesterday. The doctor saying, "You've got a towhead, there! His first cries. My first words: "Hello, Buddy!" Walking out into the air, about 2 or so in the morning, looking up at the stars, and feeling the earth shifting under my feet, and the distinct realization that everything had changed. The pediatrician, eying him for the first time, saying "You've got a week-old baby there." Yeah, he was late. I can't say that I blame him. He's always known a good thing when he sees it.

Samuel means "God Heard." He was an answer to prayer, the culmination of so many complex threads and events that had proceeded him. We weave those threads, good and bad, on a daily basis, some on purpose, some without our desire and even control. Samuel was, and is, our best declaration that life was worth living and investing in. The process of enabling Samuel laid the groundwork for what was to follow.

I used to joke, before I had them, that parents got the children that they deserved. It, of course, is not up to any of us to make that judgement, but we sure deserved Samuel. Through the alchemy of nature and nurture, he is that mixture of what we are, are not, and what we want to be.

Sam is sharp. He is funny - he has to be to survive around his dad. My biggest problem with him has been that, because he's so smart, he's had to endure more than his share of my sarcasm - and I've had to be reminded, time and again, that he's still a boy. A 5 foot-6 boy whose nearly-adult voice made me shudder when I spoke with him on the telephone the other day. He's terrific at math - he has to get that from his Mother. He, without my knowledge or approval, chose to play the cello. I approve, it just, well, startled me (it was my first instrument of choice). I can't play computer games against him, because he embarrasses me in front of his friends. I suppose I deserve that. He has an incredible imagination and can write stunningly descriptive fiction. He is compassionate, and he both sees and steps up to help those in need. He loves his sister, through all of the complications that she presents to his daily life. He's had to learn some things that many never will. He has my ultimate respect for these things.

There's still a lot for all four of us to do, and I've been struck with the growing sense of our time getting shorter to do the best that I can do. We both need to work together to make some stuff happen, and it's not going to be easy. Teendom, here we come.

I love you, Samuel. I hope someday you can know the joy that you've brought me.

Happy Birthday, Son.

Sam's 12 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo

States of Grace

2008-11-08T10:05:00.001-08:00

I haven't been writing much. One of the reasons is that I've been reading Roger Ebert's Journal. Through his physical travails, including the inability to speak, his writing, particularly the creation of his blog, has become quite phenomenal. It's the purification born of the refiner's fire. For me and writing, however, it's been like coming home from a Peter Gabriel concert- I can't entertain the thought of playing my bass for quite a while afterward. Tinny, out of shape, incompetent in the face of greatness.

Another reason for my absence has been to resist the temptation to say something stupid about our recent 'troubles' , er, I mean, election. There was enough of that available for you, already. The comments made about Senator McCain's concession speech, though, was the catalyst for this essay. Several commented on how "gracious" it was - and it was. It has been my sad experience that many of these great men who are in public service seem only able to exercise this grace in private, or at the end of political campaigns. The process seems to make it impossible. Most of the Presidents in my memory have been smarter and of more value to me after their terms were completed. They were no longer posturing, they were able to fully speak their minds and display wisdom that was somehow obscured by their office, the need to skew and spin, or the Machiavellian machinists that seem to gravitate to the power of the office. That's a whole other kettle of fish.

I began to think about Grace (with a capital "G"). I began to seek it, a bit more than usual.

This one was easy, it happened yesterday, in an instant. Walking in the hallway at work, running into Sister Leonita ('gracious' is not the first term I think of in terms of all of the Sisters of Mercy that I've met, but Sr. Leonita embodies it), we're going the same direction. There's a patient in a wheelchair moving ahead of us, slows us both down a bit, just the normal traffic, you know. Sister says hello to him, asks where he's going, and then says, "Can I help push you there?" Sister Leonita is about 5 foot 3, her age a Mediterranean mystery. Patient agrees, and they head off. I think, suddenly, that I should have thought of that; stupid galoot. Sister Leonita's grace surpasses her vows and job description, it is part of who she is.

Grace is always extended, offered, presented. Unlike trust, it does not exist on a two-way street - there's no implied contract. It exists without a requirement for reciprocation. It is the result of the law of sowing and reaping, a by-product of a previous investment. Graciousness, at least as far as I've been able to think about it, always comes from Gratitude. The cost to the one being gracious, while sometimes difficult, comes from the heart, which, by nature, gives in the knowledge that love is its reason for being, and is rewarded by the act itself. Grace, then, is not tentative, it is self-confident. Grace is a manifestation of Love. It is why Grace is recognized "under fire". I am able to be gracious when I have something to give, realize it, and offer it to you without qualification.

I guess what I've been thinking about, too, is when I and others aren't gracious. It's boiling down to selfishness, mostly, I suppose, the antithesis of grace. There's more to it, I'm sure; I haven't been googling "Grace" or seeking theological tomes on the subject, it's mere rumination on my part (and yes, I intend the analogy of turning it over and again in my gut, thank you). It's the realization part, the awareness aspect that's been gnawing at me. I'm sometimes not aware of an opportunity to be gracious, sometimes, like the example above, it's not realized until the opportunity has passed, and, at still other times, there's awareness, opportunity, and selfishness intervenes to prevent the flow of what should be. I am less apt to be gracious when I am at my worst - tired, frustrated, etc. - which means that Grace is also a product of the self-discipline of awareness, of taking care of oneself, of being able to do the right thing because you already are. Grown-uppedness. Grace is, then, a quality of a certain maturity, although my children offer it to me on a regular basis.

Grace is a particularly appropriate subject to be on one's mind in the runup to Thanksgiving (yes, even those of you across the pond who may not have a formal day for it in November). Maybe that's why Thanksgiving comes before Christmas, on the calendar, not after. I'm not being theological for a reason. The Grace of God is not separate from this discussion, it's just too huge for this little essay.

My daughter (and in this way opens the door to so many mind-boggling ways to portray who the rest of us really are) exists in a constant state of Grace. Provision is made for her every need, and her responsibilities are few. She does not know what she needs, she thinks she knows what she wants, and pitches quite a fit when her agenda doesn't match the greater one. She's quite unaware of the dangers that surround her, and disregards the warnings and barriers put between her and those dangers. She often has no understanding of the efforts on her behalf to educate and make her life better. Her awareness of concepts of time, love, what it means to be happy, exist in different dimensions of comprehension than mine. The result of our extension of that grace to her, through responsibility borne of love, brings a happiness and joy to us that is boundless and indescribable.

Emma has brought me more enlightenment on the nature of God, I think, than anyone or anything. Just a note, there.

I have existed in many states of Grace. Most of you that come to mind that might read this have extended that Grace to me in many ways, shapes and forms, even if that just means reading this. Thank you.

Our lives are really all "grace periods", from beginning to end. Here's to sharing it more often than not.

We're on the 'een of Destruction

2008-11-01T10:53:00.001-07:00

Here they are, the Hippy and the Princess

We had a rather pleasant end to a pretty stressful week. Sam went Trick-or-Treating with Ryan, from across the street, and we went around the block with Emma - she dutifully walks to the front door, holds open her bag, says "Haiee" and "Baiee", and, while she enjoys this bizarre annual ritual, I don't think she's particularly jazzed about the whole thing. Dressing up, of course, is the best part, and Nana crafted the lovely costume for this year's festivities. We came home with Emma, she sorted through her candy, and even gave Mom & Dad some, and Sam called from Ryan's to let us know that they were hanging out there, for a while. Sam's voice, particularly over the phone, is surprising me these days. Testosterone.

There were even less decorations, and less lights on in the neighborhood. I think that there are a lot of reasons for this, and it may be just the particular niche that I live in. I know that my parents have run out of candy (yes, Dad goes and gets more!) in recent years at their house. I think that next year we may have to seek our amusement elsewhere. That, in itself, is one of the reasons. . .

Fall in

2008-10-25T09:43:00.001-07:00

Everyone seems to be busy. I don't know if it's the new fiscal year for most businesses, don't know if it's the lack of holidays, the impending holidays, but this has always appeared to me to be a time of year where people just buckle down and get stuff done. One of the driving forces of my occupation is the preventive maintenance work order (PM). Equipment - emergency generators to exit signs - is inspected, cleaned, repaired if necessary on a schedule determined by a combination of government regulation, manufacturer's recommendation, and experience. Mostly, any more, by government regulation. For reasons heretofore unexplained, we have a lot more PM's in October than most months. Last week, the fire inspector came to visit, always a means to job security and opportunities to improve. This week, we've had 22 government inspectors combing the building, looking for whatever they can find. Did you know that, in a hospital, there are regulations stipulating the number, height and distance from other objects for hand sanitizer dispensers? Glove boxes? Sharps containers? Hospital patient room walls are crowded places. Regulators (read bureaucrats with clipboards) will sometimes overlook utility for an arbitrary standard. But, I digress.
These inspections are good, they can find sometimes obvious things that we miss because they look at things with different eyes. What's not good is the tizzy that it seems to send many people into. It makes for a stressful day.
Anyway, it's been busy.

I look at the pictures we have from our trip, and of course want to explain each one, and before you know it an hour has gone by, no decisions are made, and there's a huge slide show forming in my head, with parallel thoughts of slideshows I've sat through. Sat through one, once, where the photographer had, for each shot, taken a 'portrait' and a 'landscape' version, and eagerly displayed each and every one for us. "Groundhog Day" - in slides. Over three hours.

So here's one from Sunday evening. I don't know if you've ever seen rain off in the distance, in the desert, but you can see it here, in the lower right part of the picture. Now, it's about 85 degrees or so, it's sunny where we're standing, there's a wind picking up, and you can smell the rain coming. About 45 minutes or so after this was taken (wasn't wearing a watch, on purpose!), we got some strong winds - had to redo one of the mooring lines - and about 10 minutes of big, fat raindrops, then it blew by us. At one point, there were 2 rainbows.

Only 335 days to go.

For all my blogger buddies, yeah, I miss you, too.

Blog Awards - Curmudgeon Alert

2008-10-08T19:51:00.001-07:00

There are blogs, and then there are blogs. The range of reasons for self-publishing are as varied as there are publishers.

Thank you. The End.

Of course not. Just felt like doing that. It's my blog.

Once it's out there, you can promote your blog, get "discovered", get famous, I suppose, sometimes, make some money, maybe, and or/just feel good about yourself. You can cross-reference, cross-link, crossover and a host of terms that I'm sure I'd misuse and misconstrue into next Tuesday. Not my thing, at least not with this little adventure. More on that, in a bit.

Then there are the awards. There are industry awards, entertainment awards, awards for design, content, unique visitors, Megagiggles transmitted, etc. etc. ad nauseum. There's probably a Blogger Magazine being printed.

My online community is very much like my real life. Wow, go figure - it is a pretty good chunk of my real life. I occasionally make a pretty good friend. Often that brings me into contact with their wider 'circle', and that's where my lack of social skills begin to show. It's just happened.

There's a type of award that, while I'm sure it's well-meaning, makes me squirm. It's a social thing. I'll try to explain - I want to explain because I've 'gotten' a couple of them recently, and I haven't pasted them here, and I want to explain why to my benefactors.

The award consists of a cute graphic, and/or a particular term, like "Rainbow Writer Award" or "Best Barney Blogger" (I have received neither of these). The award is given to you, with all sincerity by a regular reader. Unfortunately, it doesn't end there. It comes with stipulations. In every case I've seen, one must:

Provide a link to the creator of the award.
Bestow the award upon several others.

It's an electronic chain letter, and its' primary purpose is to promote the award's creator under the guise of mutual appreciation. It's like those letters that one gets (or I used to get) from the Oxford Official Listing of Who's Who in American Business/Young Up-and-Comers/<insert your career>Movers and Shakers. You can obtain this wondrous volume (be sure and buy 7 copies for your office, extended family and business contacts) for only $49.99 plus shipping and handling. From Oxford, Minnesota, of course. The listing sells the listing, profits only the publisher. That's not entirely true here, but it impresses me in the same manner.
I suppose that I might feel differently if I knew these award creators, but, since I do not, the whole exercise impresses me as 'cheesy'. Congratulations! Now link to my blog and send this award to 7 other people. Get to work!

I know that my online friends have given me these awards with the best of intentions, and to you all I want to express both my thanks and mutual admiration.

Thank you, Yankee.

Thank you, NanP.

Thank you, Nick (sorta).

I would hope that you knew that, already, being my pals and all. I vow to go into my blog template soon and make sure that I'm displaying a link to your blog - that's a real award, to me - giving you space on my space, as it were.

So. A simple gesture sent my way turns into an internal Auto de fe. Welcome to my world.

I write here to:

Record the things that are important in my life, for now and later
Share that with family and friends
Practice Writing
Hopefully help (and subsequently receive help, thank you) from those in similar circumstances/places in this journey
Strengthen my Relationships with all of the above.

So, thank you, but no thank you. I hope, if I hurt your feelings, that you'll forgive me. When my blog becomes syndicated, I promise to send a car round to pick you up for dinner when I come through your part of the world on my promotional tour. It's the least I could do. Well, not quite, but close.

My 'Toemage' to Tom and Lake Meade

2008-10-01T09:04:00.001-07:00

Leaving the Dock

The front of Hoover Dam
(sorry, didn't check the focus, here's another shot)

Entering the Narrows

At the console

Cheetos on the upper deck

Just out of the water -
stormy way out there

Clouds at the cove

Sun's waning

Back to the Marina

We had a great time.

The same thing happens every year.

2008-09-24T07:51:00.000-07:00

Awaken, to the sound of water softly lapping against the hull, or perhaps a far-off fishing boat speeding toward a favorite spot. Momentarily wonder what time it is, realize that it doesn't matter. Dave's already long gone, up on a ridge, taking pictures. Check the wind to see if the coffee pot's already percolated; if it is, then she's already up on the top deck, and you can take her a refill. Grab your book and a cup, maybe a piece of chocolate, and head up there to read for a while, maybe even take a nap - it's decaf.
Later on, after breakfast, read some more or put your headphones in and listen. It's time to let go of the junk that clouds your soul for a little while. Talk about stuff - it doesn't matter what the subject is, it's called enjoying each other's company, in their company. Being with them without something to have to do, so rare, anymore. Jump in the lake - usually good for a cool jolt before lunchtime. Dry off, grab a snack. Read some more. Doze off. Look for burro droppings nearby, maybe we'll get some visitors as the sun recedes. We stare, they stare, they drink, we drink, they leave.
Afternoons are for floating, napping (naturally), and getting dinner ready. The music heats up, more junk food is consumed, and the energy level reaches a peak of activity that, while not lathargic, is better described as unhurried. The sun goes down, we pause and admire the serenity of it all, the uncomplicated desert landscape, and get back to the big dinner. Dinner takes a while, like it should when good friends are together. At last, we clean up most of the mess and head up to the deck and the stars.
Even with the 'light pollution' of Las Vegas to the West, the sky is magnificent to us city folk. The "Milky Way" is, really. We can see (even with our aging eyes) shooting stars, planes, satellites, some claim to have seen a UFO, one year. Years ago, we would sit and talk and gaze up for what seemed to be hours on end. Nowadays, it usually doesn't take long before the sound of snoring begins. Too bad, but it's who we are. One by one, we either say our goodnights to the remaining sentinels and head down to bed, or make our bed upstairs, if the weather's right. By then, the lake is like glass, and the stars shimmer back up at you as you take a last look before you tuck in.
The time seems to pass more quickly, each year. Idle time, but by no means wasted. Time to breathe. Time to listen, to see. To gaze. To share both memories and expectations. It's hard to believe that we've done this 19 times. I can't wait to go, tomorrow.

Workin' on the Night Moves. . .

2008-09-15T01:24:00.000-07:00

My life has been turned upside-down, these last two weeks. Not figuratively, literally. I've been working what's known as the "graveyard" shift, 2300 - 0730, while a co-worker is on vacation. I've been rather skillful in avoiding this sort of thing over the last 20+ years, and never have had to do more than one shift at a time. There was no escape.
I'm a real circadian-rythm kind of guy. I'm regular in just about every sense of the word, my waistline notwithstanding (more on that in an upcoming post). I am a light switch. For me, it means that my eyelids usually slam shut at about 9 p.m., nearly always opening at about 5:24 a.m. - 6 minutes before the alarm goes off. Emma sees to it that this rythm is unbroken on weekends. The prospect, then, of regularly leaving for work an hour or so after my bedtime was somewhat frightening. How does one prepare? The answer is that you really can't, you just have to do it. So, I did it. Took a thermos of freshly brewed coffee, and set off into the night.
There is a rythm to this shift. The first requirement is that you're available to respond to whatever might come up at our nearly million-square-foot facility. Second, you have to take the 'vital signs' of the building - chiller readings, compressed air, vacuum, medical air, boilers, water softeners, verify that the emergency generators' switches are in the 'auto' position, fueled, batteries charging, and warmers warming (in the event of power loss, these big diesel engines have to come to life and take the load within 10 seconds), make sure that the water heaters are working, that the fire pumps have pressure, check the Liquid Oxygen and Nitrous Oxide tanks (no sampling). You have to travel to each 'negative pressure' room, close the door, and emit a small puff of chalk at the bottom of the door to verify that it is indeed providing negative pressure - keeping the nastiness that could be inside, inside. There are operating suites and intensive care sections that have to be tested for temperature and humidity, all of this logged meticulously in notebooks and clipboards. In between, there can be calls for everything from plumbing concerns (it's a 50 year old, 12 story building) to the nurse call system and everything in-between. A good night, of course is when nothing untoward happens. I've been pretty lucky, it's been quiet.
It's pretty solitary; there are only two of us on. The other position is in my beloved BOC, where one basically tries to keep occupied and answer the calls that come in for engineering, housekeeping, and security. Making the rounds takes one outside the building; it's odd to be out in dark places at the outer edges of this property. Gazing across the canyon to the apartment buildings hugging the opposing hillside, windows glow from televisions. We're 'uptown'; there seem to be a lot of people awake at 2 in the morning, or asleep in front of those TV's. I am reminded, each night that I do this, of the two nights I stepped out of this building after both Sam and Emma were born - both entered the world shortly after midnight. The first night, gazing at the stars, feeling the center of my universe shift. The second night, looking to the stars from a world completely changed. Going into the OR where I watched Emma enter the atmosphere, pulled out by one leg; the smell made by the cauterizing scalpel. I've worked here long enough to accumulate a lot of memories; they're closer to me now in the quiet, empty halls.
Eating something at 0300, alone on the 12th floor. Looking out over the empty bay and the lights of the city. Marking time. It takes time, a long time when you're just waiting to leave, this is universal no matter what you're waiting on.
Finally, it's time to go home. The rythm has to change, because it's better to get some sleep in the morning, before the kids get home from school, so it's straight to bed at 0830. Earplugs help. I've been moderately successful at getting about 4-6 hours of sleep; yesterday I got a full 7 plus, not waking up until 4 p.m. Stumbling out of bed into what is the middle of everyone else's day has been very disconcerting. The upheaval of the inversion (most people get up, then go to work, then do the rest of their lives before sleeping again) has made it hard for me to focus or concentrate on much else, so my major accomplishments have been taking out the trash, cleaning up after dinner, and trying not to sigh every 3 minutes between 8 and 10 p.m., when it's time to do it again.
Traffic is great. Elevators arrive within seconds. You're not bothered by the nonsensical chatter of those who really don't have anything to say in the first place. Management is non-existent.
Other than the reminder (and an appreciation) that there's a whole world of people doing this, all of the time, some of them here by choice, I really haven't learned much. One more shift to go, and my existence will return to what passes for normal, again. I'm very much looking forward to it.

