Another Oklahoma Tribute

I met a pioneer, a couple of weeks ago. She’s retiring from a 30+ year career in public education, currently an elementary school principal. We got to talking, and she mentioned special ed. I asked her if she’d been a special ed teacher. She had not, but she began to talk about her involvement in setting up some pretty innovative programs several years ago. She set up Early Intervention programs, parent’s groups, mainstream classes, and other things for our kids just as they were beginning to come home, rather than being sent into institutions. She is one of those people who “got it” early on and ran with it, rather than resisting change. What blew me away was her description of setting up the first group home in her area. She and some others saw a need, and filled it. They found financing, got someone to donate land, designed a facility (one building for men, another for women, common areas, etc.) , and had the thing up and running in about 3 years. It’s still there, today. I can’t express how great it felt to hear her go on in detail about how she made things work, mentioning kids and parents along the way that had obviously changed her life, too, in the process. Because it was a casual conversation, I didn’t feel comfortable saying “Thank You” to her for all of it, for all of us. I am grateful, for her and those like her who moved beyond prejudice and saw children, who set aside their own fears, perhaps, to make a better life for all of us. So I’m thanking her, here, and there, and I know she’ll get the message, eventually. Thanks, Aunt Janice!

Oklahoma City

I have been to a few places where people have died simply because they are American – Pearl Harbor, Vicksburg, Breed’s Hill, and now Oklahoma City. My feelings are much the same when I am at any of them. Today is no different – sadness at the cataclysmic and needless loss of life, and anger at the forces and implementers of such hatred. It seems a simple enough message to you and I, yet so far out of reach of those who perpetuate it, still.

The site of the Murrah Building brings a different sort of sadness and rage. I have family near Oklahoma City. I learn that one of my cousins’ best friends’ wives is represented by a chair on the lawn where the building once stood. The chairs - smaller chairs representing the children – are arranged roughly in the places in the building where they died. The street where the deluded patriot set off his Ryder truck bomb is now a reflecting pool, with 2 large structures at either end of the street; 9:00 set on one, 9:03 on the other.
The other side of the street is landscaped, grass and block giant stair-steps, up to the preserved, scarred wall of the building that now houses the museum dedicated to the event. There’s a place dedicated to the children, and a section of chain-link fence left for people to leave toys, messages, and other personal remembrances. The church across the street has erected a statue of a weeping Jesus. It is America.
I remember the first hours after the bombing, and the gradual realization that this attack on the heartland was not by foreign terrorists, but by native sons. That they found it somehow necessary to deliver their dysfunctional act of upside-down heroism upon the unsuspecting, unarmed innocents inside should and does turn the stomach of anyone who might hear of it. To convince oneself to commit an act of cowardice, to feel oppressed and powerless to the point of violence – let this memorial stand for many things, let it also stand as a warning against those who have lost sight of the responsibilities that freedom brings.
I am not writing this as an authority on any subject; this is not my intent. I am an American. I was hurt on that day; today I pay my honor and remembrance to those whose lives were taken in full measure for my freedom. My continuing charge is to remember, learn, and then teach. I did not visit the museum this time. I am resolved to bring my son here, someday. He needs to know, as best that I and others can teach him, what right and wrong truly mean, the costs of intolerance and dogmatism, and the resolve of a nation to struggle for freedom, both without and within. I can teach him no less. I am an American.

A Tech Funny

I had a real belly laugh last night. My friend calls me up, says his TV has a flat line running horizontally across the middle of the screen. "You're lacking vertical deflection", I said, in my best technical know-it-all voice. It's a not-so-common symptom anymore, my old TV shop used to pay the rent on such repairs. It has one of two causes. One is electronic, the other a physical "open" in a circuit - like a bad solder connection. So I says, "Smack it."
"What?"
"Hit it!"
"How hard?"
"Well, not hard enough to knock it off the table, but hard enough." Count 1, 2,
"Hey! It worked!"
"See, you can be a technician, too."
I told him that it would probably happen again, till we could get it fixed.
It's probably a paper-thin solder connection on his printed circuit board that has broken with the repeated heating and cooling of the TV. We should be able to find it, and all will be well with the world, for a while.
It made my day to help a friend, especially in such a simple and fun way. I hung up and just guffawed.
"Technical Support, this is Popeye, can I help you?" "Augh-ag-ag-ag-ag-awwww."

I love the Internet, hate customer service

I've had two experiences, this week, that I think bear repeating. The first one involves a Kodak camera given to me on Sunday. It wasn't working - camera powers up, all of the functions work, with the small exception that it takes no pictures - no preview from the lens, either. I started at Kodak's site, and it's troubleshooting guide led me toward a fill-in form that I wasn't ready to complete, just yet. I then started Google-ing the model number, and found a wealth of information. I found literally hundreds of comments from owners, detailing two obvious flaws in the camera (my symptom is one of them). Nearly all of these cameras quit after about 2.5 years of use (I'm pretty sure that that's how old this camera is), and, if I were to fill out that form on Kodak's site, they would offer me a lesser model camera in exchange for returning this one, oh, and send them $125. Pretty sure that's not going to happen. I'd be livid, as many of these posters are, if I'd paid between $300-400 for this camera. Kodak has lost a lot of business and reputation from this one.
Yesterday, I downloaded an album, using software I'd used before. Eventually. What happened was this. I found the album, clicked on "buy", and charged my account. Then the download wouldn't happen - kept getting an error message. When I clicked on the link to explain the error message, a screenful of information appeared, with a link to technical support and a specific error message. Problem was, this screen would appear, then refresh back to the store. Quitting, restarting, and repeating this event 2-3 times, I eventually had to use Ctl-Print Screen to capture the info and paste it into Word in order for me to read it. It's now been about an hour. Unable to access the tech service link on the page, I found an email address and posted a detailed message with account info, album and artist, answered their system questions, and included the error message provided. Then, just for kicks, I Googled the error message directly, just put it straight in. I found several forums that detailed the same problem, and a solution (the problem was a corrupted file in Windows XP, renaming it fixed the problem). Five minutes later, the album was on my drive, and CD's burning. This morning, I received a response from their tech support (I'd been warned on the forums that this could take 2-5 days, so I was pleasantly surprised). The email politely asked me for more information. What's noteworthy is that each bit of information asked for was provided in the copy of my email attached to the bottom of his response! I had to look, twice, I believe the operative word is incredulous.
I thanked him for his prompt response, detailed my solution, and where and how quickly I had found it, and went on my merry way.
The first example is of corporate incompetence, from design to their response to what is obviously a defective product. The second one is merely bureaucratic failure - failure to list a set of fixes to error messages for common errors. Yes, it's probably more complex than that and, yes, I'm more willing than the average nancy to rename files and such, but still. The fact remains that I was able to find more timely, accurate information from forums than I did from the companies, themselves. It is unfortunately one of the bittersweet realities of the information age.

What it's like, too

One of my online friends posted this on her blog. I think it's great. And much "shinier" than most of my posts.

Pinewood Derby Soapbox

I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I want to be clear.
Today’s subject is Pinewood Derby – or “what would a car made by a 6-10 year old really look like?”
The conversation at my house, for three years, has gone something like this (condensed):
“You know, the race is two weeks away, you need to start thinking about a design for your car.”
“I know.”
“Would you like some help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, we have a week until the race, have you picked out a design yet?”
“No.”
“We’re running out of time.”
“I KNOW, SORRY!”
“What about this one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or this one?”
“I don’t know - I guess so.”
Of course the shapes and designs are spawned and made for BOY SCOUTS with (assumedly) some dexterity and ability to use tools that no sane parent would put in the hands of someone under 10 years of age. I negotiate a design, cut it out, and promptly break off one corner while working with it. Glued back together, the next day:
“OK, here’s the shape, how do you want to paint it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you thought about it”
“I guess so. Not really.”
“What about red, maybe with a stripe?”
“OK.”
He does pick out a blue stripe and decides to put it down the middle of the car. Painting proceeds, this year he’s actually capable of squeezing the spray paint nozzle, and does a fine job of painting the car. Dad kinda messes up the finish, late in the night before the weigh-in (more on that, later) in the toaster oven trying to hurry it along. One of the wheels in the kit provided is goofed up, so Dad pulls the wheels and axles off last year’s car, sparing the time needed to de-burr and polish them (actually nails, but they are the only sanctioned axles allowed). There are pre-cut grooves in the bottom of the car provided, and three of these break while Sam carefully nails them into place. Hot Glue Gun time. Sam picks his Lego driver, and weights are screwed and glued into place. We make our way to the weigh-in with a couple of hours to spare. The car gets weighed, we modify to reach total weight ( a cup holder for the driver), passes inspection with a small dispute over length, and is quarantined until race time (preventing last-minute, unauthorized modifications by eager kids – right). I’m feelin’ all warm and fuzzy about the whole thing, oh, yeah.

Two weeks of rain delay. I get a call on a Tuesday, where I’m asked (and agree) to meet up and assist with the track set-up at 0730 Saturday morning. Turns out, we go to Disneyland on Friday, bedtime is approximately 0230, Saturday morning. Oh joy, unspeakable and full of glory (for all of you Nazarenes out there). One of my tasks is to take a tube of graphite, and lubricate all of the axles and wheels for the 26 cars in the impound tubs – one axle at a time. I’m working my way through them, when I spot a car with genuine AXLES, not the nails that are sanctioned to hold the wheels in place. I show this to the other fathers there, and move on. In my later absence, the car is allowed to run anyway. What a great message to teach the leaders of tomorrow.
I go back to the house to retrieve Sam at 0850, thinking the races start at 0930. We arrive at 0920 to find them well underway, having begun at 0900. Sam’s car has been run once for him, and he misses his only chance to see it win a race. The races proceed, and a few of the cars actually bear witness that a kid might have worked on one or two of them. Most do not. Sam loses his next two races, actually to two cars that finished in the top 5. He’s not happy about it, but the good news is that he’s not really that unhappy about it. I’m fortunately not one of the Dads whose kid got beaten by the illegal car, and I’m too tired to really make a stink about it (here, this issue’s not dead with me yet). Not unexpectedly, it’s me and the Den leader left to take the track apart and put it in his truck at the end. We head home to lunch and a nap, at least for me.
Oh, and the car that won? It came in second, last year. Ran the same car this year, same paint, same decals. At least that poor sucker has to spend another whole day this month at the Council races, it should make up for the time he didn’t spend putting one together. Ironies abound. Congratulations.
Call me a whiner. Go ahead. Finished?
This is an ill-conceived activity for these young boys. I am fully behind something that Sam can make/do/participate in with my help, but this is a ridiculous example of transposing something from a successful program to an unsuccessful one. The rules and restrictions are obviously there to promote fairness, but are also recognition that this organization committed to character-building has some real characters in it. To then allow what is clearly cheating to occur just boggles my mind. I clearly don’t see the point. It’s been 3 years of frustration for me; this year’s event left me tired, disillusioned, and pretty much unwilling to do it again. Of course, if Sam stays with Scouting, I only have 9 more cars to make.Make that 3, perhaps none. I’m growing fonder of this one, every day.

A Day At Disneyland

Preface:
Vicky and I used to spend a fair amount of our time in comedy clubs, back when they were more popular, and we had no children. One night, the headliner was Mike Binder, who has (mercifully for both him and the public at large) moved on to become a writer, producer, and director. Mr. Binder, never hilarious, was having a rough night, and I remember being almost relieved when he ended his act. As the "headliner", he returned for an encore. What came next has, of course, solidified the title of this post in my mind forever.
Mike returned to do a bit of schtick that had always generated a fair amount of laughter, even from me the first 3-4 times I'd seen it. The gag is simple: He announces "I would now like to do for you - "A Day At Disneyland". He would then pantomime standing in line - you know, walk a little, wait a little, make a U turn, walk a little. . .
What Mr. B failed to realize was that the majority of people at the Comedy Store that night had already seen it 3-4 times. He does the first little shuffle - and then someone in the audience heckles him (with perfect timing, I might add) with "ALL HE'S GONNA DO IS WAIT IN LINE!". The crowd erupted into the loudest laughter of the night, Mike waved, and left the stage. Game Over.