What it's like, continued. . .

2008-09-13T21:19:00.001-07:00

A good article.

Topical Thunder

2008-09-13T02:29:00.000-07:00

I am a fierce proponent of the privacy of the ballot. I have rarely shared my selections with anyone, for a myriad of reasons, but the primary one has been that it's extremely personal. Combined with the fact that I've never voted along any party's lines; I suspect that it's a guilty pleasure that I relish voting differently than people think I have, sometimes.I'm going to break with that tradition, today, and I'm going to try and explain why. I think I've come to a logical conclusion, for some very personal reasons, and only God knows why I'm prompted to reveal it.
One of the songs that formed my social consciousness is "Reader's Digest", by Larry Norman. The pertinent lyric for this post:
"It's 1973, I wonder who we're gonna see
Who's in power now? Think I'll turn on my TV,
The man on the news said China's gonna beat us,
We shot all our dreamers, and there's no one left to lead us . . ."
I was young, but I remember reading about the transformation of Robert Kennedy from priveleged poster boy to social catalyst, only to be cut down on the verge of making this country very different than the one we're living in now. He was not allowed to fully create a legacy the way that Martin Luther King did; he now has the benefit of the memory of lost potential over actual history, of course, but I think that he would have made a tremendous difference had he been elected. The net effect of these two assassinations on our society is still being felt, 40 years later. You should be able to agree with me on that.
It is personally sickening to me to watch the conservative and christian (yes, small 'c') media embrace Sarah Palin and her daughter's situation, proving themselves hypocrites because they've done 180 degree spins on what they've said publicly for years about other people in public life for years in the same circumstances. Their moral stands, then, were dogmatic and taken primarily for shock value and self-promotion over compassion and caring. What they don't seem to realize is that their past pontifications are more accessible for review and regurgitation now than ever before. Their morality appears to be for sale, or at least for rent, in exchange for the promise of policies that would please their canonical maniacalism. Their slobbering endorsements and apparent willingness to turn their blind eyes to all of the other issues facing this nation, I suppose, confirm her selection to the ticket. I don't think she's the most talented, qualified person for the job. I am disappointed that the party needs these people to win. It has become a character issue for me.
I wish John McCain had been the party's choice 8 years ago. I think that things would be different - if not uantitatively, then qualitatively. That's all I'll say about that.
I have a cynical head, and an optimist's heart. I've been thinking of Barack Obama in the context of Jimmy Carter's administration, a bit. I don't think that the President of the United States can make radical change - to me it's like steering an oil tanker or trying to stop a train - it takes a lot of energy, time, and distance. Those who have, have had the courage to rally both the American people and the Congress solidly behind them. This is as it should be. Gerald Ford and Whip Inflation Now. Jimmy Carter in a sweater appealing to America to turn down their thermostats come to mind - unable to capture the 'hearts and minds' of the citezenry.
There is a dreamer running for President, this year. So far, he's saying the right things, focusing on those things that are important as I see them. If he's able to follow through, I think he has more potential to be what George W. claimed to be - "A uniter, not a divider." I think bold moves are needed.
This election season, for a lot of reasons, has put me (and I suspect many others) farther out of my 'comfort zone' than any Presidential election in recent memory. I think the last election was a chilling reminder that each of our votes count. I very nearly did not vote then; I was completely non-plussed with the choices.
I think, this time, I'm going to try to dream, a little. I'll let you know if I change my mind.

"It's A Better Mouse Trap"

2008-09-05T16:00:00.001-07:00

That's a quote from the CEO of Sequenom, developer of this test.

ABC News: New Down Syndrome Test Hailed as Promising

I'm not telling, I'm asking.

Going "Full Re-pub"

2008-08-30T09:29:00.001-07:00

Yes, that title is terrible. I just couldn't help myself. Should I copyright it?

I detest politics. I detest what it does to me, emotionally. I'm admitting to you all that I am immature in the respect that I can't reconcile the heated debate about ideas and concepts that ultimately becomes personal, divisive, mean-spirited, and cruel. I saw an interview program, a couple of years ago, where Bob Dole and Bill Clinton, post election and post-presidency, gushed on and on all over each other with admiration and praise, joking like old war buddies. I was flabbergasted. I so wish that they'd shown one iota of respect for each other during their incumbencies. That was disgusting to me. I'm also, then, admitting that I'm naive in the ways of the politico, growing up in a household where people were pretty transparent. I have been the victim of this naiveté a couple of times in my career; I have also held steadfastly through those events to the principle that I'd rather be me than 'them'.

So, independent, naive, immature citizen that I am, I find myself seemingly in the midst of a dilemma.

I asked Sam to watch Barack Obama's acceptance speech, last night. I told him that it was a historic occasion, and that he could tell his Grandchildren that he'd witnessed it. He shrugged and complied with all of the enthusiasm one would expect of a nearly 12-year old for a speech from any adult. The best news for me was that it was no big deal to him, an African-American earning the candidacy of a major party for the Presidency of the United States of America. He hasn't really grasped what it means to me, to us as a society. With any luck, the event won't ever have to bear the weight for him that it does for me.

Emma has changed just about every aspect of my existence, my personal political views, too. Here's a bit of it, in a nutshell - and I do mean nut. I've already told you that I'm immature and naive, so either keep reading or dismiss yourself.

I've always seen the Republican view as one of both personal responsibility and public compassion. The current party's representation to me has been merely selfishness and greed. While the Bill and Melinda Gates bunch are being generous with their more-than-we-could-ever-spend fortunes, I'm pretty sure that the bulk of those between those like me and those like them are keeping the money to themselves. The Bush administration (small a) has been myopic with its policies, unwilling to even participate in a reasonable dialogue with the electorate in a dogmatic march that poorly represents both their supposed faith as well as what it means to be citizens of this republic. "Corporate Responsibility" is a sham. When HMO CEO's have million-dollar golden parachutes while denying ten-thousand dollar claims, our society is severely awry.

You see, to me, leadership is about servanthood.

I've not been a huge fan of increasing government assistance or expensive social programs. Well, guess what? I need them, now. One lower-middle class income is not going to provide well for either of my children's futures. My bootstraps are busted. So, does that make me a Democrat, now? Perhaps. Should I be practical, or philosophical? Can I be both, or none, or something in-between?

Yesterday, John McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate. Gov. Palin has a four month old son, Trig, who has Down Syndrome. She has been an inspiration to many of us, confidently revealing that she knew about the Trisomy 21, did not abort him, and describes him as "perfect." I am, frankly, saddened by how many parents in my little community have just unabashedly thrown their support to this ticket based upon that one reality. Perhaps, true Republicans, they just needed this perk to justify their own dilemmas. I don't think that it's enough; that this should be the deciding factor about how I cast my vote. No more than voting for Barack Obama due to the color of his skin. To finish the thought, yes, it's about the content of their character.

I'm convinced that our government is sick. It wallows in the throes of it's own bureaucracy, rules, and party machinery. To morph what Benjamin Franklin said at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, we are all now hanging separately. Necessary change idles while resolution after non-binding resolution are passed like gas and the bad checks that they're writing against the future. Will freedom become "just another word for, nothing left to lose?" It's beyond my scope, but I feel a need to influence it, if only by my one vote. That's my responsibility.

So, just by stating my thought processes, have I set myself against you? Have I convinced you of anything? I hope the answer to both questions is "No."

I sometimes envy those who have a clear grasp of the world, how it should work, and passionately drive themselves and others toward that vision. Problem is, it usually means that someone else gets trampled or left behind. I think that's the ultimate American (US) dilemma - Freedom vs. Responsibility.

I'll let it go, at that. I just hate politics, that's all.

Tubular Bells (& Whistles)

2008-08-25T16:44:00.001-07:00

In another life, I was a data-driven TQM, TQI number crunchin' fool. I don't particularly like statistics as a discipline (it requires discipline), but I do like goofing numbers around when the data suits me.

I took the raw logs from my beloved tube system for the month of July, and learned some interesting things. O.K., not interesting like guaranteed winning lottery numbers, interesting like "hey, look at that! Let's eat."

This post is dedicated to Nick, and his, er, seemingly indefatigable interest in this subject. I still don't know why.

I have to say that the repair that made all of the difference occurred on July 15, the middle of the month, so the data reflects both an ailing and a healthy system. I'm going to run these numbers again, for August, but I'll probably only share them with Nick. But let's not delay the suspense, any longer. . .

Total Number of Transactions: 18,070 (31 days)
Average # of transactions per hour: 24
(a transaction about every 2.5 minutes, if it were a constant)

118 Returns (0.65%) - a little more than 1/2 of 1% were sent back due to some system problem. Nearly always just resent, then they go. For a mechanical system run by a PC running Windows NT 4.0, I'd say that that's pretty good.

51% of transactions took less than 2 minutes
95% of transactions took less than 3 minutes
(this improved dramatically after 7/15, when the pressure/vacuum tripled).

63% of transactions were either to or from the Lab.
28% of transactions were either to or from the Pharmacy.
That makes 91%. That's a lot. See?

The hastily drawn chart, below, shows the volume of traffic by time of day!

I think it's interesting that, with only a couple of spikes, the traffic is rather constant. Lots of body fluid samples, lab results, drug orders and drugs whizzing back and forth, all day, all night, Mary Ann.

Well, those are the highlights, Nick old man. I don't think anybody's really realized just how busy this thing is, and how it's really serving these two departments so well. Kinda like one's sewer system (Kelly!) - you take if for granted right up to the moment when it stops working. I'm hoping it will spur the powers that be to up the ante on the stuff that needs to be upgraded on this thing before it 'craps out' , someday.

Let's Eat.

Another Horrible, Divisive Debate

2008-08-23T12:32:00.001-07:00

"Elbog, how could you defile your Mac with Vista?

That’s like eating Chinese food with a fork."

Diversity. It's appalling to me that, even those in our community could project such a jaundiced and callous view such as this. Can you believe that someone would say something so spiteful, when we're all trying so hard to support each other?

Well, TOM, I'm going to tell you why. I eat Chinese food with a fork, too. I'm not Chinese. I've learned to cook Chinese food, and using a fork is the most economical way that I've learned to shovel it into my mouth (and after all of that chopping and wok-ing over a large flame, I'm pretty stinkin' hungry). I feel that I have gained an appropriate appreciation of Chinese culture by this means, and I certainly have and can use chopsticks, and certainly would if I were a guest in a Chinese home, but I gain no sense of world-citizenessness or edumacation dining at home with them. It's a tool. That's answer #1.

#2> It runs GREAT. There's nothing wrong with Vista, they just pooped in their own messkit by not being clear about what hardware it would run on. I've read that it runs better on an iMac than just about anything else. I'll testify to that.

#3> I do because I can. I earned free, legitimate copies of Vista and Office 2007 at about the same time that my old PC, cobbled together/upgraded/etc. since 2000 was showing some strain. I was frustrated by the fact that PC pieces don't always fit together so well, anymore, and the cost of a new machine with the specs I wanted faced me with some complicated choices. Mac, of course, solves that by controlling the process and also more than doubling the price. My way, the highway, and thanks very much. It's very much like many other religions I've seen. The iMac was a generous Christmas gift this year; the timing was right, and the Boot Camp software made it easy. I took the road less-traveled.

#4> I'm a guy who's known DOS, Novell, Arcnet, token-ring, the command-line. I saw the original Mac, it was cute, but I like taking the back off stuff and making it better, you know, the smell of burning silica. My only complaint about my current Mac is that I can't upgrade the video card. That's whining, and I won't do it again. I currently have 3 drives, 2 keyboards, an extra monitor plugged into it and enough wires strung around to keep me happy and busy. It's workin' out o.k.

#5> There's always been a Mac in the house, and I've gained an appreciation for it's ease of use, sometime's obtuse but simple-minded interface, and plain reliability. I have OSX installed on this baby, too, so I get the advantages of both platforms - goofing off in Garage Band and IMovie, although, due to my lack of constant practice with Mac commands, they often prove to be just as frustrating as any other software I've ever used. No faster.

I think that the competition has really brought these software giants to a point where there's not a whole lot of difference in how the average user interacts with it to do stuff. That leaves the specialties to divvy up the rest, depending upon certain preferences, features and hardware/industry history. I spent a couple of weekends with Ubuntu, last year, too. I found it to be just as challenging to set up and use as Windows, albeit for free. I somehow would rather pay for that pleasure, kinda like you eating Chinese food with chopsticks, Tom. Sorry, that was a cheap shot.

I'd add that, for example, neither platform has provided an easy way (read free/cheap/tweakable) to integrate the home network to my television set. They both approach this from annoying, proprietary angles that, well, annoy me.

In summary, I'm a PC. And I'm a Mac. And I'm proud to be both. I'm not here to judge any of you inferior, I'm just asking that you please re-consider your old ways, fueled by multibillion-dollar corporations and perhaps your own pride. If you can't, that's o.k. I admire your French-film watching, knees-bent, running around maneuvers and such; if you require a sense of superiority, then so be it. I'll still be your friend.

*******
And that's how I like satire. If you're not laughing, then I've gone horribly wrong.

I think this about does it, for me.

2008-08-17T06:49:00.000-07:00

Patricia Bauer is a professional writer. There's been so much written about Tropic Thunder - although I'm curious as to how much those of you not living in my world have actually seen of it.

Ms. Bauer wraps it up, very well, with this piece. I'd rather you read it than for me to tackle it, poorly.

If you've got the intestinal fortitude to read it all, note the sections that she finds terrifying. These are the things that keep me up at night, not the name-calling by wealthy dilettantes. Margaret's amazing to me, do I dare dream the same things for Emma? I turn 50 next year, she will be 10.

I've posted some mighty wicked replies to about 15 blog and forum posts over the last 10 days or so. Diverse community that we are, there have even been several discussions reminiscent (perhaps only to me) of the Sermon on the Mount scene from "The Life of Brian." Cheesemakers, indeed. The right of free speech, the limits of same. Responsibilities and where they ultimately lie. My online friends have argued with each other, with radio and TV wonks; some have argued with themselves. They've picketed and protested, and fractured and frittered - it's all part of any 'movement'.

I'm utterly convinced that those responsible for this film had absolutely no intention to cause this eruption. As Ms. Bauer points out, that alone is at the crux of the problem. I've railed at one friend already about the state of the industry. Read this book, "Vulgarians at the Gate" by Steve Allen - wow, a celebrated comedian - if you want more. The treatment of the disabled is only one signpost on the slippery slope we're on. Did I mention that I'm almost 50? Get off my lawn.

Anyway, Patricia hits all of the highlights, with skill and heart. My sincerest thanks to those of you willing to engage yourselves for the betterment of my Emma's world. That is what the blather's all about.

Not quite the team player

2008-08-14T13:04:00.001-07:00

So, I've been 'tagged' by my very good online friend, Kelly at Where there's a Will. It's called a meme although, having just looked it up, I'm tempted to quote Inigo Montoya in "The Princess Bride" - "that word you keep using, I don' think it means what you think it means."
So, ever the one to please, here's the deal:
Reveal 6 unspectacular quirks of yours:
1. I avoid cracks and seams when walking on concrete.
2. I prefer to eat peas mixed with mashed potatos.
3. I will eat Prime Rib with ketchup, if given the opportunity.
4. I despise dog spit even more than I despise dog breath.
5. I like orange cake with orange frosting.
6. I will turn all of my socks right-side-out before putting them away.
***Bonus***
7. I don't play tag, anymore.

Now I must tag some more participants and explain the RULES:
1. Link the person who tagged you.
2. Mention the rules on your blog.
3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours.
4. Tag 6 fellow bloggers by linking to them.
5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged bloggers blogs letting them know they have been tagged.

Truth is, I don't know if I could come up with 6 people to tag, Kelly'd have to be one of them. And that would be copying, or shall we say, meme-ographing, as it were.
And yes, I realize that half of my quirks are about food. Yep, they are.
Cheers!

A Favor, Por Favor.

2008-08-11T09:18:00.001-07:00

I don't ask for a lot, at least I don't think I do.
Please don't spend any money on the movie "Tropical Thunder".
Read some facts, if you want to.
Then don't go. If you're of a mind to, ask your friends not to go, either.
Thanks.

Emma's 9th Birthday

2008-07-27T13:51:00.001-07:00

We had a great time at Emma's party, yesterday. Did the presents, did the cake, had fun out of the sun in the Family Room. Emma got lots of good stuff, including her bi-annual replacement Elmo and Zoe puppets.

Once again, the cameras were rolling. Commence with the Amateur Auteur Hour:

Emma's 9th Birthday Video from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Happy Birthday, Girl!

My Great Aunt Willo May

2008-07-20T13:02:00.001-07:00

The service for Willo May was yesterday. I waited until today to write about her because I needed to. I wanted to reverberate the thoughts of her family, friends, and co-workers with my own, in an effort to be not quite so selfish in my thinking about her. For you see, it's one of the words that describes Willo May. Unselfish.

Willo May was, as her son said, part of "The Greatest Generation." She was a professor of music - piano, organ, theory - for some 39 years. She taught piano to thousands of people, including me. She began playing piano, then organ, in church services at the age of 12, nearly every Sunday, until 17 days before her death - a span of 79 years. She was one of those individuals who befriended nearly everyone, cooked for nearly everyone, taught us all much more than just music, and prayed and cared for everyone. She has played piano and organ for multiple generations of families' weddings (yes, mine and my parents') and funerals - she's accompanied thousands of rehearsals, recitals, choirs. . . A life of service.

She has always been a part of my consciousness, my wider family circle. As a young boy, we would travel to Aunt Willo May's for Thanksgiving and New Year's Day - they lived in Pasadena, and, back then, on New Year's Day, the floats from the Rose Parade would be parked about three blocks from their home, where we could see them up close. I know that it was more about the food and the fellowship, though, than flowers. In my memory, I have been remembering the sights and smells of that house, these past weeks. Her husband, Dan, was a football fan of epic proportions, particularly college football. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself following players just to try and impress Uncle Dan, or at least keep up, when we were there. Thanksgiving usually included at least one guest from the college, or a serviceman from church - their hospitality nearly always extended outward to someone not home for the holidays. To put it bluntly, they set standards for us all, not by display, but by practice, of how to serve and love each other.