We went to Disneyland last week. The most noteworthy element of this day was that nothing happened. Just about everything went as it should have, which is a rarity in this world of overpopulation and inflated expectations. I think the worst thing was that Pirates of the Caribbean was closed; in the grand scheme of things, this was minor, indeed.
The weather was perfect. We have had rain, off and on, before and since. Waiting in line at The Magic Kingdom can be a hot and boring experience. It was sunny, but with a lovely breeze, a perfect Anaheim day.
Everyone was healthy and in a good mood, even Dad. Emma was well-behaved all day; she fell asleep at about 7:30 pm, even though it meant that she was up and ready to roll at 5:30 the next morning, she wasn't a tired whiner at the park.
No major clothing or equipment malfunctions. No car trouble, no diarreah explosions, and we rode Splash Mountain last, and old Grumpy hardly got wet at all.
We got to see everything we came to see. Not always easy.
We had a good experience with something new. The last time we were at Disneyland, it was a hot day, and Emma, barely 5, was neither accustomed to waiting in line or cooperating. By mid-afternoon, we were all exhausted and unhappy with wrestling each other onto and off of rides. The ride operator at Peter Pan suggested that we get a "special needs" pass. By then, it was really too late. This time, with a little apprehension, I took Emma and we went to the Customer Service desk (at City Hall) and I explained the situation. What they did was give me a pass that stated that Emma's stroller was essentially a wheelchair. What this meant, mainly, was that we could keep her in the stroller, in line, until such time as we'd need to bypass the tighter spaces that a wheelchair couldn't get through. On the older rides, this meant skipping some of the line. Sometimes, these lines were just as long with folks in wheelchairs lined up to be fit in - it reminded me of when "we" were pregnant - suddenly there's pregnant people all over the place where you never noticed them before (hmm). On the newer rides, it meant being able to keep her in the stroller until the last minute, then a little help on and off of the ride. The difference between this experience and the last was wonderful. We didn't take advantage of it on every ride, and it was nice to feel free to do so. I expected some condescending or even snotty treatment from some operators or others (you know, always looking on the bright side), there was none - I felt like most of them were glad to see us, nearly all of them treated us exceptionally well.
Space Mountain is cool. Just ask Sam. If you haven't been on it lately, it's 3X faster, and darker, and funner.
It was a good day. We stayed until 11 pm or so, and got home about 2. The Pinewood Derby, the next morning at 7:30, was a different story, but was overshadowed by the afterglow of a fine "Day at Disneyland".

Bittersweetness on a Stick

I learned today of the death of a little girl. She was a friend of a friend, unknown to me other than by description. That she was the same age as my daughter heightens my sadness. That she was a "special needs" child who apparently died resulting from something going wrong during or after an orthopedic operation is only part of the mystery and horror of it all.
I'm so proud of my friend for her ability to share her story with me, to make her real enough so that I can both celebrate her life as well as mourn it. I've thought about her, all day, and am reminded of another little girl I know who left the hospital worse than when she went in. I've thought about several aspects of the human condition, how we make things worse sometimes when we mean to do better. How we make mistakes, awful mistakes, more often than we'd like to admit. I see Challenger explode, and get angry every time at the stupidity that allowed it to happen. And it was right to try it again, and again, and we should not stop.
The truth is that we cannot stop trying. We cannot stop caring, and that's what's moved me all day long. I care about someone that I've never met today, their family, their friends, just because someone else led me to. We are all connected, whether or not we choose to be, and we do make it better by trying.
That second little girl I mentioned spoke volumes to me, one day, when I got to hold her in my arms. She could not speak, she could not even look me in the eye, or even hold me back, back then, but I sensed who she is, felt her heart beat, I can't fully explain it. She exists in a world of love and care, and she's slowly gained - she's trying and prevailing - some means to return that love and care. I delight in her accomplishments, because I've met her; I know what she's living with.
We live with death. We live with hope. We have each other. We have Love. These things I know. Today's been a practical application of them all. I mourn for a little girl I've never seen. I smile a bittersweet smile when I think of Mya. I'm hugging my Emma tighter, today. I just hope my connections bring more hope and Love than my mistakes don't. It's been quite a day.

Tick Tock

I just know it's coming. Any moment now, the queasy feeling, the over-salivation, the urge to purge. It's inevitable, like April 15 or another root canal.
I got home from work yesterday, and it was eerily quiet. Emma was nearly asleep in the Family Room, and when I poked my head into the office, I saw no one. Vicky was assisting Sam into bed. He'd come home from school at 10, and had more than emptied his stomach several times since then. A quick hug from us, and he went to sleep. Emma soon nodded off in the big chair, and Vicky headed out for more supplies, leaving me to computer nerddom for an hour or so.
About the time she got home, I was standing in the middle of the house, thinking to myself, "So this is what it'd be like to not have kids in the house. Sure, I could focus on what I was doing and, sure, the usual pounding in my head from layer upon layer of TV noise, shouting, feet pounding up and down the hallway, balls bouncing off walls wasn't there - but the vacuum-like silence was unnerving, too. I have these moments, from time to time, like the guy in "The Seven-Year Itch'' or probably more like Don Knotts in "The Reluctant Astronaut" - short fantasies about how life could've, would've been different. It didn't take more than a couple of instants to be glad that Sam wasn't usually in bed at this time of day.
Emma woke up just as I was bringing the plate of BBQ ribs in from the patio. She uncurled, then hurled on the chair, floor, and herself, mostly. Ahh, the smell of pork n' puke. We got her down the hall, cleaned up the mess(es), and put her to bed, so we could enjoy the sounds of her dry-heaving through dinner. Seriously, one of the hardest things about being Emma's Dad is watching her throw up and not be able to explain to her that it's going to be alright. She looks so worried and upset, I hate that look on her face. All you can do is talk to her and hold her, and hope she understands that it's going to get better.
Dinner's over, cleaned up, put away, and I settle into my chair for the purpose of napping before bedtime. What do I hear? Yes, that's it. The sound of a cat, just outside the patio door, heaving up whatever it was that it was heaving up. I took it as a sign. I know it's coming. I'm just not sure when.

What It's Like

It was just another moment.
Thursday evening, we went to school to see Sam and Emma both recieve their "Good Citizen" awards; Emma for January, Sam for February. No one has ever defined the criteria for this award for us - it seems to me that every student there without any outstanding warrants or restraining orders gets this award annually. In any event, this event is held in the auditorium, which seats 150 comfortably, but usually holds about 225. The awardees sit onstage in rows, and come down the steps to the stage when called to receive their certificate, bumper sticker, and ice cream coupoon, stand briefly while the parental papparazzi fiddle with their cameras, and then go outside, only to return to the stage to wait for the group photo at the end - assuring, of course, that the good citizen parents stay for the entire proceeding, so that the last kid called still has an audience. We live in such an ill-mannered society.
We had three, well, four options (and the nice part is that there was no one telling us what to do):
1) Put Emma up on stage and hope for the best - not really an option, just yet.
2) Put Emma up on stage next to Sam - not really fair to him.
3) Sit up on stage with Emma and 100 kids - not our idea of a good time.
4) Find a place near the front. That's what we did.
We sat through the obligatory PTA meeting, so that they could pad their attendance numbers and claim that we are all now well-informed, active participants in the process. We were actually sitting along the wall on a table, helping Emma fidget, which means that we were already in full view of all, with the requisite sidelong glances and smiles conveying all of the different messages that people display in Emma's direction. Emma got hard to handle, so I moved her to the doorway, and then back again. Then it was her turn. I slid us off the table, and we made our way up front. Emma froze. So I kinda pushed-carried her to the front, got her paperwork, and managed to get her back to our seat, not too long after the applause quit. Okay.
The event ended, and I started to move Emma toward the front, to join the group picture. A very nice woman, a teacher, I think, who had greeted Emma earlier brushed past us and said to me, "I bet you guys just can't wait to get out of here." Then she was gone. I cocked my head to one side, and kept moving. Sam (have I mentioned that I love my Son very much?) came down and sat next to his sister on the steps for the photo. When it was all over, we got a snack, and headed for the ice cream store.
Now, I'm not angry. As a human being and a preacher's kid, I've been subject to misplaced, well-intentioned commentary for some time now. She may have just been witness to the at-times wrestling match between myself and my angel. That's probably it. For me, at the time, I'm pretty sure that I didn't want "to get out of there" any more than anyone else over the age of 13 present. Handling Emma is what we do. But the whole comment just gnawed at me for the rest of the evening. I'm sure I took it the wrong way; already feeling self-conscious, on display, and guilty for feeling that way. I'm sure that the same comment would have been appropriate, for example, had Sam gotten nervous and upchucked on his shoes, or done his 'Elaine from Seinfeld' dance (don't tell him I said that) on stage. The point is that she pointed out to me that we were different. Guess what? I felt that way before Emma existed. I feel that way all of the time. The visceral effect of her message was "GET OUT!"
I'm old enough - some might call it maturity, but I'll never know for sure - to know that she's not responsible for that message. It was just a moment, and it's passed, but I think I have a better understanding of how subtly we can damage each other, sometimes, even when we're trying to do the opposite. I used to not understand things that were labeled 'racism', offers of social programs and things that turned out to be, in truth, segregation or worse - when explained from the discriminated races' perspective. It does depend on your perspective; "seeing" requires more than merely sight.
One of my favorite U2 lines, all by itself, is "to touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal" . . . it often reminds me that I don't want to be a thief. The majority of moments pass without notice. Some change our lives completely. Others shape who, where, and how we are. I'm hoping, more often, lately, to recognize and perhaps anticipate them a little better. I know I've stolen a lot of moments. Trouble is, you can't give them back.

My Valentine

Today we honor Valentine, one sainted long ago,
Just who he was, or what he did, we really do not know.
What he accomplished was for love, of that we can be sure,
Today’s the day we try to say, “I Love You,” plain and pure.

Apparently, he put himself between an Emperor’s rule
For fighting men, unmarried, it was callous, mean, and cruel.
Our hero went behind his back and married on the sly
Young lovers who were adamant, and willing to defy.

Another version says that he was doing Heaven’s work,
Helping Christians to escape the wrath of Roman jerks.
At any rate, he was a guy who loved his fellow man,
Until such time as he was caught, and thrown into the can.

It seems that from a prison dark, as one old version goes,
Our soon to be Saint inductee, was ankle-deep in woes.
The jailer’s daughter fell for him, their love affair was fine.
He wrote his last long letter to her, from “Your Valentine.”

An oft-told legend, Sainthood then, example to us all.
For one who toiled and suffered at the beck of pure Love’s call.
Sometimes obscure, but always sure, and held in high regard
And then the phenomenon that is the modern Greeting Card.

Oh what a gift our Saint hath wrought, the opportunities
For queing up at Flower shops, for lining up at See’s.
I’m not begrudging anything, on this fine holiday,
But I know well that he would tell us, “do this every day!”

Not chocolate, roses, valentines, but hugs and heartfelt giving
To those we cherish and adore, and make our lives worth living.
For as he knew and then pursued, Love is the only way
That life is meant here, to be spent here, each and every day.

Today is but a symbol, and a chance to share some joy
From one who gave his all for love, to every girl and boy.
And so, to those who love me, and to those who may yet not,
Accept my valentine to you, in purpose and in thought.

Happy Valentines’ Day!

The Religion of Peace

The Religion of Peace

I have been mulling over my online friend’s post.

He is right. The NY Times is wrong. But is there more to it?
As an American, it is hard to understand how this can be such an explosive issue. It is not hard for me to understand Fundamentalism, at all. However, I exist in a society that has both rejected Fundamentalism, while it accepts it and allows it to exist. When Pat Robertson says that Ariel Sharon’s stroke was caused by God, due to his “giving up” land to Palestinians - quoting Scripture to prove it - he’s dismissed by all but the faithful (to him, that is). I watched yesterday, while channel-surfing, Louis Farrakhan calmly talking with an interviewer, about his organization’s goals. I stopped surfing to hear a rant. What I heard was eloquence and thoughtfulness, and a lot of “right” reasoning for the reactionary racism that he espouses. I wish him incomplete success – I want him to feel as “equal” in this country as I do, which of course is not equality by many measures. I have the luxury of both being white and a member of an even smaller minority than he is. My society allows me to hear him, disagree with him, and form my own opinions, even appreciate his point of view. Eventually, our common hope is that improvement will result, by whatever measure. I know that I’m smarter for simply listening to him.