Then there were the piano lessons. Learning to play the piano, unfortunately, became the skirmish line in the battle between my Mother and I for control. I hated it. I was learning to play the cello, then the bass, rock and roll was in full swing, all I saw were guitars and basses - and I really didn't want to be a church pianist at all. It is a testament to both of them that they persevered with me as long as they did, and I did learn many valuable things about theory and life and love from Willo May. You see, we lived in Long Beach, about 30 -40 miles apart. Mom used to drive me, every other weekend, for at least two years, to Willo May's for piano lessons. I have a musical gift that is in fact a two-headed monster - I have a real 'ear' for music. It makes it easy for casual music, to learn by listening. It doesn't work so well for the orchestra or, let's say, playing the piano, where you're really supposed to play the notes exactly as written. Most piano teachers, when giving me new music, would play the piece for me as an example. I would then go home and, when not stubbornly not practicing, I would learn to play the song from memory, not disciplining myself to translate the notation. Willo May figured this out, and started handing me music to learn sans demonstration. It was tough love. What small skills I now possess in the realm of reading music are attributable to her - as much for the realization that there was more to be gained by this than by not learning it, that discipline brought long-term rewards over short term satisfaction. She set a new standard for me. I didn't meet it, and I don't think it was too long after that that Mom surrendered to the battle of wills. Over the years, I had a few opportunities to play alongside her, as a bass player, and she was always very complimentary. She didn't know it, but I cherished those times, as I did her approval. I know that she wasn't pleased that I hadn't pursued the piano, but she never spoke a word to me to that effect. Willo May was a self-determined accompanist, and I understood this, and have shared and tried to emulate that aspect in my own playing.

I'd always felt that Willo May 'got' me, that she knew me pretty well, and loved me in spite of all that. I came to the realization, many years ago, however, that that was the way just about everyone else felt about her. The loss of that feeling of exclusivity, eventually, made me just love her more. Whether this trait was a gift, or the result of great effort, I do not know, but she applied it generously.

She died from what turned out to be a rapidly growing brain tumor. The diagnosis was that she'd have 3-4 months to live. I lazily assumed that she'd be around, this next weekend, for Emma's birthday party. I didn't speak with her. Fortunately, a large number of those that she'd 'gotten' did. She teaches, again, by example. Don't hesitate to tell those you love that you love them.

Yesterday was beautiful. I cried, not from sorrow, but from gratitude. Many people never know someone like Willo May. Others are influenced. I was privileged to gain part of her heritage; to claim her as my own, if only in small part. The outpouring of music, most of it selected by her, was testament to both her talent and heart for her savior. Her legacy is substantial, albeit mostly played out in churches around the world on Sunday mornings, not in great concert halls.
A life lived with excellence, through service to others. It is the life that Christ calls us all to.
Well Done, Aunt Willo May. Thank you. Thank you.

Tube System Tales - Epilogue

2008-07-17T17:08:00.001-07:00

Sunday night, one of the four APU's (blower) motor bearings went to pieces. The decision was made to tear the motor down to see how much damage had been done. My 'mentor' joined me, and helped me disconnect it and unbolt it from the floor.

The APU lineup.
The black boxes are air shifters. Air goes into the motor on the left tube, out of the motor on the right, the air shifter's like a paddle that moves in a circular housing to direct the flow.

Here's the APU off the floor.
Notice the screens at the bottom. The inlet side is about 70% PLUGGED. The outlet side, about 40% PLUGGED.

My 'mentor" - the guy that I'd inherited the system from, was flabbergasted. He had no idea that these screens were there, let alone that they needed to be cleaned. The preventive maintenance work order procedure (quarterly) says to clean the blower motor screens, but he thought that meant another set of screens that are on the air shifters. Upon further discussion, and questioning, there were other employees that knew of this need, and had in fact performed this maintenance - it was a situation where the proper information had not been passed along from knowledgeable people to those that needed to know. These screens had not been inspected or cleaned for at least THREE YEARS.

I left the motor tear down to the real mechanics, and returned to the tube room. One at a time, I cleared and cleaned blocked screens. Four hours later, I had a rockin' tube system. To express it numerically, tube stations where my meter had shown vacuum of 5 inches of water now showed 15. The BOC guy got a complaint call from one floor secretary that her tube station was making too much noise - no, baby, that's the sucking sound of success!

That nagging feeling that something wasn't the way it was supposed to be was gone. The need to primp and preen each opening and orifice to keep minimum functionality was gone. The pressure, now on full blast, was off me. I was observed, smiling, at work - a phenomenon rarely seen since the turn of the century. Like the motors, I was relieved. It is now 10 degrees cooler in the tube room than it usually is. Transactions - tracked by the computer - are taking 2/3 of the time they used to take to get there. Faster. Better. More reliable. Me happy.
I can deal with this.

Emma Eats Cake Video

2008-07-13T11:10:00.001-07:00

It's only a week away!

Emma Eats Cake Birthdays 3-8 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Sucker, Part IV, or Existing in a Vacuum

2008-07-08T18:10:00.001-07:00

In frustration, I turned to the healthier parts of the system. I learned that:

There are several different ways to construct a diverter - it seemed that each one was put together in a manner different from the last 3 I had looked at. I am going to assume that it's because diverters are set up differently - horizontal tubes, vertical tubes, etc - and not that we were just the victim of using whatever happened to be on the truck, that day. It didn't really matter now, except that each solution would be different.
In my well-working zones, there wasn't a whole lot of difference in pressure/suction between the stations closest to the APU's (Air Power Units - blowers) and those at the farthest end. This meant that it was possible to realistically expect this - not to assume that the end stations were just going to be weak.
The two zones I had problems with, those stations had the largest number of diverters between them and the APU's. More opportunities for leakage. Sure, it makes sense now, but I was learning this on my own.
Suction was the first indicator of a problem, because of inertia. When pressure is applied to the tube, it's only about 20 feet from the APU. Gets the kick in the pants and off it goes. If the pressure's weakening as it gets to the outer limits of the system, gravity and inertia tend to carry it along. With suction, it's the opposite. The closest analogy I've thought of is holding a rubber band between your two hands. The farther you pull your hands apart, the more force it takes. That, of course is kinetic energy pulling your hands back together, but the point is that that energy has to be transmitted the entire length of the tube to have an effect on that carrier sitting out in the open atmosphere in an arm to be pulled into the tube in the first place. The reverse effect. Did I mention that I have a degree in psychology? Thank you.

Fascinated? I know I am. Let's continue.

One example, then we'll move on. Here's one end of one diverter. The white plastic ring is what would slide on the metal wall of the box from one path to the other. The other end would be connected to a section of metal tube with a rubber sleeve, flexible enough to accommodate the movement. At the other end, another sleeve to the one opening at the other end. Now, let's take a closer look, shall we?

I would draw your attention to the brown thing between the white ring and the metal. That's a rubber ring, yes it is. It's actually tubing that's wedged in there, with the ends glued together to make a ring. Now, this is one of the things that I really didn't see until someone pointed it out to me - remember that these boxes are wedged up in the ceiling between conduits, steam lines, gas lines of various persuasions, etc. - and this is only one configuration. Some of these details, one can only find by feel or shutting it down and dismantling them. It was time, though.

There was no huge leak. They were all over. It became a matter of methodically working through the diverters, and the suction increased gradually until we were peggin' the meter everywhere.

The lessons learned were these:

The system was more complex (and better designed) than I originally thought it was.
Because of this, my expectations of what it could do needed to change.
Once my predecessor finally started to get more detailed, this included admitting to a certain lack of maintenance and, shall we say, follow-through on his and others' parts. Aye, there's the rub! Now the college boy was making him look bad. Guess what, the system was doing that, not me.

So, I'm smarter, it's better, and I've gained a certain confidence in an area I never wanted to know better. I'm proud of the work ethic that's been instilled in me by those who chose to invest, as well as my own stubbornness and ability to work through really being pissed off. Sad to say, I'm surrounded by a working atmosphere where, when the work's not obvious, people take shortcuts and would rather put some tape on something that really needs to be replaced. Most of this system is hidden; I have literally pulled 3-4 layers of tape off certain places. It is also sad that our current working environment does not lend itself readily to mentoring, apprenticeship, the passing down of the values behind the processes, the true nature of quality that starts with the person holding the tools, doing the right thing, making those pieces shine that no one else would ever see. It was this realization that turned my anger into action, and then into pride of accomplishment. I learned what it would take to make this work like it should, and then did it. It's why I've gone on so long about it. Nobody else really cares, beyond it's working or not, but I know better. I'm not proud about a lot of things; you won't hear me talk like this, very often (at least I hope not). It has been something of a journey for me, this tube system.

Sucker, Part III

2008-07-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

Pardon the blurry cellphone pics, please.

Ok, so I was angry. The guy before me was really too busy to help me, cleaning out a boiler. I was left to my own devices. I soon learned that there were no devices - you just kinda looked around for leaks, fixed what you found, and tried it again. I had a couple of problems with this, in that I didn't know what I was looking at, listening for, or feeling around at. After about a week, crawling around in ceilings - oh yes, it's all in the ceilings, obscured by ductwork, insulation, and conduits - I decided that I needed a device. Something to measure the movement of air, specifically suction. Following the layout of the zone, I still really couldn't tell where my vacuum was dropping off, at least not by sticking my hand into the open maw of each tube station to get a sense. I needed numbers.

Air pressure/vacuum is measured in "inches of water" - no, I really still don't know what that means, my degree is in psychology. At any rate, I found a Magnehelic gauge with a working range for what I wanted to do, and set to drilling, running a tube through a carrier to said gauge. My co-workers gazed at me with disdain, the college boy's wasting more time. I fitted it with a rubber collar, I didn't want this thing taking off and embarrassing me further.

I soon learned that a properly working station would peg the scale, providing at least 5 inches of water. The non-working stations were only 'pulling' 3 or more. Receiving, at the end of the line, barely made 2.

I enlisted the aid of my co-workers. Some gave me good advice, some told me long, anecdotal stories with no real point, and still others sent me on complete wild-goose chases. One of the things that ultimately turned me from psychology as a career, as a young man, was that it's practical application depended upon one's philosophy/philosophies, there were no concrete answers. I was beginning to feel that way about this tentacled beast that seemed to defy common sense. Everyone had their theories, but none were proven. I was wrong, of course, it was just a matter of getting the right information, this is physics, not the inner workings of the human mind.

I was on my way. There was at least one big leak, and I was going to find it. Now, if it had been water, the problem would be evident. How to find it? Couldn't use smoke. . . although it was tempting. Thought of using some sort of odor, but I let that pass, too. I knew from my exploration that there were no gaping holes, no cracked open section due to some contractor's mucking about on some other mission. It had to be the diverters. Specifically, it had to be either diverter C12, C07, C11 or C06. I'd been told (and shown!) by one co-worker that they were all fine. Little did I know that he knew as little as I did.

Next time: Diversions and Elbog's rubber-band theory of space and time.

Hey, Ain't This Great!

2008-07-01T08:10:00.000-07:00

Headline:
Woman has breast cancer-free baby!

Hope they can soon screen for the "won't grow up to hate her parents and join the Druids" gene or "economic success - will definitely end up on the dole" gene.
I'm just saying. We're on the precipice. How good is your vision?

Sucker, Part II

2008-06-30T18:28:00.001-07:00

So, to review:

The Five Stages of Grief are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Looking at them now, I'm chagrined to admit that it's not an appropriate descriptor in this case. Denial was momentary, went straight to Anger. Not much in the way of bargaining to be done, no one to trade with. Anger (direct, not the residual) lasted a good couple of weeks. Fortunately, when one has been even angrier, for longer, one learns to channel this energy. We'll come back to this. Depression was good for another 3-4 weeks. Acceptance came with some success. This concludes our overview.

When we last left our hero, Food Service had virtually no suction. Central Service, provider of all things sterile and clinical, was not much better. Receiving had given up on using their tube station, some months ago. The EAU and 8th floors were complaining of intermittent service and lost tubes. The two major zones weren't sinking, but they were listing hard to port, as it were.

Now, the technical description. This system is a one-tube system - the same tube is used for sending and receiving. There are 42 stations, segmented into 4 zones - 4 main routes that branch off to each station by means of diverters - think railway switch. They converge in the basement at the "Dazzler" - a conflagration of bent, rotating tubes that makes the exchange from station C12(Lab) to B11(11th fl.) possible.
Nurse Nancy puts her lab sample into bubble wrap, then puts it in the tube. She puts the tube into an arm-like holder, and enters the destination's address on a keypad. The station accepts this (usually), and moves the arm over to the gate - the closed-off opening. In the BOC (Pit of Despair, see earlier posts), A PC takes the request and lines up that zone to the station. One of the 4 large blowers in the basement fires up, vacuum is created, and the tube is pulled into the basement, into the "Dazzler". The PC then directs the "Dazzler" to line up a path to the destination station. The blower shifts from suction to pressure, and the sample winds it's way to the lab. That's it. Usually takes less than 2 minutes. There are communication links, optical sensors that track the trajectory, and log the results. We hardly ever lose a tube - it has to go somewhere, and it does. When it goes, of course. These weren't leaving the station.

As you may have experienced, pneumatic tube systems can move small items very quickly and efficiently. This beneficial service is multiplied in an institution such as ours. It is one of those things that is easily taken for granted, which, like fresh tomato on a "California Burger", can lead to outright rage when it's taken away. Food Service had had to find a different way to get patient menu selections from the floors, and the affected floors were really missing the quick and efficient transfer of minutia, like medicines from the pharmacy. My boss had set me firmly in the midst of a large steaming pasture, whether he knew it or not.

Next: Anger is an ener-gee, or Troubleshooting Things You Don't Understand.

There's a Sucker Born Every Minute, Part I

2008-06-29T19:01:00.001-07:00

Alright, I mentioned it, and some of you have been needling me about it, so here's my essay on the tube system. Pneumatic. Ecstatic. Acrobatic, tube system.

In the world according to Dilbert, I have done my best to transform myself from Dilbert into Wally. Wally - the little bald-headed guy whose raison-de-etre' is to do as little as possible, while maintaining the illusion of work. For me, this has been by focusing my efforts on those systems that are least likely to result in a telephone call in the middle of the night from our latest hire, naturally working the graveyard shift with no experience and a million square feet to take care of. The actual fact is that I am so good at maintaining the things that I'm responsible for (as my friend says, "It ain't rocket surgery"), that I end up looking for things to do. So, into my semi-secure world drops the tube system, as I guess someone noticed that I'd actually been happy at work for 3-4 weeks or so.

I was very angry at the manner in which it came to me. My current supervisor/Manager/Team Leader/I-really-don't-care-what-his-title-is, is a nice-enough guy who was working his way up the ranks while I had crested and fallen. He's actually asked me for some occasional advice, and I've seen him make some real progress, management-wise. His job (which is actually the job I had, reconstituted into something I'd never want to do, again) keeps him up at night at least 2-3 times a week, and his hair is going greyer even faster than mine did. Every morning, we carry on a fine naval tradition called the POD, or Plan of the Day. Sharing info, doling out assignments, finding out where the floods were the night before (It's a 540 bed hospital that's 43 years old, you do the plumbing math). This particular morning, the meeting breaks up, he motions me over, and tells me - in the presence of my co-worker that's being relieved of this burden - that it's now my responsibility. No warm-up, no warning, no smoke signals of any kind. I then get about 90 minutes of "this is where everything is"- "here's the main parts of the tube station" - and I'm left alone, seething with a handful of work orders and a third of the system not working.

Flash back to 1990. I am a "Management Specialist", working for the Director of Engineering. We've just replaced our 25 year-old pneumatic tube system, and the new system's performance is not quite what the brochures and sales pitches told us that it would be, primarily in the form of the amount of daily attention it requires from our service techs. The boss calls about 5 of us into his office, where he places a conference call to the president of the company. He informs him that we're not satisfied at all, and we're going to inform all of the trade publications and medical device newsletters of how incompetent this system is. He wants the president and anyone else he wants to bring to be in our offices tomorrow, for a meeting about how they're going to fix it - or else. It is the age of Total Quality Management. I actually "Facilitated" that meeting - my first one, handed to me, incidentally, three minutes before it started, without warning or preparation (yes, history repeating itself). We came up with an action plan, and basically made them sweat until the warranty was up, or they went out of business - I don't remember which happened first.

Yes, this all went through my mind before that day was over. You bet your sweet bippy, I was mad.

Next: The Five Stages.

One for the money, 2fer the show.

2008-06-18T16:11:00.001-07:00

As residents of Southern California, we have the unique opportunity to participate in Disney's "2Fer" offer - During the first few months of the year, one can visit Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure for the price of one admission. The only real rules are that you can't visit one park twice, and you have to visit the second one within 30 days of your first visit. Yesterday was the 29th day after our recent day at the Magic Kingdom, so DCA (that's what you call it when you live in "the OC" - the surrounding Orange County) was in order.

Hot. Hot and muggy. Stinkin' hot and muggy - probably an average day on the Eastern Seaboard, but oh so icky for those of us used to a desert climate. Arriving late, our first omen was our parking placement without tram service - meaning that we had the pleasure of traversing "Downtown Disney" on foot before we'd even started.

The purpose of the 2Fer is to pump up attendance in the off season. Our procrastination, this year, means that we hit the resort (when I was a kid, it was Disneyland, now it's The Disney Resort. Big whoop) in full Summer swing. Stinkin' hot, muggy, and crowded. Sweating bullets at the front gate, already. Quick, head for the Muppetts' 3-D theater. When I was a kid in Arizona, there were signs on restaurant windows that boasted "refrigeration", regarding their air conditioning. This theater was refrigerated, baby. Emma had great fun with the 3-D effect. Rides. Lines. Lunch. Pushing the stroller back and forth. Melting. Everybody kinda caved in at about 6 o'clock - even though there were 3 more hours of magic awaiting us. Our hip OC friends with annual passes who met us barely had time to see the parade, and we were leaving. I think that they were hot enough, themselves, by then.

We're spoiled, like meat left in the hot sun. When I was a kid, and there was no internet, no 183 channels on the TV, only a record player and some books in the house. Disneyland took planning, stamina, and an intense feeling that, if one didn't work at it, certain fun would be missed. It's not that way, today. Spoilage aside, it does seem to be a bit more relaxing.
So, for your comparative note-taking, here's footage from DCA's carousel, along with some scenic interpretations from Samuel L. Goble, BSC (class of 2015).

Disney California Adventure, June 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Graduation Day, 2008

2008-06-16T18:58:00.001-07:00

So, today was Graduation Day. OK, from the Fifth Grade. Here, it's the transition from elementary to middle school. For some of them, it's leaving the school they started at. For Sam, it's only been a year, but it's been a really good year. Marvin Elementary is a great school - the folks there do a great job. Sam's teacher, Mr. Myrick,helped turn a bad situation into a great positive. Of all the things to build upon, they share a fondness for Monty Python's Flying Circus - naturally, I think Mr. Myrick is brilliant.

Sam graduates from 5th Grade from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

There was a little Pomp, under the circumstances, but all in all it was a warm (no, not just the humidity), brief, and heartfelt ceremony.

I caught Sam smiling, again!

It was the last day of school for Emma, too, unfortunately all I got was one blurry picture, melting popsicle and all.