There seems to me to be no better word to use than to say that there is a ‘Fundamental’ difference between “our” way of conducting ourselves and the way “they” do. As obvious a statement as this is, it is important for me to remind myself of it. One of my first reactions to this cartoon controversy was that, if “they” want to be members of the world community, then they need to learn to play by international rules. This thought is ignorant of the first statement of this paragraph. They are not able to; their fundamentalism does not allow it. There is only conformity or blasphemy. They do not desire freedom, the one fundamental tenet that diversity demands, tolerance is heresy. Their freedom is found in obedience, which is, by the way, the way of Christianity, too, although it is obedience of a different sort, extending grace, a different sort of servitude.
And no, not the Pat Robertson kind.
Where does that leave us?
I recently became aware of a group of persons in this country, under the banner of Christ, who are setting up anti-war protests at the funerals of American soldiers, taunting the family members in their grief, graveside. This makes me physically ill. Do they have the right to do this? Of course they do. It also raises the question, in this context, does the right of free speech mean that it should always be exercised? Is there really anything to be gained by doing this, here?
And so, I apply all of these thoughts to The New York Times. I completely understand the comparison to the “art” referred to in Tom’s post; however, it is not the same. Those “artworks” (and that is a topic left for another time) would never have been made in an Islamic society, the “artist” would have been tortured and stoned to death. Those offended in this culture were allowed to speak out against it, and did so. That this would happen was known before the works were created, let alone published in the newspaper. It is part and parcel of what makes us American. To apply this standard to the Islamic world is something else. In this case, it is inflammatory. The cartoons are readily available already; freedom of the press has been satisfied. That the NYT, a powerful member of the “Western Media”, chose not to exercise that power is a matter of editorial choice, to ascribe cowardice or courage to the decision is a matter for each reader to decide. I’m not trying to be argumentative, I’m just trying to figure this stuff out. I’m inclined to think that it was the right decision.
And yes, it’s still bothering me.

Not Exactly Seeing Red

The San Diego Zoo is a wonderful place. It was the site of some of my first school field trips, the first place that I ever got to see and smell exotic animals, and learned about far away places. It is the zoo of zoos, and I do consider myself fortunate to have taken advantage of it for my entire life. Like the weather here, it is easy to take for granted, as well. It’s been 7 or so years, now, since I’ve visited. I think I’m about ready to go back. Things will be different this time, though, to be sure.
I should probably remember the date, but for many years it was a day that I really didn’t want to recall in any way, shape, or form. A beautiful, sunny day, filled with the promise of family fun. Sam was happily strapped into his stroller, in a blue outfit, equipped with snacks and juice bottles and eager to take on whatever he was rolled up to. We flashed our passes at the gate, and headed North, toward the elephant exhibit. Passing the restaurant and bus depot, we stopped to admire the small exotic bird cages, trying to interest Sammy in the bright feathers and beaks beyond the mesh before us. We shuffled over to the Koalas, trundling over the accessible wooden tree house ramps, pulling the prince from his perambulator for a better view. On to the elephants; Sammy was going to love the elephants!
The elephant exhibit, although it has been re-worked over the years, is essentially the one I remember from my first glimpse of these amazing creatures. It is a large island, ringed with a sidewalk and road, across which are exhibits of other large mammals. We wheeled over to the far side, and I saw a couple of animals I hadn’t remembered ever seeing before, red rhinoceros, rhinoceri, rhinoceroses. They were big and red and I was drawn over to look at them.
It happened in an instant, an instant that now takes up several moments’ worth of my long–term memory cells, pushing out more important things like, well, I don’t remember. The large creature that I had been regarding at fairly close range, obviously sharing no sort of Dr. Doolittle-esque understanding of my admiration, calmly turned, lifted up its tail, and sprayed me from head to foot. Upon reflection, a country boy would have recognized this brief signal, but this city dweller had received no such training via any of my behavioral psychology texts, and my previous animal research had only involved rats and primates.
Short of having this done to one on a regular basis, armed with the proper Personal Protective Equipment, most of us have no inkling of what to do upon realization that they are soaking in rhinoceros urine. I was not pissed off, I was pissed on. The fact that she had done this to me from about 15 feet away somehow did not impress me; at the time it instantly effected a sudden lack of respect for the creature and entire species, for that matter. I never wanted to see another animal, again. I invite you to now take a moment, pause, and laugh as hard as you want. It’s o.k., I really want you to - get it out of your system. Thanks. When you’re ready, proceed.
Fortunately, the aim was precise, and no one else had been voided upon. It was also fortunate that there was a restroom nearby, and I could at least wash off my face and hands, and kind of rinse my hair out, some. It became obvious that I had neither the facility to undo this, this, thing that had happened to me with powdered soap and paper towels, and I looked at myself in the mirror and contemplated my options. I had absolutely no desire to parade through the rest of the zoo, smelling what I was smelling like, if only to myself. I really didn’t want to find the nearest keeper and announce, “Hey, your rhinoceros just peed all over me! – just to have them double over in hails of derisive laughter, take me back to the keepers’ lounge, do it all over again for the group, followed maybe by a cold hosing-off, afterward. Perhaps if there had been a large pin at the gift shop “It’s not me – A Rhino peed on me” or “Pee on me if you’re Horny” (yes, I realize that this is in bad taste, but, you have to agree, completely appropriate in this particular case) I might have pressed on.
As calmly as I think I could have been, I emerged from the bathroom and mumbled something like, “I’m sorry, I think I’m done for the day”, and headed for the exit. I have never really thanked her, but I remain grateful that my sweetie did not challenge my decision, and dutifully followed, wheeling Sammo back out to the car, without snickering once (that I heard). I was fuming, internally as well as externally, all the way home. Silently, I walked to the washing machine, deposited my clothing, and found the apex of that day’s adventure under the shower head. I don’t remember speaking of much the rest of the afternoon, and I was happy to close my eyes and put it all behind me - oh, a day or so later.
I’ve been thinking, lately, that it’s time to visit the zoo again. But this time, things will be different.

Cast Away

Sorry I've been gone a month. It's been more of the same, but different. I've started several drafts, only to backspace them away. They're not ready yet.
Vicky brought home Cast Away last night - the movie where Tom Hanks' character gets stranded on a Pacific Island for years, eventually rescued and plopped into a world that had, by all reason and necessity, given him up for dead.
I excused myself and went to bed last night at about the part where he loses "Wilson", his island companion sculpted from a volleyball that was on the plane, washed ashore with him. I just wasn't ready for the end of the movie yesterday.
Up at 4:50 with Emma this morning, started her Elmo tape and went to the computer. Popped in the DVD, and just started weeping. This movie got to me when it came out, it nails my heart this morning. I think most of us identify with certain actors, Tom Hanks is that guy for me. It's not that I want to be him, but his mannerisms, style, and demeanor resonate with me more than say, George Clooney. I even like Joe and the Volcano, and it stinks.
I'm not sure why, but watching both Tom Hanks and Helen Hunt playing these scenes out, as they should be, almost zombie-like, the shock for him of dropping from the sky into a world jarred along 6 years from where he left it, the shock for her and his friend of reliving his funeral, "letting go" of him only to see him now, here, before them. They go through the motions externally, not really knowing what to feel. Which just projects it all onto me in a way that I don't normally experience. I can hardly bear it when he apologizes to his friend for not being there when his wife died. Standing in the house with the pictures on the refrigerator of the little girl that should have been his. Realizing that the love of his life, his inspiration, had been lost irretrievably. To bend Jackie Gleason, how bittersweet it is.
Fortunately, it's Hollywood, and the character wraps it up nicely for us to all move on. "Surely, tomorrow, the Sun will rise", he says, and the end of the movie fades with him literally looking across Texas to the future.
I guess I needed a good cry - I can count on this one if I need to, again, say in a year or two.
I give it three hankies up. Oooh, hankie, like Tom Hankie. Wow. Stream of consciousness, right here. I could use a cup of coffee.
Happy Saturday!

Time is no longer on my side

It's that time of year again, when our thoughts approach the aptly named January - looking back, even as we look forward. I'm one of those persons whose birthdays occur mid-year, so it seems I end up with a semi-annual self-assessment schedule.
It gets kinda quiet here in the Building Operations Center during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day - the docs have sent home most of the patients they can send home, lots of staff are out on vacation time, and the rest of us are trying to keep a low profile, as it were. So here I sit, contemplating this blank screen between the occasional phone call for a broken TV or plugged toilet.
I am constantly amazed at what's taking place at my home on a daily basis. Between my kids, the neighbor kids, the kid we watch after school most days until early evening, my house is a maelstrom of running, thuds, screaming (both joyful and painful, often at the same time), strewn toys, swinging lightsabers and jump ropes, and at least one TV with Elmo running on it. As annoying and bothersome as it often can be, I am, at my core, happy about this. Happy that my children are well, that they have what they have, and that my home is a safe place to play. There's the paper-mache' shark on the top shelf from Sam's latest Animal Report, a pretty good rendition that is as much testament to Vicky's abilities -- artistic as well as her ability to keep Sam focused on getting good work done. A few nights ago, Vicky was wrapping presents on the Family Room floor, and Sam joined her to "help". I sat, a few feet away from them, and pretended not to just be awed by the glimpse of the young man that I was looking at. He's still 9, but there are flashes every now and then that make me immensly proud and horribly apprehensive (regarding my abilities to finish the job) of him at the same instant. My goal for him this year is for him to become more aware of his impact on this family, and on his world. He's got so much to offer, I want him to see some of it and enable him to start earning some of his own "character points."
Emma, the enigma. After an oh so long period of just grunting and pointing her way through life, she's showing an interest in communicating with us. The completion of a good sign or word is a time for joy, watching her try a few times, only to give up in frustration, pure hell. It's been so cute, the last week or so -she'll walk into the room and say, "Hi", nonchalantly as you please. We've made a game out of "Dadeeee", "Mama" has been a lot harder. Although the words "Angel" and "innocent" are often not descriptive of her at all, living with Emma has a way of bringing me around to what really matters more often than I care to admit. And that is Love.
Vicky gets it all done. I don't deserve her. That's all this Gump can say about that. I just try to keep up, or at least look busy.
I've got to crawl out of this hole. I'm not happy that my bass amp is behind the lawnmower in the garage. I think I still have a little light, I'm just at a loss as to where to let it shine (for all of you Sunday-schoolers out there). I'm trying to prepare myself for some 'leaps of faith' this year. I'm not sure just what that means, yet, but I know that something has to change. I really hope that it's more than just my attitude, I'm getting kinda tired of lemonade. I keep looking for jobs in the paper, but there's very little listed in either the "guru" or "maven" categories, these days. I'd like to write a book, but I don't know what I'd write about. "A Book about Nothing" has probably already been written. I thought about writing an expose on the rotten underbelly of the Church of the Nazarene, but there just isn't enough material. There are, believe it or not, lots and lots of books about what it's like to be the parent of a child with "special needs", "special gifts", whatever - even semi-celebrities - so there's no real "market edge" there for me, either. Fiction sounds like too much work. Scott Adams has the corner on workplace nonsense. I've thought about writing "inspirational" material - but then I wouldn't want to end up like William J. Bennet, my seedy lifestyle and habits ruining my success. I'd write about how to negotiate your way through the healthcare system, but I'll be damned if there is a way, and I work there. So, I remain in a quandary. There is the story about how I was peed on by a Hippopotamus, but that really isn't enough to build an entire book around. Sigh.
So, I'm looking forward for myself to exhibit some out-of-character behavior this year, hoping that perhaps it will be more-in-character behavior, but I'm not making any promises I can't keep. Hope springs eternal. Thanks for reading, perhaps I've spurred some ideas for your own blessings-counting/resolution planning session, soon. Get on with it.
Happy New Year!