It was a great family day. We had some Mexican food, came home, and promptly crashed. Tomorrow is the last day for our Disneyland/California Adventure 2fer ticket thing, so we're off to the place right next to the "happiest place on earth."

Summer's Here!

Shorn, Fleeced, Bamboozled.

2008-06-12T18:03:00.000-07:00

One of my best online friends, Kelly, has posted The sheep that we are. I recommend that you read it, as she has so clearly and coherently put her mind and heart to this work.
Our children are the 'canaries in the coal mine' of Eugenics. The prevention of their lives should serve as a warning to us all.
Thank you, Kelly.

Call me Clementine/D-Land 2008

2008-05-26T10:54:00.001-07:00

Why? 'Cause as of Saturday, I'm a 49'er, that's why.

"Next year's the big one", Dad said on the phone, that morning. "If you say so," says I. Fully aware that it's not halfway - I'm confident that I aint makin' it to a hundred; I figure I'll be lucky if that point passed 9 years ago.

I haven't written much, although there's been stuff to say. I seem to be living in that realm where the news is either too big for the blog, it's info that I don't want others to read for legal reasons (believe it or not - relax, no warrants yet), or it's whining. So I've let it be. Good things are happening. Not so good things have happened. In short, Life is going on, whether I want to play or not. It is the way of things, grasshopper.

We had a really good family day at Disneyland, last Monday. For some reason, I didn't feel that pressing need that has been a part of the 'Disney Magic' since my first childhood visit - to see and do everything before the park closes. As always, it took us longer to get there, and seemingly forever to get through the gate. That hasn't changed. Now, I'm not saying that it's a bad thing - but it is worth noting -that my son doesn't seem to be as enraptured with the Magic Kingdom as we were when we were 11. Once I'd moved through the five stages - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - it made the day much easier to take. Learning from past experience, we got the pass that lets us use Emma's stroller (yes, she still barely fits into it, yay!) as a wheelchair, which mostly saves us from major meltdowns in long lines. This time, it seemed even more magical on a day when attendance was light, and we breezed through the major attractions with some real ease. If you realize that sometimes going anywhere with Emma can turn into a major scene, this was truly a blessing, and I'm grateful for it.

Emma had a great time. This was the first time that she could go on the big rides. She held on tight through the dark sections. This, of course, is the carousel.

Disneyland 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

It cooled off as the day wore on, seemingly boosting our available energy into the evening. Steve and Rita met us in the afternoon, and we left "the happiest place on Earth" to venture into Garden Grove for some great mexican food with them and their son Matthew and his girlfriend. Sprinted home, and made it into bed before the stroke of Midnight.

Maybe, soon, I'll write about my new responsibility at work, the pneumatic tube system. Talk about working in a vacuum.

I read the news today, oh, boy.

2008-04-05T10:09:00.001-07:00

I found out yesterday that Larry Norman died at the end of February. Like any fan, I'm saddened that the majority of you have no idea who he is. He claims the title, as much as anyone could, of being the first Christian Rocker. Our lives intersected at a crucial time in my life, and, taking the same road made all the difference for me. He was 60.

I remember hearing my first Larry Norman song. There was a new church that had grown pretty rapidly, called Calvary Chapel, in Costa Mesa, Ca. I was invited to go with some older teens to the Saturday night concert - it became a regular event for many of us for a couple of years. That night, I don't remember who it was - other than the singer was blind - sang "U.F.O." I remember -the sound of their voice simply singing it. It was the gospel, presented on my terms, with brash honesty and love. I didn't know that it was one of his songs at the time, but the impact of the words still carries me to a sense of wonder:
"He will come back, like he promised, with the price already paid. He will gather up his followers, and take them all away. . .
And if there's life on other planets, well I'm sure that He must know. 'Cause he's been there, once already, and has died to save their soul."
There was a lot more. Larry was political, and I didn't always agree with his politics. But he was telling it like he saw it, and pointing out others who were taking advantage of the times to lead people astray:
"The Beatles said,"All you need is Love" and then they broke up."
-"Readers Digest"
These lyrics are from a song released in 1972. Incredibly sad that they mean so much, today:
"you are far across the ocean
in a war that's not your own
and while you're winning theirs
you're gonna lose the one at home
do you really think the only way
to bring about the peace
is to sacrifice your children
and kill all your enemies"
-"The Great American Novel"
Larry and his converted friend, Randy Stonehill, sang the songs that touched my heart and fueled my passions for a very long time. I even begged Randy for an audition, once, I wanted to be a part of that group so much.
His most famous song, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready", was a powerful evangelical tool for a while, eventually over-performed into irrelevance as the age of sending teenagers already afraid of nuclear destruction to bed with the fear that the faithful were going to disappear all around them before morning if they didn't get right with God faded. Those were some scary times to be a teenager. As a fan, I see the whole "Left Behind" stuff as his legacy, even though I know that there's more to it than that.

Although I saw him perform as many times as I could, I never met Larry. I sent him an email, a couple of years ago, thanking him for his impact upon my life, never got a reply. My understanding of things is that he had relationship problems with a number of people over the years, with bands, etc. Part of his persona was that he was against whatever grain there was. As a fan, I can accept that - I never had to live or work with him - it was part of his art. His poetry, performance, and faith inevitably influence the things that I do and say. God Bless you, Larry.

"I've been knocked down, kicked around,
But like a moth drawn to the flame,
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus just the same. . .
I've been rebuked, for the things I've said,
For the songs I've written and the life I've led.
They say they don't understand me, but I'm not surprised
Because you can't see nothin' when you close your eyes.
They say I'm sinful, backslidden,
That I have left to follow fame.
But here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, brother
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, sister
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, just the same."
-Shot Down

The Ramblings of a Sleep-Deprived Service Tech

2008-04-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

Working in a hospital engineering department has always been a combination of monotony, maintenance, and surprise. I tell people, "If you can think of it, we probably have at least one of them." We supply air, water, gases, nuclear medicine, etc.
One of the capabilities that we have is the capacity to generate our own power. Part of our responsibility is to assure that that power is always available, and able to come on line within 10 seconds of city power loss. So, for example, someone checks our generators 3 times a day, to make sure that the switches are in their correct positions, that there's fuel avaiable, and that the batteries are charging. Once a month, each generator (we have 3) is tested under an actual load, and they are all run once a week. This means that, twice a month, a couple of us get to come in at 0430 to run them under a load on a scheduled basis, at the least disruptive time for all of the activities that happen in our happy little hotel. We sometimes have to postpone a test if there's a trauma or other unscheduled surgery going on - even though those areas are protected by Uninterruptable power supplies - we do not take the chance that someone might be plugged into the wrong outlet. I'd want to know that if I were on the table. Today was my turn - to do the test, not for an operation.
Getting up at 0330, even to go fishing (which I've never actually done), is like getting up in the middle of the night. Fortunately, wearing a uniform means that it's relatively easy to get dressed in the dark. Stumbling out to the car - I've worked there so long that I really don't have to think about where I'm going - my 16 year-old buggy knows the way. Traffic is light. Who knew?
The hospital is lit up, as it always is. With the exception of different faces, and less of them, it really doesn't matter what time it is in the hallways. The Generators are out back, sequestered in buildings that block a majority of the noise that they make. We check the fuel, check the oil, check the radiators, write down the vital statistics, including the hour meter readings. We are in a constant squeeze between regulators; the Air Pollution Control District only permits us to run these mammoth diesels for so many hours a year (excluding actual emergencies), and the Joint Commission for Hospital Accreditation sets the parameters for testing them, including how much load to place on them, for how long, and when. These agencies do not communicate with each other.
The Generators, themselves, are big, with big old radiators on the front, the actual generator on the other end, and massive exhaust systems crammed into the building to keep the noise down. Ear protection is required. Heaters keep the engine warm, to help them start more quickly. When running under load, they are actually turned on by Automatic Transfer Switches, which either sense the drop and switch automatically in an emergency, or via our building automation softwarem, on a PC when we test. So, you press a button with your mouse, the lights go out, and within 10 seconds the switches switch, the behemoth awakes, takes the load, and everything springs back to life. Thirty minutes later, the switch back is just a 'bump'.
There are lots of things that can go wrong, and they do, although rarely. Today, all was just peachy. We fired it up, made sure that we were delivering over 300KV (30% of the generator's 1000kV capacity), checked the temps, hertz, amps, and stood around for 45 minutes while it did its' thing. The crescent moon was lovely, through the clouds. We ran the other two 'no-load' for 10 minutes apiece, filled out all of the paperwork, and it was time for breakfast.
One of the things that I've always taken great pride in is that even these industrial actions that we take can be and are related to taking care of patients. The people that are the best at this kind of work are those who relate what they do to the greater good. I like watching "Dirty Jobs" on TV because Mike Rowe understands and promotes the concept. To be quite honest, my paycheck isn't enough to drag my tired butt out of bed to do something like this, knowing that it is important makes it happen.Yes, this is one of the reasons that your hospital stay costs so much. There's a lot to this facility that most people never see in redundant systems and things like fire safety. There's a lot wrong with healthcare in this country, but there's a lot right, too. I know that in my house, you're going to be safe, secure, and the lights will be on, if I have anything to do with it. We might even make you comfortable, every now and again. but that's another story.

"I smell the onions, I look around for you. . . "

2008-03-29T10:04:00.001-07:00

It's been a fun few days, here at Casa Bardonia. The good news is that we've had good outcomes - the process has been a bit, well, odiferous, though. First part of the week, I started noticing a rotten, kinda moldy, pungent smell in the bathroom, when I was giving Emma her bath. Emma tends to well, splash around a lot, sometimes, and I often end up putting an old towel on the floor to sop up the water, and the towel doesn't always get hung up, and it'll lay there for a day or two. . . cause she'll just do it again, tomorrow. . . so I'm thinkin' that we've got a mildewing towel thing going on. Next day, it's a little worse. I bother to pick up the towel - nope, it's not the towel. What is it? Don't know.
Thursday, it's getting nasty. I pull up a corner of the vinyl flooring - thinking to myself, 'great, it's gonna be mold, I'm going to have to tear this floor out and . . . '
No mold.
Then, it dawns on me. I've smelled something like this, before. Yes. It's DEAD ANIMAL. I don't think that I've recorded my experience - I think it's been 5 or so years ago - of removing half of a dead skunk from under this house, and I'm not going to, now. I will tell you of its effect upon me yesterday.
Resigned to the reality that 1) it was too late to do anything at the moment and 2) it was going to be my main concern in the morning, I went to bed. The odor, which had previously only been perceptible in the one bathroom, was now beginning to pervade the eastern end of the house.
I awoke at 3:15, my personal 'witching' hour. When I'm bothered, when stuff happens in the middle of the night, I've noticed that it's usually right around 3:15. I could smell this thing, and my brain began to turn. The condition of this corpse. The physical proximity that I would need to assume to address said corpus, or should I say now, host. I began to consider the logistics, put forth new theories and designed potential tools to do the job, like rigging up a plastic bag on a pole with a cable threaded around the bag opening, that could be placed over the thing and then drawn tight like a drawstring, in order for the operator to stay further away from the business that surely would be at hand. The smell wouldn't let me be. Went to the office, opened the window. Gad. My course became clear, even as my stomach became increasingly muddled. It was time to call a professional. Whatever the cost - actually, I considered about $200 to be my price ceiling - somebody else was going to do this dirty work. To the internet! I selected three companies, got myself dressed - the smell taking over my senses the whole time, and left for work a little early.
Speedy Animal Control. They open at 7 - perfect. I'll get them going and we'll be done. Left a message on their machine at 7:25. They never called me back.
On to D&D Dead Animal Removal Service. No fancy website, 'no bones about it' - low tech, on the lowdown, actually my first choice but no posted hours. I stopped waiting for Speedy just before 10am. D&D (lots of opportunity to 'riff' on the possibilities of those initials) had an answering service, too, but then Mary called me back within minutes. They had a live one, as it were. I explained that there was a dead animal under my house, could they please remove it, TODAY?
"What kind of animal is it?"
"I don't know. I'm thinking it's a possum or a raccoon - I'm pretty sure it's not a skunk, because we've had a dead skunk under our house, before."
"Well, a dead skunk doesn't always smell like a skunk."
"Yes, ma'am."
After going back and forth, spelling street names, Mary relaying info to another person trying to find us in the Thomas Brothers' map book, she gets back to business:
"Is this space accessible"
"Yes."
"How much space is there?"
(I don't know, I can crawl down there, I can turn over, it's a CRAWL SPACE!)"I'd say a good 24 inches or so."
"Well, sir, we do charge for this service."
(Oh really? It'd be kinda creepy if you didn't)"Yes, Ma'am."
"We charge between $60 - $120, depending on how far we have to crawl, and what we find down there."
(SWEET!) "Sounds great"
"Sometimes, they're alive, you know."
"I'm pretty sure that that's not the case, here."
We wrapped up the conversation, and they came out a couple of hours later. Vicky brought Jesus into the house, to the bathroom, and he said "I know what that is." Identifying animals by the smell of their rotting bodies is a skill that, while I admire it, is not one that I'd like to cultivate. He did his thing, we paid them $80, and life was much better all over again. I received the text message from Vicky - "Possum gone." Yes, Jesus had delivered us from the pestilence that had afflicted us, yea verily, our entire household. Make your own jokes, if you must. I prefer to remain respectful, for a change.
There's still a little smell, this morning, I'm just a bit nauseated at the moment. Yes, I found another broken vent and closed it off. We're moving on, today, to brighter horizons, and domestic bliss.

World Down Syndrome Day

2008-03-21T20:35:00.001-07:00

Today was World Down Syndrome Day. Of course, I didn't have to tell you, I'm sure you saw the blue and yellow banners waving from the lampposts in your town. It was in all the papers, and the heartwarming stories filled the post-sports-newscasts slots between chuckling anchors and videos of hailstorms as big as golf balls and water-skiing squirrel videos. People with Down Syndrome got free haircuts, donuts, and movie tickets, and they waved from convertibles as parades were held in their honor. 21-gun salutes, plus one "extra" shot, echoed at military installations. The telethon was a great success, raising 40 million dollars for research. Of course, we've already found a cure, but there appear to be a number of things that we can do to help those who've escaped it. The day was all about possibilities, inclusion, and achievement.
Yeah, Annie, I have my days, too.

Waiting in the Weeds

2008-03-15T10:13:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting on that last post for three weeks. I find myself, from time to time, unable to post about the things I'm thinking about. Years ago, I often read about writing taking courage, and I really didn't understand what that meant, outside of, say, Karl Marx or George Orwell. I am realizing that, if I really want to delve into some subjects, I'm going to need to do what I'm told every writer should be doing anyway, and that's writing a journal. I don't have the ego to think that my thoughts need international publishing; you've all been invited to read at your leisure and discretion as I hopefully work on myself. I try to do this in a way that might have some value for you as my friend, family member, or parent on this zany caravan we call - heck, what do we call it? At any rate, thanks for checking back, I've been kinda blocked. I'm going to try and start journaling, which hopefully may clear the docket for some more focused material. And I'm going to floss every day and check the oil in the car at least once a week. I'll save my courage for the time being, even though that kinda makes me shudder. Anyone understand this?

The news says that it takes a big chunk more than we bring in to 'make ends meet' here in San Diego. The school district - a big part of our lives right now, for both of my kids - is cutting on the very programs and services that serve Sam and Emma, being at either end of the educational spectrum. We've all been sick with some kind of crud that has lasted for about 3 weeks now, leaving us with a messy house, unmown grass, fast food because we're too pooped to get to the store, let alone cook. . .
It's just been a season of malaise.
Spring is on the way, though. I'm listening to music, again. I'm working through some stuff. I'm trying to figure out what my next career is going to be. I've pretty much ruled out inspirational speaker, cause I'd be livin in a van down by the river. And nobody wants that.

Bonus Photo!
Here's a picture from my webcam that we sent to Vicky when she was in Yuma a few weeks back.

Fasten Your Seat Belts

2008-03-05T20:04:00.000-08:00

I'm warning you, right off the bat, that I'm going somewhere that I'm not exactly comfortable with, and I'm pretty sure that some of you won't want to go. Feel free to stop this ride at any time - this is not required reading. The topic - same sex marriage. Curious? Let's proceed. Not curious? Feel free to check back, later.
I got a phone call, yesterday afternoon, from my neighbor Sid. Sid and Janice are lovely people; their children have grown and moved on, and I really do like having them for next-door neighbors. We've been through stuff together like building and paying for a common fence, reaching Janice on the phone when Sid had chest pains and got taken away in the ambulance, Sam was a somewhat unwitting accomplice when the neighbor kid set fire to one of Sid's trees - you know, the usual neighbor stuff.
Sid calls, wants to know if Vicky and I would join them in signing a petition for another ballot measure stating that marriage is between a man and a woman. I politely answered, "no." He politely said,"o.k., bye then," and that was that. Poor Sid. I do hope he talks to me again, someday.
We talk, all the time, in my communities of DS parents, about how our children change our lives. It's often hard to express just how. Time shifts, expectations change; after being stared at enough times you care less and less what people think about how you look, or what you're doing, because they have no clue what this is like, and most don't ever want to. Yup, I'm a minority, parent of a smaller minority.
So, there's stories about the occasional, "high functioning" Down Syndrome couples getting married. OK, there's no law against that. Should there be? They're different. How are they different? Why, it's a chromosomal anomaly. There's a behavioral gap between them and 'normal' married people.
I have grown to the opinion that homosexual people are born 'different'. I don't know if it's chromosomal, or not. I think that there's a whole range of genomic expression, just as there is with hair color, cruelty, and any other major characteristics of our human condition. I know some gay people that don't really exhibit any outward characteristics at all. There are many in key leadership positions where I work. There's a transsexual (at least one that I know about) in my building. We all manage to do what we need to do.
Now, I understand the societal implications of what I'm saying. I frankly think that there's been more damage done to our society by what is now the near requirement that both parents work to support an artificially high standard of living, financially, sociologically, and morally. That ship has sailed. We live in a country where single persons and gay couples can adopt children, 'have' them via surrogates. They live together in monogamous relationships and raise children, already. We've given them all of the de-facto trappings - more to the point, they've done it regardless of any law to the contrary. We don't have the legal/moral authority to jail them or stone them to death. Meanwhile, 90% of the children with the chromosomal condition that Emma has are killed, excuse me, prevented from living, er, what would you call it? And that's acceptable to all of us, because it continues, and is being further strengthened by the church of medicine.
What if homosexuality was discoverd to be a combination of genetic factors? Would it then become a disability? Perhaps you think it is, now. Would gay people suddenly be allowed to park in front of the grocery store? Would we evangelical folk be willing to accept them for who they were, then, now presented with a medical model, instead of a moral imperative?
This is a big pot, and this post is not going to make any sort of palatable soup. I'm reading a big book about theology and Down Syndrome. I don't know how it ends. I'm thinking that it may affect how I feel about this subject. At the moment, though, I just can't help but feel that we've got to come up with some new answers for these moral mines, answers that speak to love, God's love, that pass our understanding, that pass our propensities to alienate, that seek to bring healing relationships.
I know that some of you will disagree with this viewpoint, completely and utterly. You have other criteria. I'm just saying that Emma has changed my perspective on many things. I don't think I could ever explain myself to Seventh-Day-Adventist Sid in a way that he'd understand. I know he's a compassionate man, but I don't think he'd be able to fully see it through my eyes. I don't know if I've explained it in a way that anyone else understands.
It's amazing, what a telephone call can do.