Lord of the Wardrobe, or Disney's not-Lion King

I had the opportunity to see “The Chronicles of Narnia – The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” yesterday. For whatever reason, I really wasn’t in the mood for it. As this blog seems to be an exercise in selfishness, I’m going to say that the movie didn’t change my mood a whole lot. But it was nice.
We (and by that I don’t mean the ‘royal’ ‘we’, I mean our family unit) have watched several series’ of pictures, lately – the”Lord of the Rings”, “Star Wars”, “Back to the Future”, etc. I couldn’t help but think, while watching this movie that they’d just suited up a few hundred of the extras from Lord of the Rings for these battle scenes. Lewis and Tolkien were friends – perhaps Narnia is just over the mountains from the “Shire”. There wasn’t any mystery involved -- everyone’s been reading the book in anticipation of this release. It was rather more like seeing a play that you’ve seen three or four times before, looking to appreciate the performances as much as the play itself. The performances were fine, but none extraordinary, with the possible exception of the computer-generated lion. This story is Christian allegory, and the strongest imagery is embodied in that of Aslan. I shuddered in my seat, thinking what it might be like to actually stand before my Savior, one day, to be deemed worthy or not. To be forgiven. To hear him say, “What’s past is past.” That got my attention. The rest of it, again with the exception of Aslan’s “deep magic” disappearance at the end, and vague promise to return, was what has become pretty predictable fantasy fare. The “coronation” scene looked just like a “Star Wars” movie ending, or was that a “Star Trek” movie. . . or was it “Shrek II?” I am a believer in “archetypes” – and I certainly think that there’s no better introduction to them for young children than the writings of C.S. Lewis. Although I’m glad that Peter Jackson didn’t direct this picture - it would have taken two more hours to tell the story - there might have been a bit more passion, though. It is a well-crafted movie; my criticism is that, unfortunately, nearly all of the themes have been theatrically pounded into the ground at this point – which is truly too bad for this particular story.
To be fair, this was not made for me. There was certainly applause at the end, most of it, I think, from children in the audience. That it was picked up by religious groups and deemed worthy of their support speaks more to me about those waiting for permission, and those feeling a need to give it, than it does for the content. There’s as much religion in “The Wizard of Oz” as there is in this film, unless you’re already a believer. That’s the way Mr. Lewis wrote it, thank God (and thank you, Mr. Lewis). I won’t mind sitting through 6 or 7 more of these with my children, truly, as long as they enjoy them. There should be enough parental/authority death to deem them Disney-worthy, and I’m pretty sure that the Mouse will market what follows as effectively as they always have.
In the interest of journalism, Sam liked it very much. Emma fell asleep about the time the other three on-screen children fell through the back of the wardrobe, and snored through the credits. I only napped through what must have been the first expository section in the Beaver’s home. I tend to hold a special, personal value in those kid’s movies that I can sleep at; this film met that criteria too, minimally. I think it held Vicky’s interest, and, as she was holding Emma, she had nothing better to do. There’s little to dislike here, and talking animals and children who rule over dumber adults are always winners. To say that I’m quivering with anticipation for book 3 would be a bit of an understatement, but it’s a safe bet that, nap-worthy or not, it’ll still be a good time.

Twas Twas

***I seem to be slipping into pseudo-Seussian rhyme, lately.
***My apologies for lines borrowed.

Twas’ a month before Christmas, and all through the land.
Not a creature was stirring, from fresh tryptophan.
The turkey carcass was not even cold, yet red and green ornaments glowed big and bold.
“Black Friday” arrived, shoppers formed at the doors
For early-bird sales, and fighting in stores.
Too early for spirit, the gift is the thing!
Without it, we’re hampered, true joy for to bring.
Soon news of “Black Monday” grew on the ‘net
Turned out was a marketing scam to forget.
As newspapers swelled with holiday ads,
Malls began filling with seekers of fads.

Three weeks before Christmas, and everyone’s tired
Checking on coupons that, just now, expired.
Grumpy and Sleepy are dwarves, they’re not elves,
People just arent’ really feeling ‘themselves’.
There’s parties, and candy, and White Elephants,
And all sorts of unexpected expense.
Hanging of lights, and dragging home trees,
Pulling down glittery gunk from the eaves.
Stringing, and plugging, and looking for lamps,
Fresh aches and pains, not to mention new cramps.

Two weeks to go, the stupor kicks in,
We’re on automatic, obtuse to the din.
Slogging from store to store, weary and worn,
Our only nutrition from stale Caramel Corn.
Stashing our purchases far out of sight,
Collapsing as evening turns into late night.
Fitfully sleeping with heads full of lists,
We should be so grateful, instead, we’re just pissed.

The day is approaching; few hours left to pack,
Our brains softly pounding from Yuletide’s Muzak.
Standing in line, wishing we knew him better,
Could Uncle Bob even want or need this sweater?
He has to get something, that says that we care,
But we really don't know, so we keep standing there.

Please don’t forget as we just settle in,
That Christmas was just the “down payment” for sin.
The first “Hallmark” gift, that just keeps on giving.
He soon came to die for our eternal living.
Bittersweet joy, as you look at your tree
Glimpse at Him hanging there for you and me.
But just for a moment, please don’t be depressed
To know what His Father did, then, doubly blessed.

For there is no greater gift to be sold,
No precious glittering thing to behold.
Than that of a life given, so pure and free,
To purchase redemption for you, and for me.
It’s been passed to us, by those, who often had less
Who understood gratitude and selflessness.
Our wealth leaves us without a need for such sharing
What’s harder, now, seems to be small acts of caring.

So all that I’m saying here, in this refrain,
Shouldn’t have taken this time to explain.
I’m having trouble, but I’m going to try,
To be a gentler, more sensitive guy.
At least for a few weeks, I’ll work on my “cheerier”
Instead of my usual sneer, fear, and “leerier”.
I never would slug you, in line for a toy,
But maybe a smile from me’d slip you some joy.
If you were to return a grin,we’d both be merrier,
The world would get friendlier, then, not just wary-er.