IEP, 2008

2008-02-09T10:38:00.001-08:00

Individualized Educational Plan. Talk about your 'living documents.'
I've said before, in this context, that I wonder how most of us would measure up to this kind of scrutiny. Experts in their fields, describing your strengths and weaknesses, accomplishments and failures, setting goals for your performance over the next year.
Emma is doing well. As you can see, she is beginning to write letters, and is doing better all the time at writing her first name. After years of tracing, she's heading out onto the wide open spaces of paper and dry-erase boards. She can count to 6. She's learning signs, and using them, and, a couple of weeks ago, put a 3-word sentence together, signing "I Love Ice Cream." Mom thought it was going to be "I Love You," but Emma may have been leading her along on purpose. That's my Emma - likes the surprise, the joke, the 'BOO!"
She's beginning to work with an assistive device for speech, a little bit at school, and seems to like it. She's now being prodded to actually ask for things, rather than pulling someone to what she wants - and she's asking, rather than melting/shutting down. She's gaining strength, can now 'gallop' for many feet (another measurement), and the threshold's been lengthened. She's going to learn how to dribble a ball, here, pretty soon. She's sorting like crazy, and she's more visual than verbal when it comes to colors and identifying like things. Yes, she is. She's got buddies, and gets along really well with the kids at school - loves to participate with everyone. Everybody loves Emma (as far as I'm being told, anyway).
Now, you can look over this list and consider it to be pretty pathetic for an 8-year old. Nope. One of the things that Emma has taught me, that I think Jesus taught over and again, was that our expectations of others need to meet where they are, not where some arbitrary or selfish or theological or social norm labels them as unworthy. Our 'worthiness', our value, exists independently from these things; they are only mechanisms for us to distance ourselves from each other. But I digress. That we take the liberty to do so with the disabled should be a lesson to the normal, but we don't pay attention.
We made a major change with Emma, about 18 months ago, and I think we're just now beginning to see some measurable results. My parental cycle with Emma seems to be that, just when I've given up on something, she surprises. She is determined to take her own path.
I come out of every IEP meeting with two major emotions. One is gratitude for those that are investing themselves into my daughter, and pride in what they say about my Emma, the person. There's no graph, goals, or objective criteria for that, just the way she changes and enriches them. I couldn't be any prouder of her than I am, in those moments.

Hello, hello - I am telling you that you should go. . .

2008-01-29T18:41:00.000-08:00

If you have any affection for U2, or have never been to a real rock concert, or it's just been a while since you've heard loud music (and you like that sort of thing), I strongly urge you to see U23D. See it in all of it's IMAX 3-D glory, if at all possible.
U2 is a great band - the fact that they are now billionaire activists for Peace, Love, Justice, and all that stuff makes it all the easier appreciate that it's what they were about, all along. It's been cool to watch them grow into what they've become.
I had the pleasure of seeing the "Vertigo" tour twice. In many ways, this film is about as close as one could come to being there - in many ways, better - because the camera takes you onstage. Having been to these concerts, the film brought back a lot of the emotional substance. I don't know if one can really get the sense of what it is to see, hear, and feel an arena full of people dancing and singing In the Name of Love at full throttle, but you should at least be able to appreciate the moment in the film when Bono steps back from his mic and says, "Wow!" I am usually taken by The Edge's powerful solo lines, and the movie certainly provides those opportunities. They are veteran performers, but this movie also brings you into the circle, a bit, to see that they are still having a very, very good time.
The 3D is good, really good. There's some gimmickry, mic stands standing out, shots of Adam poking his bass neck around like he's probing a large, wet balloon - no, wait, he always does that. Larry Mullen's drum kit looks phenomenal through the polarized glasses. You can also see how hard he's working, something you tend to forget when watching him from a quarter mile away.
It has been a very long time since I've been 'wowed' at the movies. I knew that I was going to like the music, but the 3D really did make it a 'wow' experience. Don't wait for this to come out on DVD - I don't think it'll be quite the same. It's like the difference between listening to music in your living room vs. seeing it performed live. Except different.

Your stigma just dented my karma.

2008-01-20T07:52:00.000-08:00

The "R" word has screwed up my weekend. Again.
My gaming clan. It's not really expected to be a politically correct arena. In the course of the last two days' events, I have learned that the word has been added to a ban list on the forum because of me, an action that I'll take credit for but am not particularly happy that I had to be the reason for. More on that in a moment.
One of my buddies posted a message asking that the word "Ree-tard" be ree-instated - "I find this word very useful, pleasing to the ears, and a useful tool on RO team chat. I have been using moron in various forms for months, but I miss the beauty of the original word."
Now, to my clan's credit, most of the responses to this were that it wasn't acceptable. I made my choice. I embedded Emma's birthday video, and typed "Joe, meet my daughter, Emma. . .

It's a big world, and this is a big clan. There's room for most of us. I have to vote no on this one though.Thanks Destroyer, VGER and others. You're much nicer than I am."

No tirade, no rant, just the facts. I've reached a point where there's no real sense of righteous anger, no alerting of the local cell of Amnesty International, no striking a blow for Mankind sort of feeling. Just calling an ass an ass. I had a bad feeling about this one, and I was proven right.
A couple of hours go by, some other posts in the thread, then a new post appears. Joe's resigning the clan - he's offended too many people. My response is the first one - don't quit, you were trying to be funny, yadda yadda. It appears that Joe's a pretty popular Old Fart. Posting a resignation isn't resigning, it's a popularity poll. If you're leaving, leave. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Don't stand in the doorway exclaiming, "OK, I'm really going this time, no really, Bye!. . . . . Bye! Gotta go now. . . OK! He's not going anywhere.
This morning. Joe sends me a Private Message, explaining that he of course meant to offend no one. He goes on to relate that he has several in-laws with various conditions, and they enjoy calling each other 'retard' when they play games together. I have to share this:

"My wife's brother is half paralyzed and nearly completely brain damaged due to a car accident 20 years ago. We still call him Frankenstein, and our new favorite DroolBucket. No one minds, it's part of our way of interacting as it has been all our lives."

How lovely it must be to be Droolbucket! Surrounded by love and warmth and care. This is what I meant by my bad feeling. I've run into this sort of person before. Of course there's nothing wrong with using words like these, Joe. It feels like HOME. Alrighty then. Now I understand Joe. He still doesn't, and probably won't ever, understand me. There is the possiblity that he'll slide off into a tree while snowboarding and end up in the living room as Droolbucket II, but that's pretty much the only way he's going to get my drift.

Yeah, I'm angry. I always have been. I'm angry that my daughter has Down Syndrome. I'm angry at Joe's upbringing. I'm angry that I feel accommodated for - that it has to be me, that it wouldn't be, otherwise. I'm angry that many of my clanmates imply in their posts that it's no big deal, that I somehow overreacted by reacting at all. They have no idea, LAUGH OUT LOUD. I'm angry that - now that I've made it clear to the whole clan that I'm an oversensitive parent of a poor retarded girl - they're gonna treat me differently. I can't even leave the house, electronically, without this affecting my life. I'm angry that there are those that (no one ever says it out loud) think that our kind should just shut up and take my proper place in the isolated shadows of society, to happily accept "oh, I didn't mean you" when the dipstick makes a joke about taking the short bus.
I'm a compassionate man. I'm a loving father. I think I'm funny, most of the time. Today, I'm just pissed. I"m gonna go play with Emma for a while. She couldn't care less about any of it, and that's the wonder, the redemption, and the answer to it all.

It's about the Mentos, and more

2008-01-19T19:13:00.000-08:00

Here's the deal:
We've seen the original. We've watched Mythbusters do it. We've bought the kit.
Then Sam modified it. He's replaced the drop mechanism with two magnets, ala Adam and Jamie. Then, with the help of Old Dad, we made the tube and adapter. Witness the results:

This is so much better than Cub Scouts.
It's cool to watch him experiment, to facilitate his 'vision', albeit a goofy way to expel Diet Coke into the atmosphere. It's Dad-dom fully realized. It was all his idea. Makes me prouder than I could ever imagine.

Margins

2008-01-12T08:48:00.000-08:00

Why do we constantly marginalize each other?
Politics makes me physically ill. This, I'm sure, is a character flaw on my part, borne of a gentle spirit, schoolyard bullying, the harmony of the modern evangelical church, and the fact that I am even lactose tolerant. I like "Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln", where he describes the factors that would rend us asunder, then rises to his feet as only a pneumatic doll could, and brings us all back together before we head back out into the sweltering heat of Main Street, USA. I hate politics, because the discussion begins, in one form or another, with a declarative statement that immediately alienates a portion of those in the room. These days, if you hold a basic set of philisophical/political beliefs, to declare them as such instantly labels you and hangs a whole meat locker of smelly, disgusting issues around your neck by default, whether you're invested in them or not. This odor, now emanating from everyone in the room - because each 'party' (what a ridiculous name!) has plenty of stink to go around - makes everyone unhappy. More to the point, it causes artificial, unnecessary assumptions - let's just call it what it is - prejudice - to cloud, overshadow, dilute, poison the topic at hand. There are those that are very close to me who, I know, assume my positions on several subjects. I also know that they are wrong. One of the things that I think that is as sacred - and necessary - as the First Amendment to the Constitution is the secret ballot, including the right to keep those choices to myself. It's the power of the powerless. No one has the right to know how I voted, unless I tell them. I'm also quite afraid that, if they knew how I really felt on certain topics, our friendship could very well be at risk - a very saddening prospect. There would be no convincing, as well as no acceptance. Very sad, indeed.
This post has been percolating for a day or so. I know now that I'm not alone. Two nights ago(seen by me last night thanks to the miracle of Digital Recording), John Stewart was pointing out to Lou Dobbs that Dobb's own poll showed that 94% of his viewers were sick of the idiotic reporting of campaign and campaigner's minutiae, rather than the facts and the issues. I got a forwarded email, this week, telling me that Senator Obama -- I want to pause, a moment, for emphasis -- Senator Obama, a duly elected member of the second-most elite group of elected officials in this country, which makes him a high-ranking member of one of the two most powerful political parties, subject to their scrutiny, approval, and support -- I get this email that tells me (and I'm paraphrasing some of it here) that Senator Obama won't say the Pledge of Allegiance, went to hezbollah school, and will have us all hiding our McRibs under our burkahs come February. The creation and dissemination of that type of vitriol marginalizes everyone; sender, subject, party, recipient, country - it even slows down the internet, for Pete's sake. This week, I'm told that Ms. Clinton wins a political primary because she shows some emotion. I haven't seen it, don't want to, don't need to. IT"S NOT IMPORTANT. It could actually be true that some people actually changed their vote over this, but I sincerely doubt that this contingent of Americans made the difference. The error is in affording it more importance than it deserves, and by doing so, removing the focus from what is important. I truly do not know why anyone would put themselves under so much pressure and scrutiny in the first place. I don't know why I'd be interested in Britney Spears locking herself in her bathroom, either, but that's just more of the same.My point is simply this: Whether you're angry with the poor sot behind the counter at McSubWenTacoFiesta, or passing through the mid-band of your cable channels with the talking heads of 'news channels', ask yourself, "Why must we 'marginalize' each other?"Can't trust the media; can't trust a photograph - remember 'pictures don't lie'? Can't trust a sound bite. We can't trust our processes, either, unless we're willing to take some personal responsibility for how we treat each other. I do know that there aren't many places where I can enter into a discussion of many issues, these days, without somebody's feelings getting severely hurt. This needs to change, if we're to move in any sort of positive direction. I'm just sick about it.

Wrap it Up, I'll Take It

2007-12-31T09:50:00.000-08:00

It’s been a good season.
I have been the recipient of some great and gracious gifts, and have had the pleasure of surprising a couple of people, myself. We’ve had good travel, good food, and some genuine times. The kids are growing up – my niece Megan stunned my senses as she came through the doorway – she’s not a little girl, anymore. Her old uncle was as pleased as punch to be her old uncle and show her how to string her new guitar, albeit left-handed. I am not the kind of guy that kids gravitate toward (call it an homage to W.C. Fields, call it what you will); it was nice to have a reason to converse with her. If she brings it over next year, then I’ll know that I’m just being used to perform a mundane chore, but, now that it occurs to me, it’d still make me quite happy.
As one who chews on things, this is the time of year for mental mastication. So far, nothing tasty is appearing. There’s a lot going on, and a lot to do. One of my online friends, Tom, has kicked up that whole doing/being/where do you want to go today? dustbowl. Whether it’s the passage of time, inertia, or the seven stages of Death, I’m more comfortable right now that I be what I be. Doing has always been the bug in the balm. How do I show who I be to me son? By what I doing. How’m I doing? Not so good, I fears. He’s a great kid, maybe I doing alright.
This has been a year of doing what needs to be done. Will we do better, starting tomorrow? I don’t know.

Tis the Season

2007-12-08T07:09:00.000-08:00

Boy, life just goes on, doesn't it? There's a lot going on around me, anyway. This is typically the time of year when I get sick. I think I'm an undiagnosed bipolar personality. Why, you may ask? Because everyone needs a diagnosis these days, don't they? Why am I ending every sentence with a question mark? Is it because I need you to agree with me? Well, don't I?
Apologies. I am a member of the Seinfeld generation. I am not an Israelite, but I did work for a wonderful man for 7 years who once advised me "Always answer a question with a question!" I was also eligible to marry one of his daughters at that point, but, alas, I was already married, and they were too cool for a goyim geek like me. Miriam would have never allowed it.
The nanny state upped the ante another notch; I was required by STATE LAW, as a healthcare worker, to either get a flu shot or sign yet another document stating that I was refusing same. What the writer of Revelation didn't realize was that, by the time we'd have so many forms to fill out, we'd welcome a barcode on our foreheads just to save time. The insidious thing about a flu shot is that most of my coworkers and I felt lousy for a few days afterward, but not unwell enough to stage a strike or call a press conference to announce that it was a complete failure, ala Mike Aguirre. I hope I don't get the flu this year, I really don't.
I'm feeling particularly bombarded by sensory input, this year. There are a few projects in the works, one that's pretty exciting and intimidating at the same time. At the moment I'm waiting for information for a writing/presentation project that will be due in 23 days. It looms. Annoyed by both advertising, and anti-advertising. A very cute video piece from a friend about "Merry Tossmas", encouraging me to throw away every ad or catalogue that panders to everyone, instead of just Christians, by not calling the holiday Christmas, but merely a "Holiday." I am certainly one of those people who like to "call a spade a spade", and I know and fully expect everyone to call it a "Christmas Tree", and the day is Christmas. A store catalogue, in a multi-cultural society - and we are one BY DEFINITION, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN - is a shotgun blast. Good marketing is targeted, and L. L. Bean should know who their kwanzaa customers are. All 57 of them. Getting upset about the 'dilution' of Christmas is sounding the call after the dam has broken.
It is ridiculously cowardly that we cannot call Christmas Christmas on a school flyer, or sing Christmas carols in school that mention the event. That is exclusion, not correctitudinousness. I personally see the observance of Hanukkah, the observance of a miracle of God's provision for His people, as the perfect prelude to Christmas - but that's just me. I also see the Cross when I look at a Christmas Tree. I'm a Bittersweet kinda guy. Gee, I'm not sure where this comes from, but we should be looking for opportunities to encourage - children, in particular - to recognize and apprecieate their cultural diversity. That includes not banning Christ from Christmas. I remember singing "The Draedle song", in school, as a kid.
We're losing the ability to open our arms - culturally, emotionally, religiously, politically, physically.
I know this is a digression, but it's part of the bombardment. I heard a great quote, on the radio this week, from Sen. John McCain regarding the United States using torture. A man who knows (this, from a speech in February):

"Many years ago, a scared American prisoner of war in Vietnam was tied in torture
robes by his tormenters and left alone in an empty room to suffer through the
night. Later in the evening, a guard he had never spoken to entered the room and
silently loosened the ropes to relieve his suffering. Just before morning, that
same guard came back and re-tightened the ropes before his less humanitarian
comrades returned.
He never said a word to the grateful prisoner, but some months later on a Christmas morning as the prisoner stood alone in the prison courtyard, the same Good Samaritan walked up to him and stood next to him for a few moments. Then with his sandal, the guard drew a cross in the dirt. Both prisoner and guard stood wordlessly there for a minute or two venerating the cross until the guard rubbed it out and walked away. This is my faith, the faith that unites and never divides, the faith that bridges unbridgeable gaps in humanity. That is my religious faith and it is the faith I want my party to serve, and the faith I hold in my country. It is the faith that we are all equal and endowed by our creator with unalienable rights to life liberty and the
pursuit of happiness. It is the faith I would die to defend."

Now, that's not the quote. The quote is "It's not about them. It's about us."
I would not be surprised at all if Christmas is eventually removed as an "official" holiday, at least from the government's books. That does not mean that most of us will stop celebrating it or taking several days off, even. Perhaps we might even be able to clear away some of the dreck that hangs off the event and focus more on the meaning, as a result. Nah, silly me. We'll just add some more Federal and State days off, and see if they catch on with shoppers. No one will be working, by then, anyway. I don't think we'll ever have to revert to sketching crosses or icthuses in the sand, but it means living our individual lives with courage, not caving in to committees.
Massacre in a mall. Al-Qaieda doing this, we brace ourselves for, but like Oklahoma City, we manage to provide the home-grown event. The searing knowledge that Christmas won't be the joyous event for everyone.
Bombardment. Multi-tasking. We feel guilty if we're not doing at least 3 things, simultaneously. I love the houseboat because there's usually only one thing to be done, and that it entails eating, sleeping, or simply looking out across the expanse of water to allow the noise level in my brain subside. Remembering it, this week, was a reminder to seek some peace in the middle of all of this.
Christmas is coming. There's no avoiding it, even if you call it something else. It will be gone, soon enough, and, with any luck, we'll have a few moments of peace, joy, and goodwill toward men to remember, perhaps even record. Wise men do still seek those moments, and I hope they find them.
I hope you don't find this to be a depressive essay, my intent is to spur you (and myself) to action, whether it be to your community, your family, or to your heart. Seek Peace, even if you need to make some. Smell the fresh wreath that's been sent to you by a friend, and smile. Give the gifts that you have. Let the gratitude of the Thanksgiving (remember that, already?) harvest beget the sharing of same with those whose crops didn't come in. Put up a Festivus pole, if you have to.
As for me, I'm going to spend some time over the next couple of weeks seeking a baby in a manger, no crib for a bed, who continues to try to bring Love to a world, bombarded.

Happy Thanksgiving

2007-11-20T18:42:00.000-08:00

Thanks.

There's been a lot of new hoo-haw about Thanksgiving, this year, including word of some school district in the NorthWest calling it a day of mourning for Native Americans (I'm not wasting my time looking it up, it's on the internet, it must be true). What narrow-mindedness has gripped our collective idiocy, these days? The reality is that many cultures have always celebrated the harvest. I'd like to remind you why it's a day off in the United States.
The Battle of Gettysburg, fought July 1-3, 1863, nearly 87 years to the day of the nation's birthday, took between 46,000 and 51,000 lives. Three days. More than are killed on our highways in a year. It is a staggering number by any human standard. A nation at war, a war that would eventually claim 618,000 . President Lincoln is struggling to keep the Union together. I invite you to read his Proclamation. It acknowledges the war only as an impediment to the inevitable success of the U.S. as a people. It is a prayer - and it is not filled with the trappings of any one religion - it is a prayer for a nation to express its' gratitude, even in the midst of cataclysm.
We need to be grateful, in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. There was a great line, last night, on the TV show "House." "When you have all of the answers, you no longer have Hope!"
Thanksgiving, as manifested in our culture, is all about Hope. The traditional story of the Pilgrims indicated a new era of cooperation and understanding in the New World - regardless of the outcome. Lincoln's proclamation is all about the future. It is a day to pause and reflect upon those things that we tend to take for granted, ultimately to spur us to pursue those ideals that motivate us personally and collectively.
I am thankful that:

I have the freedoms afforded to me, earned both by the lives of others committed to those freedoms, moreso than by my own participation in the process.
I have Love. This greatest gift continues to be bestowed upon me by my family, friends, and a merciful and gracious God (to borrow a bit from A. Lincoln).
I have health.
I have a secure and comfortable place to live, and plenty of food to eat.
I have employment that ultimately serves others, thereby giving it greater purpose, for me.
I have places and communities that value my contributions, this means more to me, the older I get.
I have Hope.

I wish you all a safe and happy Thanksgiving. Thank you for reading.

An Unwitting Accomplice. I am, are you?

2007-11-13T08:01:00.001-08:00

I didn't ask for this. You know that. But it's become part of my life. It is true that, in a democracy, you are a participant whether you vote or not.

When I was in school, we recoiled in horror at the revelations of Dr. Mengele. We laughed, with our 20-year perspectives, at B.F. Skinner. We shudder and poo-poo Dr. Watson's emetic statements. Science can and does have a voice in our experience, but will always struggle with what we call "humanity."

I know I keep bringing this up, but it keeps coming back to me. I can't ignore it.
Today, I'm captivated by the prose as much as I am the subject matter.
From Patricia E. Bauer's blog, By Timothy P. Shriver, writing in Commonweal (subscription required for full article):

Although our policies over the past thirty years have become more supportive of people with Down syndrome, these children are increasingly seen as liabilities. We’ve become more generous with services, but more judgmental too. In this strange mix, what’s clear is that we still don’t believe that people with intellectual disabilities are valuable. When parents knowingly choose to have such a child, the message they frequently receive from the larger society is that they have chosen wrongly. Imagine knowing that others believe your child should not exist.
… Those who live with and care for people with Down syndrome are able to do this because they know something that the technicians of genetic testing may need to learn: in giving to one another, we get back far more than we give. And in accepting unconditionally the full dignity of every human being, we often discover our own. In this way, the parents of children with Down syndrome embrace the always-unfulfilled aspiration of our nation’s founding — that we are all equal, capable, worthy of a chance, no matter what. But does our nation still believe that?
At this moment, the stakes are high. For make no mistake: we are in the midst of a silent resurgence of eugenics. The idea that each of us has equal human value regardless of background, wealth, religion, or disability — a cornerstone value of both our religious traditions and our political heritage — is at risk today.

Those are powerful words, to me. I know that all of you that I know who read this are aware of this. It has always been expedient to discount "the full dignity of every human being" to make one's own life easier. It's the selfish, evil undercurrent of every societal system I've ever studied. In our society, however, opportunity exists. Opportunity to give, individually, institutionally, governmentally.

There is much that we do to each other to devalue ourselves - "Reality TV" is enough to prove that point. I cannot fully explain the value that Emma has brought to my life, my family, my community. She has re-defined concepts like 'value', 'dignity', 'courage', 'equality', to me and to others, merely by her presence. Many of her contributions still lie ahead; for now, she has at least the entitlements to make some of them. It is so strange to walk with her in public places and realize that some of those looking askance at her deliberately chose not to share the life that we know. Neither they nor I are criminals in this world - but we both endure the consequences of each other's actions. I don't like that last sentence, but it is the truth.

This morning, I read a post on Downsyn.com from a Mom who had just learned that a friend had recently aborted a child with Trisomy 21. She was not sure how to feel, how to judge, how to act. I wasn't sure how to finish this piece. I will, with my response to her (others had been more direct and eloquent than I could have been) :

Amy has said it, so very well.
One of my favorite things in this world is "A Christmas Carol", by Charles Dickens. There are many haunting messages (and I'm not talking about the ghosts) in this story. One scene that is often left out of dramatizations is the one where Scrooge's fiancee' breaks off their engagement. "May you be happy in the life that you have chosen," she says to him, when everyone, including the reader, knows that this is a huge error on Scrooge's part. He does not see, until reminded, what sort of impact his decisons have made upon him.There are many things that most of us don't talk about, but live with. We didn't know until after a miscarriage that several of our closest friends had had them. I think one of the unrealized undercurrents in our society is the emotional impact of aborted babies. I can't prove it. Every life has meaning - I am now convinced of that. That includes those that are never given a voice. Some of us try and speak for them. Some of us live with the choices that we have made, and prove the point. That does not make us better than they are, but we as a society are made better, [i][b]not by what we do, but by who our children are[/b][/i]. We are simply being stewards of what we've been given.It's not for me to judge. It [i]is[/i] for me to "be happy in the life that I have chosen."
That statement echoes in my head, nearly every day.

Are You Decent?

2007-11-04T11:11:00.000-08:00

I realize that I am 48 years old. How I became 48 years old is no mystery. I was here, the whole time, or at least for most of it. I have slept some. I consider myself to be a decent person, certainly raised to be so. Lately, though, I’ve been feeling quite out of the mainstream in this regard. We are becoming an indecent society. It hasn’t happened overnight. We’ve seen it coming. Do I feel this way because I am only six months away from my AARP membership?

I read the obituary for Paul Tibbetts (pilot of the Enola Gay), this Friday. In it, his granddaughter said, “He didn't want a funeral because he didn't want to take the chance of protesters or anyone defacing a headstone.” It resonated with the article I'd read on Thursday, about a successful lawsuit against the completely misguided church (a gross understatement) that protests at soldiers' funerals. Whatever your politics, funerals are not the time and place for polemics. One indecency does not justify another.

We were out, trick-or-treating, on Wednesday. We saw two girls, no more than 15 years of age, in costumes that did not belong on them, at all. Halloween has been co-opted into an adult event, and the result (I actually typed out 'reslut' - which is not a word, but captures the concept) is that costumers provide adult-themed costumes in all sizes - dress up your 9 year-old daughter like a french maid - isn't that cute?

Television is a wasteland. The ability to tell a joke without naming body parts is now a lost art. I love comedy, but not what I see so much on TV, lately. I don't want to censor it, but at least keep it off the air until after 9 p.m., maybe? Social responsibility is part of what it means to be decent.

Worst of all, we now expect to be treated indecently. We rationalize our own selfish, rude behaviors because it's the way things are. Assert yourself, be first, make sure all of your needs are met regardless of the condition anyone else around you is in. When we are wronged, we don't want to be compensated, we need to be over-compensated. It's resulted in a wierd social tapestry of fake manners and idiotic, insincere responses to simple mistakes. Sincerity is a function of decency.

I may not be presenting this very well - call it a draft, from some impressions I've had this week. I want to pique your conscience, as mine has been, about what it means to be a decent person, this week.
I open doors for everyone. I take my turn. Am I a decent person? More to the point, for me, how do I communicate what it means to be a decent person to my children? Aaahhh, quite a different kettle of fish - or is it?

Here's a unique analogy for you.

2007-10-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

Why surviving a wildfire is like having a child with Down Syndrome
-or an exercise in selfish rationalization - you decide

Everyone filters information - we are the sum of our experiences.
Last week's wildfires directly impacted over 300,000 people in my county, and indirectly affected an entire region. It was gripping television for several days, 24 hours a day. Stories of evacuation, stories of sudden change, stories of futures forever changed, sometimes gradually, sometimes in an instant. Tears, resolve, promises of help, acts of courage and compassion.
It's a lot like having a child with Down Syndrome. How, you ask?

Your present becomes irrelevant
You're afraid about what you don't know
The past becomes an irreplaceable memory
Everything is different, yet it really is the same - you just see it differently
Important things come sharply into focus
People say things to you that they themselves don't understand
Your plans change
Appointments mean nothing
Your expectations evaporate, then 'morph' into something else entirely
Bitterness becomes your friend, then an ally, and, if you're smart, an energy source
You find out who your friends are
You learn what community can really mean
You learn that we are all afraid, we are all damaged, and we all need each other, despite our thoughts to the contrary.
Rebuilding is not restoration. It can be more, it can be less, but it will never be the same.

These are some of the thoughts I had while watching it unfold from my living room.

Now, there are some who don't see the birth of a child with Down Syndrome as a catastrophic event. There are some who return to a million-dollar pile of ash and say, "It's just stuff."
Everyone filters information - we are the sum of our experiences.

I'm just sayin.

There's a local guy who arrived on San Diego TV at about the same time I started college here, in the 70's. Larry Himmel lost his home, last week. His thank-you video I've linked to hits many of the themes I've tried to strike, here. There's nothing like hearing it from someone who knows. I particularly liked "if as many people are praying for me as have told me they are praying for me" . . . I don't think he realizes how tired he looks; his gratitude is tempered by the reality of what has happened, as well as what lies ahead. He's a very fortunate man. I admire his ability to share it all with the rest of us.

Hiatus gone Awry

2007-10-30T13:27:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened. It’s been a little intimidating, on several levels. Not only were there fires burning all around me, I’ve been surrounded by journalism – more to the point, surrounded by stories, most of which tell themselves. While I am deeply pleased that I don’t have one to tell, I haven’t been in a position to really rescue anyone, either. With the exception of some overtime, no school for the kids, and really bad air, my family has not been affected - while several thousand homeless people camped about 3 miles from my house. What am I to write about? – pick up a newspaper.
Since I wrote last, I have:
Been on the annual Houseboat weekend. This trip was unusual in three respects. First, we used the other of the two concessionaires that provide rentals on Lake Mead; the more expensive one. It was “Deluxe” when compared to the boats we’ve been on for the last umpteen years. I figure we’re not going back to the ‘old’ boats. . . hedonists that we are. Second, we had 40-50 mph winds on the first afternoon and part of the second day. This is not a good thing when one is attempting to pilot a 50 foot long, 20 foot high pontoon boat with a canvas tarp (read sail) on top. The word that comes to mind for our mooring attempts that day is “dicey”, and we ended up in a cove that was barely wider than the boat was, even against the advice of the guy that came out to bring us a replacement sledgehammer (used to set the bars that hold the ropes that tie the boat to the shore). No story there, it was broken when we reached for it, the first time. Third, on the way back to the marina, we rescued a foursome that had become stranded and spent the night drifting in a small ski boat with no food, clothes to speak of, and no cell phone coverage. Now, this may all look like great blog-fodder, there’s not a lot more to say about it, so I haven’t.

I accidentally stepped on a week-old kitten and crushed it’s skull, in front of my son, and held it, all of us helpless, in my hands as it bled to death. I’ve been thinking that I must not be much of a writer because I can’t adequately describe this event, and how it affected me. Perhaps, someday, I can.

Had my annual performance evaluation at work. Seven years ago, my position as a manager was eliminated to save money. I was made a service technician. In time, my old position re-appeared, and one of my former subordinates now fills it. How would you feel? I’m just saying, it is always an event that allows me to relive the embarrassment and shame all over again.

I haven’t felt good at all, since Lake Mead. After 4 days on the water, we all usually feel the world moving back and forth for a couple of days. It took me a week, this year, including real nausea and near-vertigo. In the ensuing weeks, I have been sharing whatever Emma has brought home from school – mostly intestinal stuff. I’m feeling better, today, but I’m missing a lot of work. Yeah, the aforementioned work. I’ve got to get going, there’s a backlog of stuff to do, and the holidays loom like Sam’s monthly book reports. I’m getting some ideas. Now, if I can only figure out where I put October.

Stand Tall

2007-09-20T07:38:00.000-07:00

This is a great article. It's long, but there's a lot to say. Most of us are just trying to live our lives, but we've been given that opportunity, we assume it as a right. Patricia Bauer explains how it feels for us to realize how and why our society is denying thousands of people that opportunity.
I invite you to read it in its entirety.

Stand Tall

Dear Sam,

2007-09-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Samuel,
I want you to know how proud I am of you. Whether you know it or not, you've learned some things in the last couple of weeks, without even trying. I've learned some things, too.
You've learned that being honest, and standing up for someone else does not always bring the response that you'd expect from those 'over' you. You were singled out, and made to feel that you had done something wrong, belittled in front of your classmates, and then told that it was wrong to cry. It was wrong for that teacher to talk to you the way that she did. You were right to tell us about it. I'm pretty sure that you didn't expect telling us would mean that we would move you to a different class in a different school, either. I know you know that we did this because of many other reasons, this was just kind of the 'last straw'for us all. Sometimes, standing up for what is right means that you get hurt, too, at the time. By doing what you did, though, you showed your classmates, your teacher, and everyone the sort of character that you already have.
I hope that you have learned that good things will happen when you do the right thing, too. Most important, you will know in your heart that what you did was right. It's really great for Mom and me to see that you are liking your new class and teacher - you've been more excited about school this last week than you have been in a long time. You're helping Mom by riding the bus with Emma, and Emma loves to have you around at school. You're such a good guy with her but hey, you're her brother, right? I hope you're finding friends. I changed schools a lot when I was a kid, I know that that can be hard. Just be yourself.
I learned how much you know - that, even when I was angry at your teacher, you understood and told me that she may have been trying to help you, in a strange way. You're probably right. Seeing someone else's point of view, even when they're being mean to you, is an ability that some adults don't have.
I know it's kinda weird to tell you this in an email, but I wanted you to read it, and maybe keep it and read it over again on a day maybe when things aren't going so good. Sometimes, putting things in writing makes them more permanent, not just a pat on the back from old Dad.
I Love You very much, and I will always.
Dad

Vacation '07, Chapter V

2007-09-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

After a lazy morning with Alex and Davey, we stuff our stuff back into the Honda and head south, over the hills of Marin County to the Golden Gate. Funny, you can't get to the visitor center on the North end when you're heading southbound, but we manage to take the road to Sausolito far enough for some fog-laced pictures. The City is what it always has been, Fisherman's Wharf, Ghirardelli Square, a wistful gaze at the Buena Vista. Sam and I split some scampi and linguini for lunch, followed by the requisite purchasing of the refrigerator magnet at one of the wharf's fine stores. After grabbing some chocolate, Vicky and Sam take a cable car ride, Emma and I follow in the car. We enjoy some traffic out of town, and encounter some on the road to San Jose; an accident renders our shortcut moot. We get to our room in Monterey about 8 and enjoy delivered pizza.
Monterey Bay. The Aquarium. There's about 3 blocks of complete renovation going on near the Aquarium, so we are forced to take our midday nutrition inside the attraction, which turns out to be a frustrating, noisy affair. Finally negotiating our way to the dining room, the kids don't eat the overpriced stuff we bought them. It's the family moments like these that make it all worthwhile.

The Aquarium - I think this is the 3rd time we've visited - is not the *wow* that if first was, but it's all presented so very well. Sea Otters. The jellyfish exhibits can entrance you for hours, if you let them. Watching a huge sunfish loll its way around the tank. The tidal exhibit that dumps a thousand gallons of water over your head every 20 seconds or so. The aquarium is built out over, and into the bay, just off the balconies seals bask on rocks with birds coming and going. We spent 5 hours there.
Back to the room after finally finding a grocery store. The indoor pool at the motel is kinda icky, but we manage to make a good time of it. Nothing like a nice soak in the spa after a day of watching fish.
Keeping to our rigid schedule of leaving by 11, we head south to Point Lobos State Park. This lovely spit of land is just south of Carmel. There are lots of trails along the rocky coast, and tidepools to die for, if one pines for tidepools. If you've ever wondered what a huge rock covered in cormorant and seagull poop smells like, then this is the place for you. The views are spectacular, including a few fog-shrouded manses to the South. We leave Point Lobos for a late lunch at Subway and a lunge down highway 1. It's mostly cloudy, so the views are dramatic when revealed. Highway 1 is probably one of the most dramatic drives that this country has to offer, in any conditions. Today, the fog is boiling up the cliffs, but the roadway is clear, a path through the swirling clouds jumping the roadway and grabbing the hillside over us. Briefly stopping for some obligatory seal pictures, we glimpse Hearst Castle on the way to the restrooms of Cambria (shoulda skipped the refill at Subway). Cambria is one of those lovely little towns (I spent a week here, one weekend) where gas is always a dollar more than it is in the real world, and, while they'd love for you to stop and buy some paintings or antiques, please keep moving down the road and leave us alone, thank you. We oblige, and find our way to San Luis Obispo, Mexican Take-out, and air conditioning. It's humid, and we're treated to a lightning storm at 2 a.m., with cracking thunder and fat raindrops.
The last day, we manage to stretch a 5 hour drive into an 8 hour one, not much to say except LA traffic stinks, but so does San Diego's. The LA delays put us into the 805 merge at the right time to enjoy the added burden of a truck overturned just down the road. It took us an hour to go about 5 miles. In our absence, Paco the kitten expressed his frustration and loneliness by unraveling the toilet paper from two bathrooms, the house is otherwise just musty but fine. It's hotter here at home than anywhere we've been. We managed 1500 miles, 22 miles to the gallon, thank you very much, and only 2 pairs of headphones were broken. All in all, quite a successful trip.

Vacation '07, Chapter IV

2007-09-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

Out of the hotel at the crack of 11-ish, we head down highway 80. To Fairfield, home of Nellis AFB and, more importantly, the Jelly Belly jellybean factory. We buy 6 lbs. of "belly flops", jelly beans that didn't make the final cut, as it were. We ate a pizza that's shaped like a jelly bean. They should 'stick' to making candy.

Onward to Napa and Calistoga, through the fabled valley that produced, among other things, our friend Teresa. In Calistoga, we go to the shining winery on the hill, Sterling. To visit Sterling, one must take their aerial tram, then follow a self-guided tour with a few video stops and tastings along the way. It's a gorgeous view south, over the Napa valley. Sam's not having such a great time. As we're leaving, an employee down the hall from the gift shop drops an entire rack of glasses, and everyone's attention shifts. What a horrible, yet incredibly funny sound to hear at an expensive winery. I softly hear the announcement in my head, "I'm sorry, all current discounts have now been cancelled. We apologize for this inconvenience."
We make one more stop down in Napa, where I wait in the car with antsy Emma and sulking Sam while Vicky shops. I watch a skinny, yet well dressed older man tool into the parking lot in his new Bentley. The man's shoes are probably worth more than my Honda. We head back South and West toward Novato and Vicky's cousin Alex, his wife Linda, and Jack and Davey. On a two-lane highway, we encounter about 5-7 miles of completely backed-up traffic heading the other way. Then we find out why. It's Sunday, RACE DAY, and we're headed toward the track that just disgorged it's patrons onto this one and only way in or out. We find our way into line heading our direction - a traffic jam seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
We make our way to Novato, and find friends.
My wife is part of a great family. There were three brothers. Jack Miller was a professor of physics and astronomy in Claremont, CA, Oxford degrees. Probably the smartest man I've ever met. Gaylord Miller was the head of NOAA for the Pacific, they lived in Hawaii. He died before I could meet him. Vance Miller taught high school Math and science. Vance died the day after Elvis did, about 4 months after I started dating his daughter.

Alex is Jack's son,the middle son of three. Alex and Victoria have always been buds. Linda is great. Davey has autism. We didn't know this until my neice's wedding, about 18 mos. ago. It was strangely fun to sit around with them talking about ER visits and cleaning up stuff. . . you know, the usual. They have two dogs, and Emma spends much of our time there swapping spit with Nellie. Alex, among other things, is a book collector/dealer; he showed us some signed, first editions, and gave Sam a set of The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings books. Sam was duly impressed. I'm always happy to hear stories of Vance and the rest of Vicky's family, this visit includes Alex's spot-on imitation of his father's voice - a man I was enchanted with, even as he really wanted very little to do with me, a long-haired psychology major. Sam bunked with Jack, Vicky, Emma, and I stayed in the "PMS Shed", a shed that's carpeted, has TV, and a bed. We set up an air mattress for Emma, and turned the TV back on after Vicky heard rats scampering and chattering on the roof. I, as usual, was blissfully unaware of this until we were in the car, heading south for San Francisco.

Vacation '07, Chapter III

2007-09-17T20:46:00.000-07:00

Saturday. Got out of the condo at 11:00, a five minute drive to old Sacramento. We are experiencing unseasonably cool weather, which means it's just a warm 80's. We wander the boardwalk, eventually settling on Fat City for lunch, where I have the pulled pork sandwich with carmelized onions, cole slaw, and ubiquitous fries. De-lish. It's a lovely lunch in a 160 year-old building next to the train station. Very nearly historical.

The railroad museum here is really very impressive. By the nature of the subject matter, the building is huge, and it contains many locomotives and various cars, immaculately restored, creatively displayed. Emma met a wonderful docent in the dining car (which was filled with displays of the various 'diningware' settings of many lines - really cool) who showed her how to use the dinner bell (a 4-note xylophone ala the N-B-C notes on TV). Sweetest moment of the day. We then took a ride on a train down and then back up the tracks next to the river. Sam's acting snotty beyond his years, but still personable about half the time. He's alright. Emma's fascinated, at first, then bored, kinda like me. Cool to hear the train whistle echo off the buildings, and watch the old men tinker and fuss over the locomotive. I love trains, but I don't love trains, if you know what I mean.

Somewhat unfortunately, but actually quite comfortably, we arrived at the Capitol about 15 minutes too late for the last tour. We only had about 45 minutes to wander the dimly-lit halls, which was plenty of time to gaze up into the dome, admire the turn-of-the-century office exhibits, and see the elevators that were reserved for members only. It's a lovely building, well representing our large and fabulous state. It will be noted, later on the trip, that San Francisco's City Hall is much larger and more ornate - but, of course, that's where all the money was. . .
To Wal-Mart, again, for a bathing suit for Dad, swimming goggles for Sam, and headphones for the iPod, Emma having destroyed 2 pair so far. Groceria, then 'home' for a swim and dinner. Domestic bliss. Emma and I took one bedroom, 'cause we're the early risers. I was ready for bed.

Vacation '07, Chapter II

2007-09-17T20:32:00.000-07:00

I've said it before, and I think I finally got someone to agree with me, Yosemite is not a day trip destination. We spent more time looking for lunch than we did looking at Half Dome.

It is a wondrous valley, broad meadows ringed by tall pine trees, dwarfed by sheer, ancient granite walls, some stained by waterfalls that mostly trickle this time of year. I did gain a few moments peace on a fallen log in the shade, listening to the wind through the pines, as Emma sat down, clothes and all, into the river.
Yosemite is in the lower part of Gold Country, and we drove through Coarsegold, China Camp, and other historic remnants of what will soon be the events of two centuries ago. Once one leaves the Sierra's sharp cutbacks, the roads divide broad sections of almost rolling hills, covered with ankle-high golden grasses, dotted with oak trees. Much of the Golden State really is this color, most of the year. Eventually, heading East, you drop further into the Central Valley with its industrial farms that feed most of us. Interstate 5 and highway 99 are high speed (not by statute, but by practice) arteries through this central valley. They meet in Sacramento, where we settled into a great find, a two bedroom condo with a kitchen and garage(!). We found groceries and dinner was done by about 9:30. We're off to downtown and old town (if they ever get out of bed) today, staying here again tonight. At least there won't be much car time. In the midst of all there is to do, I am enjoying myself as much as I am able to, cynical curmudgeon that I am. Just don't tell anyone.

Vacation '07, Chapter I

2007-09-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

This isn't exactly breaking news, but it's now recorded for posterity, on the intertubes.

It's 9 am, and I'm sitting in the dark in a Holiday Inn Express in Madera, CA. Emma's oogling in the corner with the iPod, and Vicky and Sam are still sleeping. They never make it to the complimentary breakfast.
Yesterday, we had an uneventful 350 miles or so. We'll probably do about a thousand miles on this trip, and never leave California. Think on that, Yankees. The Wide Open spaces. This also means we gotta drive forever to get anywhere from the lower left hand corner of the country. Of course, it's a bit silly to leave a major tourist attraction to see others, but it is the American way.
It certainly is different, traveling now as opposed to when I was a kid. I mean, we used to head out in the middle of the night to cross the desert(it was cooler - no air conditioning, and cars were more likely to overheat), and I'd crawl up into the back window and look at the stars as we drove. Now, we're strapped in, there's a video system set up in the car with Elmo for Emma, Sam's playing nintendo games on his Wii, and Mom's playing podcasts through the radio from her iPod. We found the motel, a bit late, and set out for dinner in this farming town. Your selection. . . The International House of Pancakes! It was either that or a place called "Chubbies." The ambiance included picture boxes with dinnerware in them, an interesting medium. Andy Warhol would have been momentarily intrigued, then bored.
I had country fried steak, eggs, and pancakes for dinner no active cultures for me. . . The Wal-Mart was jumpin' at 9 last night. This is migrant farmer country, lots of small apartments filled with families. It's the land of Cesar Chavez, grape country. It's also over 100 degrees in the daytime, so folks come out at night. We found ourselves at Wal-Mart at about 8:30, picking up some things that we'd forgotten to pack, recognizing that we were the tallest people in the store. I'm just sayin'.
Anyway, the plan today is Yosemite, then on to Sacramento to see our fabulous Capital. Ahnold, most certainly, will be away on some juggernaut with the Kennedy family. So, a fair amount of mountain driving, today, crappy National Park concessionaire lunch fare, but probably better choices for dinner.

2007-09-08T10:49:00.001-07:00

Thanks to those of you still checking in.
I've had a major computer meltdown. Combine that with a week-long road trip, 115 degree heat for another week after that, and then a faulty new motherboard, and you have one unhappy camper.
I've got some vacation blogs on a hard drive that I can't access at the moment, but they will appear, hopefully with photos, in a few days.
School's started, Emma's already missed a day due to sickness, it's cooled off dramatically back into the 80's (which actually feels glorious when night falls, and we're into the countdown to our next Lake Mead Trip. We're approaching what goes for normalcy around here.

Emma's Eight

2007-07-22T12:50:00.000-07:00

Emma's eight, today. She was born on a Wednesday morning, just after midnight, yanked out of her Mother's womb foot-first, held up in the air for just a moment. The surgical assistants mumbled amongst themselves, pointed out the large gap between her toes to each other knowingly, and whisked her off to the NICU. A lot has happened, since then. Not so much to Emma, but to most of those who have met her.
It's difficult to describe, because it's difficult to describe. The adjectives don't do the truth justice; they tend to spin one off into a minefield of platitudes and prejudice. Saying that Emma has "special needs" implies inferiority. "Differently Abled" is condescending. It is appropriate to label her "Developmentally Delayed" ("retarded" for the 21st Century), but until when? 20? 30? I'm Developmentally Delayed, because I haven't gotten even a Master's Degree yet, let alone that PhD. that I'm oh so capable of? Or am I?
Everyone's expectations for Emma's are different. Unlike most of us, she has to make her own way in the seeming absence of discipline, peer pressure, and shame. The results are quite a mixed bag. Often, this can be refreshing; it can also range from annoying to dangerous. Life becomes a matter of relativity. Emma's finally becoming aware/annoyed with a wet Pull-up - this is a good thing, and a forward step in potty training. Emma's solution is to remove all of her clothing, along with the offending underwear. It's a blessing with it's own bottom-line.
She is capable of getting into the kitchen, and retrieving food from the refrigerator. She is capable of unlocking both of the 'regular' locks on the front door, and walking out of the house. She deftly exchanges the DVD's in the player in the Family Room. She likes to help, whether it's carrying in a bag of groceries, clearing the table, or rearranging the large glass vase filled with shiny rocks and dried plants on top of the piano. It's hard to discipline her when it feels like she really isn't going to ever grasp that what she's done is wrong; there's so many different kinds of trouble to get into, when your freedom is limited and your environment so full of opportunities. The answer can't be to sanitize her (and our) environment, but it's sure tempting when you're putting all of her clothes and bedding back into her drawers for the 4th time this week. She gets frustrated, but I can't really say that it's any more or less than I am on a daily basis. She gets her feelings hurt - see previous sentence. She forgives. She has compassion. She sees humor, she makes jokes. She gives. She loves. It’s not a matter of purity or innocence, it’s a matter of amplitude. She gets less freedom, because she has less responsibility. The rest of us get to make bigger mistakes, because we can usually pay for them.

We bought her a small, cheap, portable video player for her birthday. I cannot read the instruction manual for it. The type is too small, and it has been translated from an eastern tongue by someone who does not have a firm grasp on at least one of the languages:

"That player has six keys(Key) totally with a to turn a switch. . . No
matter what interface it is under, grow to press the MODE and PLAY/PAUSE key to can target the keyboard or relief to target a keyboard in the meantime."

I can almost understand the sentences above. How does Emma interpret what and how we say what we say to her? How do we all fall into the spectrum of truly understanding each other when we try to communicate? Thinking on these things, most things, is how I've changed over these eight years.

Emma is our daughter – of that there is no doubt. I see my Grandmother in her. She sweeps her hair back with the back of her hand in a most feminine way. She preens. She also likes to load up her fork with spaghetti and dangle it over her upturned maw like a bird eating worms. She likes to go out. She works a large table of diners just like her Grandfather. She likes to kick back in the afternoons and nap with Dad in his chair. She likes a good movie. She tinkers with technology. She often doesn't want to be bothered. She loves to dance.
One of my biggest questions is - if she hasn't already - if and when Emma will realize that she's significantly different than most of those around her. I almost hope that she never does - of course her Dad doesn't want his daughter to feel that sort of pain. My true hope is that if this happens, she'll be able to realize what most of us realize when we feel this way, that there are enough of those people around who love her for who she is, regardless of who she is. That’s the way I felt at the end of this day with my family and friends, celebrating Emma’s life with us. Happy Eighth Birthday, Girl!

The Fair was Good.

2007-06-30T10:29:00.000-07:00

We had a good time at The Fair this year. After a few years of loading up on discount tickets for rides, running out, buying more, trying to calculate the cost - we've just given in the last couple of years and bought the one-price, all you can ride wristbands. They and the cost of admission went up a good chunk, this year. The good news is that we've learned to pick a weekday, and this year the planets aligned to bring us quite good fortune: Thursday was wristband day, Steve and Rita could meet us, and Steve White was playing!

Emma loves roller coasters. She has proven to be pretty fearless. I took her with me on the big bumper cars. She started to get upset with the first collision, but was giggling by the end of the ride, figuring out that it was supposed to be that way. Sam had the pleasure of his buddy Ryan's company, they did a pretty good job of tolerating the rest of us. The second ride, the teacups, I obliged Sam by nearly making him sick, as requested. Emma oohed and aahed her way through the rides, taking on some of the bigger-kid roller coasters this time.

This was Steve White's 18th appearance at the Fair. It's a venue that we can attend, kids and all, and it's usually as it was, this year, in the early evening when sitting down is heavenly - to watch and hear him play, divine. He is truly an artist who's combined technical skill with 'a soul for sound' to make music that's unique. While I hope he becomes as rich and famous as he ever wants to be, it has been one of the bright spots in my life to "discover" him, share his music with my friends, and exchange an occasional email with the guy.

Spending time with Steve, Rita, and Corrinna C. is always great, of course. We got in a few rides, after that, loaded up the kids with junk and ice cream, had some fried stuff, our own selves, and made it back home with no disasters or wardrobe malfunctions. The kids were good, the breeze off the ocean was steady, and we only got sunburned in a few places. Overall, a very satisfying day.

We're #1!

2007-06-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

I’m here to report that the United States of America is leading the way in cost-effectiveness when it comes to the diagnosis and abortion of children with Down Syndrome.
Here is a link to a 2000 study by the Division of Maternal-Fetal Medicine, the Center for Perinatal Health Initiatives, and the Division of Clinical Genetics, Department of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Reproductive Sciences, University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey, Robert Wood Johnson Medical School/Saint Peter’s University Hospital, New Brunswick, New Jersey; and the Department of Pediatric Dentistry, University of Connecticut Health Center, Farmington, Connecticut. There was no easier way to say that, sorry.
http://www.greenjournal.org/cgi/content/full/95/4/577

I don’t expect you to read the entire thing, unless you don’t trust my ability to interpret it for you. I just want to focus on some highlights, some things that I try, like most of us, to ignore as I go through my own daily trials and tribulations. The most important message of this article is the study’s projection of societal cost-savings by using a more comprehensive method of diagnosis, up-front as it were, to screen a greater percentage of babies with Down Syndrome. I take you now to the flowcharts embedded in the article. The bottom of the chart, for either the US or UK is the kick in the stomach. In both countries, when genetically counseled when other indicators warrant it, 70% of pregnant women choose to have an amniocentesis, and 90% of them with DS children abort them. It may be selfish for me to say, but I don’t think that (beyond one’s feelings about abortion) those of you without a child with DS can fully appreciate the range of emotions that this evokes. We were participants in this process of genetic screening, and we were part of the 30% who did not choose an amnio.
For me, reading this article puts me back into the middle of those days, a laundry list of what would I have done if I know what I know now, am I really a person of character or a complete idiot? - you know, things like that. I do know that part of our decision was a function of denial. I do know that we were pressed by several different entities to have the amnio; their intent, particularly understanding this statistic now, was very clear. I do know that we had some heart-rending (at least it seemed so then, looking back now not so much) discussions about what to do, which of course got to the heart of who we are. I will always cherish the things that we discussed; Victoria is an amazing woman of insight, character, and integrity that transcends that of anyone that I have ever met, and I’ve met some spiritual giants. For us, it came down to a matter of avoiding a procedure with risk that would achieve a result that ultimately would not change the outcome. I remember, after we had turned down the amnio, conducted a “Level II” ultrasound where the Doctor’s final words were (and yes, we were hanging on every word) “I think your baby is going to be just fine”, the subject was never brought up again by our OB Doc. We had essentially refused the course recommended to us. “They” were done.
Lodged within this cost-analysis is this paragraph:

"The following cost assumptions were made using American standards: ultrasound examination $200, maternal serum screening testing $70, genetic counseling session $100, CVS or amniocentesis package $1200 (including the ultrasound guidance before and during the procedure, the invasive procedure, and the laboratory fee for karyotype determination), first-trimester abortion $1000, second-trimester abortion $2000, and approximate lifetime cost of each live-born infant with Down syndrome $500,000. This lifetime cost of live-born infants with Down syndrome is an incremental cost (costs above and beyond those generally occurring for the average newborn). This cost includes direct (medical, developmental, and special education) as well as indirect costs (lost productivity including wages due to early death or disability), and it assumes replacement with a subsequent normal child for both strategies."

And they say you can’t put a price on Love. A price on the value of a Human life that, heretofore, hasn’t had a chance to contribute, to contribute in ways that clinicians can’t quantify. All Trisomy 21 people are not alike – just like you and me. How dare we deny well over half of these people the right and opportunity to live, love, and make the contribution that I see them make, all around the world, every day?
Apply the above formula to yourself, your friends, your family members who have had some sort of disabling physical or mental illness? Should we just sanction lethal injection for any of us that hits a half-mil in healthcare? Line ‘em up, we need to save this money for space travel and advancing the cause of Mankind.
I can get behind indoor plumbing. I’m glad we have Velcro. I’m all for Side-curtain airbags and self-parking cars. This is a narrowly-focused article, I know, with a point to be made. My problem is with the underlying assumptions and medical culture that, to me, goes over the line demarking diversity from disease. We - you, me - continue to deny the implications of the pandora’s box we’ve already popped the lid on.
Driving home, yesterday, I listened to the Director of “Evan Almighty” describing their efforts to be a “zero emissions” movie, from recycling to the purchasing of ‘carbon credits’ – paying for trees to be planted, somewhere, to offset the pollution that the making of the movie created. How about some abortion ‘life credits’ for lives taken selfishly, for those conscripts on the front lines of science who have no voice, no choice in determining their future?
After calming down, a little, I do want to note that this paper is seven years old. I hope that it is not aging well, and that there are other voices that are stronger now pointing out the benefits of genetic and social diversity that ‘offset’ these costs to us as a species. In a world of Humvees, pet insurance, and Paris Hilton, it doesn’t seem to be too much to ask.

Mr. Excitement is Gone

2007-05-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

I miss Tommy Newsom.

You think the truth hurts. . .

2007-04-28T16:38:00.000-07:00

I seem to be swirling in a sea of lies. Today is really no different than yesterday.
My gaming clan, The Old Farts, really only has one solid rule. You have to be over 30 years old to join. We run public game servers, all that play by our gaming rules are welcome. Sam even gets to wear =yf= (young fart) "tags" on his in-game name (=yf= pezboy). A member let it be known (and subsequently became a non-member) that he was under 30, and had just been "too impatient" to wait. Now, I realize that this has all of the gravity of a plastic shopping bag at Fisherman's Wharf, but I'm just getting warmed up. Hoohaw.

It appears that we have a pathological liar on a support forum that I help to moderate. This person, apparently, has taken many of us on a ride. This community has some people that truly care, and we often try to meet up, regionally, to both get acquainted as well as, sometimes, to offer real emotional and tangible support. For many, the emotional investment can be significant. Those who have invested time and attention to this person, who is obviously deeply troubled, are pretty angry about it. When you're part of a community that exists to support each other, do you then shun someone that obviously needs support, just not the kind you're expecting to give? It's quite a dilemma.

Thursday, after mowing the lawn, I plopped down in front of the TV for a break. Scanning channels, I happened upon the brother of Pat Tillman reading a statement to a Congressional committee, followed by Jessica Lynch. I am not bringing this up to discuss what is often misinformation from the field; what these and other families have had to endure is criminal, and ongoing, and, frankly, completely negates the reasoning that places us in Iraq in the first place.
As we would hopefully have learned, needing only one example (not the daily reminders that occur in Bagdhad), there are reasons why citizens choose to blow up their fellow citizens. Certainly a lack of telling the truth is a fundamental one, at least in a democratic society. Are there really more brass in Washington that are like Col. Jessep in "A Few Good Men" than we'd like to believe? We can't handle the truth? The truth that soldiers get killed by friendly fire, even famous ones? That the fog of war somehow entitles one's government to market your death or injuries to suit their purposes? Shame on us all.

We have network news anchors who read copy that places them into the news itself, with false copy written by producers. I live in a city run for so long via hidden agenda and obfuscation, that (among a complete budget meltdown) we now have a building two stories too tall, too near a local runway, approved by a planning department but not the FAA. One local pundit has proposed that this may all have been done on purpose so that the FAA would decertify the airport, opening up the land to development interests (read politicians in pockets, please). Who do you believe? Where does the truth lie? (That's an interesting juxtaposition of words, isn't it?)

I'm really glad that we aren't involved in Special Olympics. Seems that the local leaders have violated policy, somehow, in March. There has still been no explanation given to the more than thousand volunteers as to what may have been the reason for the complete shutdown of the program. These dedicated people are now forming their own organiazation, and moving on. If this is ever reconciled, it will take generations to repair the broken relationships. This isn't lying, it's simply not telling the truth, which is so much more prevalent (and insideous) in our society.

The dumber we become, the more we attempt to control each other via external means. There is proposed state legislation that would levy a $500 fine upon one, should their domestic cat have kittens. We're CC&R'ing ourselves into neighborhoods that aren't neighborly. There are persons operating under the cloak of Christianity yelling epithets at soldiers' funerals. And we watch American Idol as our Attorney General tries to decide how much of the truth he's going to tell. Not only that, you may soon eat a chocolate bar without any chocolate in it.
Other than that, things are just peachy.

A really nice thing happened on the way to the Forum

2007-04-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

So, in my nearly a year in the =OF= Old Farts Clan, I have, naturally, applied myself to their forums. I even recently received an annual OFSCAR award for "Most Fun to read Forum Poster."

There is a loosely recognized contingent of us "forum spammers." We spam often, with nonsensical stuff. I tend to exhibit rants and poetry, I can only imagine your surprise. These forums are divided into several sections - we talk about game rules, rule breakers, new members are joining, we tell jokes, we talk about our operations, world events, etc. etc. . . . it's a community. In this year, I have only had occasion twice to make an issue (via private messaging, not public posting) of the use of the ever-popular "R" word. I just let the majority of it slide, because I've reached a point of decision - after 7+ years - that not all windmills are worth tilting toward. If someone has become an online friend, then it's a chance for us to get to know each other better, and, most often, not always, change an attitude.
Recently, for no real reason other than to stir things up, the forum admin has added the word SPAM to the list of words that are automatically filtered out, leaving symbols in their place. This, of course, has only fueled creativity in bypassing said filter. Farting around, as it were. A few days ago, I'm thinking to myself(which happens more often than it should) in my own passive-aggressive-sarcastic way, why not ask them to filter out the words 'retard' and 'retarded'? A little backhanded guilt-tripping, use the silliness of
banning a harmless word to get my little agenda done. No response from the admin.
I've achieved a certain level of credibility with a couple of the level fours (Marvin is lowly level two in clan machine), the group of 15 or so that really make the rules. It wouldn't be an organization without some, yes? I thought some more, and picked one. I told him about Emma, my activities on the forums regarding these words, and asked him if he thought it would be a good idea. His response absolutely floored me.

He has an aunt and a cousin with T21, he thought it was a fine idea, and he'd taken care of it.

I've been positively impressed from day one by the core people in this community in many ways, this just re-affirmed it. I could easily have been pooh-poohed by policy, condescention,
or apathy. I wasn't just accommodated, I was understood. In the world I live in, it is the difference between night and day.
Another moment, another tiny victory for a cause I signed up for inadvertently by not reading all the disclaimers on the back of the "So You Want to be A Parent?" brochure. A relationship strengthened by the sharing of common experience.

A good thing.

The IEP 2007

2007-03-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

Back in October, we became aware that Emma's current arrangement in school, in a regular 2nd grade class with an aide (a wonderful woman who's been her aide since Kindergarten), wasn't working very well. Emma actually scores near 'normal' (I can't just let that word be 'normal', now, can I?) for social skills, for someone who can barely talk and knows about 15 signs. She has begun to 'self-stim' - she does this puppet thing with her hands, twists her hair, etc. - when the subject matter is beyond her. She's been reacting poorly to being pulled out of class (away from a social setting, duh) for therapies. Her music therapy (another subject entirely) was too elementary for her classmates to share, so that was a bust. So Vicky began asking about alternatives. We were given one - basically this is where you can go that we will bus her - and so we both went to visit, a month or two ago. It was horrible, in that these were very disabled kids, unable to, among other things, even be sociable with each other.Well, after rejecting that, and waiting, and waiting some more, Vicky found out that there is at least one other level of instruction, was invited to check it out (on the same morning her IEP was scheduled), and gosh golly if it doesn't look very good. Looks great! Wish we'd have been told this IN OCTOBER. So, Emma's IEP was today. The IEP, where various therapists detail the things you already know about your child, that she still hasn't chosen a "handed-ness" (which they think is very important, I know she's just going to do whatever she pleases, lol), that she can only hop a couple of times before she loses her balance, and that she just zones out and quits when she's overwhelmed. I spent a great deal of the time thinking to myself, "I'm sure glad there's no review board like this for my behavior." She's making slow progress, everybody thinks
she's "smarter" than she can communicate, and short on answers on how to work on that. And they are all recommending this "Pace" level that we never knew existed until this week. I knew it had to exist, you know, special ed between the two ends of the spectrum, put your own names on it. . . Don't misunderstand me, there's a really good team at her school (with the exception of the speech therapist, go figure). I have been and continue to be grateful for their committment and what they have done. What is very distressing is that no one has appeared to be capable of recognizing and directing us toward what is best for Emma - Vicky's had to do that all on her own.The best part of today was that there was a woman from the District (it's a huge school district, 8th largest in US) who knows what's what and who's who. She kept advising the school coordinator person (Peaches, can you believe naming someone that?) on wording for the forms, and was extremely helpful about finding where to go and what to do next.Two hours later, my stomach growling embarrassingly in the midst of a roomful of people, it looks like Emma's going to go to the class Vicky saw this morning, probably in 2-3 weeks after some more rigamarole.
Our experience, overall, has been nudging people with good intentions into doing what they already know they should, but for some reason don't fully commit - if that makes any sense.There's going to be some transition here, but we really hope that it's a bit of a kick in Emma's pants to tune in rather than tune out.
***
Emma's first day at her new school, Vicky goes with her to help the transition. As they're happily leaving the school, a woman approaches her, introduces herself as a special ed teacher, and pronounces that the principal has decided that Emma should be in her class, at the same school, not the one that Vicky was shown and has selected. This, of course, not only raises questions (I don't think I need to state them here), but creates a whole new anxiety about what tomorrow's going to be like. The reality is that it's the right decision, but couldn't it have been made before putting Emma through another round of introductions?
***
It's been a few weeks, and we seem to have ironed out all of the changes, like the school bus arriving a half and hour earlier than we were told it would. Emma seems to be doing alright with the changes, she's actually already demonstrated some behaviors that mimic the more appropriate education she's getting now. And that makes it worth it.

Sick and Tired of being sick and tired

2007-03-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

Thanks for checking in, still.
Samuel came down with some sort of viral infection, Super Bowl Sunday. Yes, February 8th. It was the beginning of one, two, or all four of us taking ill until about the middle of last week. It wasn't the same thing, except for one lost weekend when all of us were crawling around and Vicky finally managed to get out for supplies.
So, just to say that I have a few rants saved up, they're on their way.

Jury Duty Ramblings

2007-01-20T08:12:00.000-08:00

It’s always something.
I am, in addition to being a fairly good citizen, one of those warm bodies who actually shows up for jury duty. I live on the eastern edge of the city of San Diego. As such, I’ve learned that it’s possible for me to serve my county court service at the El Cajon courthouse, 10 minutes away, free parking, etc. – much more suited for the likes of me than the “downtown experience.” This time, I received my summons, and didn’t give it much thought – I’d just fall into my accustomed routine.
A couple of days ago, I decided to confirm just when I needed to place my warm body into the jury room, and discovered that this was supplemental jury duty, and that I was to call after 5 p.m., and not before, the night before, to find out whether or not I was to serve. I performed this task flawlessly, even following the automated voice prompting me to press 3 to change the location of my service. Please entertain an empathetic moment for me now, when the resulting recording informed me that a court clerk would be available to take my call after 10 a.m. the following morning, a full two hours and 15 minutes after I was supposed to arrive, downtown. Unfortunately, the difference between being a fairly good citizen and a great citizen is the ability to think like a bureaucrat, not like a consumer. I am a good American, so the consumer-think tends to take precedence. I am not ashamed of this in any way, shape, or form. It just collides with my sensibilities whenever I have to deal with government entities.
So, here I sit, downtown, having made my way to my $10 parking space, a mile away, gone through the County Courthouse scanner to find that the jury room is actually in the building next door now, allowing me to stand in another line to empty my pockets again. I did pare down my backpack to the essentials, and, unlike air travel, did not have to remove my shoes twice, already. I am actually quite grateful for the sense of security.
I have not been downtown in over a year, my last foray was a baseball game. We used to come down here a lot, before the children came. The logistics that once made it an adventure morphs into something different when one has two small children. To be alone, downtown, in the middle of the day, then, is quite unusual for me; a mixed visceral bag of playing hooky and civic pride, fear and curiosity about lifestyles that are not like my own. I resist the urge to look up at the tall buildings like a country bumpkin, but I'm feeling kinda bumpkinesque, this morning.
The speech by Judge Gill, thanking us for serving, is usually the highlight of the morning for me. He goes out of his way to not be condescending, which has the opposite effect on the “common sense” that he praises us for, just a few too many times. I realize that he lives much of his life in a different world than mine; that there are commonalities is the basis of why we are both in the same room, today. The legal system is a bizarre mixture of well-educated people dealing with the missteps of those lacking, well, a lot of different things.
They have announced that we are primarily here for the purposes of filling a four-week trial. Bingo! – my chances of getting out of here by lunchtime have just improved exponentially. As much as I’d like to, I’m prohibited by economics and my employers’ policies from fulfilling said obligation.
I was thinking, just yesterday, about the US of A. Our principles, set down by wealthy, slave-owning land speculators, have probably been stretched (and continue to be), beyond their vision of "freedom" and "equality". I think they believed what they said, I’m kinda shaky on whether or not they meant it for every-every one. Part of what makes me proud to be an American is this struggle that defines us as much as it often threatens to make us self-destruct. Take jury duty, for example. Current methods dictate that we call 200 people to fill a pool of 12-15. The process dilutes us all – at least my sense of importance in the grand scheme of things, inconveniences more than it has to, but does its’ best to provide an ambitious goal. Would I want my transgressions and punishment decided by the elite of San Diego? Not really. I’d rather not have my affairs judged by anyone, actually; I have seen a jury in action, and I think that they serve us well, as judge Gill said, "most of the time." That means not agreeing, but accepting. Pick your favorite example, and OJ don’t count - that’s too easy - no matter what your opinion is.
I know this is rambling, but hey, I’m on jury duty.
(Note: 11:10 – court cancels us all home without calling anyone. Thank you for your service.)
A waste of time? Kinda, but not really. In America, sometimes the process is the thing.

Amazing Grace

2006-12-15T13:04:00.000-08:00

We’re not so overtly religious at my house. We do have some things that we do religiously; one of them is having dinner together. This includes saying “grace”. Lately, Emma has been getting agitated when we do this, so one day I said, “OK, Emma do you want to pray for dinner?” She did. And she did. And she does now - not every night, but some.
Now, Emma isn’t really capable of speech, yet. Most of what we understand from her is either paired with signs or the context of what she wants. We can’t really say that she can’t talk; she talks a lot, conversations with her dolls and such. “Apple” is more like “oople.” It is a particular frustration for me when she gets my attention, and delivers a couple of sentences to me that consist of no comprehensible words whatsoever, at least not by me. How frustrating it must be for her.
So she prays for dinner. And signs, “Amen.” Sure, it’s cute, but, like most things, it gets me to thinking. Perhaps you will, too.
What we know.
How we listen.
What we understand.
What we teach.
What God hears that we can’t know or understand?
What difference does it make?
Now, I know that this story could apply to any toddler. Your answers and ruminations on the above statements reflect who you are. Emma is a 7 year old, with Trisomy21. Does she know - can she know that there is a God that made her, or at the very least created the context that made her? That this God loves her and wants a relationship with her? Does He? I’m not sure if she’s really gotten much of a grasp on “right” and “wrong”, yet. Is she responsible for “sin” (should that be a capital “S”)? Is she “covered” - under some sort of divine insurance policy – a ‘gimme’, a “mulligan’? Are we all being graded on points, or on a curve?
Now, I’ve been exaggerating to pique your thinking. I know the theology. I have written about, and continue to think that there are aspects of my daughter’s consciousness and spirituality that transcend my own. She may very well have a concept of God already. She may talk to Him more than I do. What does she know of love? She’s demonstrated giving and compassion. Her kisses are sloppy, wet and golden. She loves me, 'cause I cuddle her and change her and try to teach her right from wrong. She is willful, stubborn, and often seeks her own way. She is more like me than she is not. Does God see her any differently than He sees me, at all?
What’s my point? I don’t know if I have one. I’m trying to communicate what it’s like to live at my house, with someone who exists on a different plane. I’m sure that there are similar experiences available to all of you, whether it’s dealing with an aging parent, or living with serious illness . . . there is no shortage of opportunity, and I claim no exclusive rights to the truth. It is in these situations, and moments, however, that bring focus to our thoughts about what’s really important. What love is.
So, if you find yourself at our house for dinner, Emma may say the blessing. I have to have faith that God hears her, understands exactly what she’s saying, and honoring her for recognizing His place at our table. It is the grace that He’s promised all of us.

2006-11-15T18:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, opportunities arise, and one seizes them, and achieves the intended result. This is about one such time.Sam and I were invited to join what is a recurring trip to the desert to shoot guns. I have discharged one rifle, on one occasion, when I was 12 or so, probably without my parents’ prior permission. I was , I think, naturally concerned about taking a nearly 10 year-old boy to do this. Assured (with photos) that this was not the equivalent of giving him heroin and sending him into a life of crime, we agreed to go. It was only going to be one night, and it was a chance to see some friends that I hadn’t seen in a while. It was a chance to use our camping gear. To see the stars. All that stuff. And something else that I’ll get to in a bit.

We arrived just before dusk, in a perfect desert setting for discharging firearms – spot to camp, and a nice bluff about a quarter-mile away to catch the bullets. Greetings all around, and a glimpse of the hardware awaiting us. I got the tent up, beds out, mattresses inflated, etc. We both got to pop off some rounds with a .22 rifle and an M-1. Sam was already somewhat familiar with the M-1 from some PC video games – it was a particular thrill to make the association. A clear evening, chili dogs, a campfire, it was a nice, relaxing time. Chad proved that, just as the instructions predict, Jiffy-Pop cannot be popped on a campfire. Brad burned some strips of Magnesium – white hot. You know, stupid stuff guys do in the middle of nowhere when there’s no Moms around. Mmkay? The photographers set up, and took pictures of us firing the big scary Semi-Automatic German rifle that went ”GerBoomen.” Soon, it was time to tuck in. Took a while to get to sleep with no electronics to lull us, but I’m told that I was snoring loud enough, soon enough.

One of the realities of middle-aged ‘male-dom’ is the requirement, shall we say (in this venue), to answer the call of nature sometime between bedtime and the dawn. It is not customary for us city folk to be outside, out in the open, moonlight the only source of illumination. It was magical and monochromatic, the desert under a clear sky and half-moon. I turned my flashlight on and off, mostly for a momentary sense of security and control, but it seemed a sort of insult to the fact that I could see just fine without it. I stood under the stars for a little while, pondering things like those who spent months under these stars heading across this desert, a long time ago. I wanted to wake Sam up, but I realized that, by the time I got him fully awake enough to try and explain the concept, and gain some appreciation from him, he’d probably be more annoyed than inspired. Some serendipities are not so easily shared.

Saturday was donuts and coffee (no one else drank coffee?), and then taking turns shooting one of the oh, 15 or so guns that were offered – pistols, Deer rifles; Sam even shot the 12-gauge shotgun once. Your humble author managed to shoot a couple of clay pigeons, himself. I learned that there is a purpose for those AOL and Earthlink CD’s, after all. Our host is a police officer, a training officer, and a rangemaster. Most of the ammunition had been collected for disposal; we were actually performing a public service, too.

I think we ran out of ammo at about the right time – I know that, although I’d had fun, had had enough of this kind of fun, by then. We picked up, said our thanks and goodbyes, and headed back over the mountains for home. I do so enjoy indoor plumbing. We’d unpacked, showered, and were pooped out in the Family Room watching TV, when Sam turned to me and said, “Well, I’ll never look at guns the same way, again.” That was the payoff I’d been hoping for, and I didn’t even have to ask for it. “How so?”, I asked. “They’re loud and they, they’re . . .” his voice trailed off. “Really destructive?” “Yeah.” There’d been a short discussion during the magnesium burning the night before, amidst the guy talk about how hot it had to be to burn, and how it’d burn through other metal and stuff - you know, the usual – including some remarks about how some military shells had magnesium in them so that, after they penetrated (no need to elaborate, is there?), they’d keep burning. Sam and I talked, just for a little while, about both the cruelty and necessity for these weapons – this time particularly in the context of why a policeman carries and would ever discharge a weapon.

This was my hidden agenda, and I was really pleased by the whole weekend – the way the guns were presented, the proper respect taught for these weapons and those who were responsible for them, and the subsequent damage and power they have demonstrated to my impressionable boy. I am grateful for the opportunity to have enabled these first impressions to be the right ones. I’m pretty confident that he won’t be someone who shoots up a school – of course, for reasons beyond just this – but it’s all part of it. He lives in a world that includes a lot of virtual, unreal representations of history, today, and the future. I really want him to be fully aware and engaged in the one he needs to be engaged in. I think this worked just the way I wanted it to.