Then, and most certainly last, but not least.
Save your best cheer for the day of the feast.
Savor the giving, not getting, the most.
And a moment or two for the Heavenly Host.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,
Please Please Please!, I am asking, with all of my might,
Let’s make it Christmas, and not Xmas Lite.


http://www.townhall.com/opinion/columns/johnleo/2005/12/12/178651.html

Thanksgiving, 2005

Tis’ the season to be thankful
With a couple extra tankfuls
Driving hither ‘cross the counties,
Joining with our loved ones there.

Notice now, that vacant setting
Telling of those now abetting
Freedom – let’s not be forgetting
Those who stand for what we share.

As we gather, and we ponder,
Wealth of Laughter, Love, and Peace
Sacrifices made for others
Willing hands that never cease.

Sons and Daughters, Sisters , Brothers
Spread across this fragile land.
Gratitude and yearning prayer that
Others might soon understand
That there is pride in giving others
Value owed to every Man.

Human fabric, woven ever
Thread by thread, yet ending never,
Binding loved ones closer still.
Gratitude for those who serve us
Please Lord, let the Loom grow larger,
And our hopes and dreams fulfill.

Freedom’s price it seems, must always
Hurt at times when it should not.
It’s our price to pay, however,
For these things so dearly fought.
Having done this, they would want us
Carry on as if ‘twere not.

So, to pause on this occasion
Of a Nation’s Thankfulness
To you standing far from home,
We will truly do our best.
To remember, pray, and render
Thoughts of safety and success.

Thank You.
To the day that brings you home, safe, to us.

Timely, or "Stuck in a Moment"

Juxtapose this!
Tuesday night, witnessing once again the phenomenon of "The Larry Mullen Band", all "Love and Peace", "In the Name of Love" , hootin' and hollerin' and singing with 20,ooo of my closest friends about human rights and global debt relief and lifting the seat when you pee (sorry, I made that last one up). It really was a great time. One of the things I was anxious for 8 year-old Sam to see was an arena full of people singing. He seemed kinda engaged, but really got wide-eyed when Bono asked everyone to hold up their lit cellphones. As the mighty Hewson pointed out, "a real 21st century moment." We got home from Los Angeles at about 2 a.m.
Wednesday morning. Awoke to CNN and MSNBC and FOX jumping in and out of the 2+ hours of Rosa Parks' final funeral. A modern name that correctly ranks and resonates for America with those of Attucks, Paine, Tubman, Lincoln, Malcom X, and, of course, Rev. Martin Luther King. Rev. King was her inspiration for his non-violence, Malcom X for his resolve. A quiet, positive, consistent life defined by a moment of courage that galvanized a movement and altered the course of the world. The eulogies were amazing, as they should have been. Rosa's challenge remains:
How many moments do we miss, every day, to make a difference?
Bono spoke of the efforts of ONE, what it has accomplished, in large part due to his and some other high-profile efforts. It is a unique, timely, and overdue coalition that sets aside the petty partisanship that we are so self-indulgently langushing in in this country. It's easy to follow their lead.
Rosa Parks resolve was not temporal. She had had trouble with this particular bus driver, before. Her courage was the result of her internal consistency. "The Movement" had tried bus boycotts, before. This one worked because, as one person said yesterday, they would continue to walk to work in the rain "because of Rosa."
I don't think that Rosa could have known the impact of her decision, it could have just as easily passed into the Montgomery city records without notice. It made no difference to her.
At this moment, I'm not sure if I've ever been personally presented with a moment where doing the right thing meant breaking the law - the question is, would I do so? Do I have to? Probably not. Can I then, at least, stand up for the little things? Just think, if we all could, then perhaps we could change the world.
Not a bad moment to be stuck in.

Wondering

I often wish and wonder what it’s like to be in someone else’s head. Not just the occasional “What were they thinking?”, but to truly be able to witness the same thing from someone else’s completely different frame of reference, and be able to compare perceptions with my own.
I was thinking about this on Halloween, watching Emma. She really got into the “swing” of things, this year. Adorable is not the word; she stole my heart yet again when she started twirling and preening from the moment Mom put on her pink skirt with the silver stars and tiara in her hair. This was special, and she knew it. It didn’t take long for her to get the hang of going from door to door, either – soon she was going up to the door, banging on it with her fist, and calling out “Trick or Treat” - it had to be – in her own inimitable way. Her excitement was palpable, and I began to wonder many things:
Does she remember last year?
Does she have any idea what we’re doing?
Would she think that she could knock on a neighbor’s door tomorrow and get candy?
What were (are) the associations that she’s making about all of this?
What makes it all so exciting? Our encouragement? That it’s all so different?
What will she remember?
Another thing that happens when we go Trick-or-Treating is the inevitable doggy at the door. Emma has not met a dog she doesn’t adore. She welcomes them, and is more than happy to trade saliva and kisses if they are not both restrained. I, on the other hand, traumatized as a very young child by two, shall we say, “little nippers”, am uncomfortable around nearly all canines. See the analogy? - same animal, completely different reaction. My combination of personal and parental fear of her getting hurt by a dog – I am truly dreading the day, and I hope it never happens – really kicks in at these moments. Watching her unabashedly giggling and cooing with her arms around a big dog’s neck, however, makes me want to buy two of them – but that moment passes, and rather quickly, with the memory of a teenage job I had mowing the lawn of a Great Dane owner. I am jealous of her abilities, always hoping that she never has that particular joy taken from her. I know that that’s the prayer of every parent, of course.
Part of the “sweet” of “Bittersweet” is to share pure joy, purely in the moment, innocent, uncluttered, focused happiness with Emma. The rest of us struggle harder and harder for these moments as we get older. It’s a gift she gives me nearly every day.
Now, it’s easy to contemplate the differences in perception between myself and one so differently-abled as she. It often causes me to ponder the differences that “the rest of us” bring to our situations. Aside from the layer upon layer of complexity that we seem to develop as we learn to distrust even our own thinking, how the background noise that I assume most of you reading this have running in your heads (if you don’t, then I really do have a problem) colors our everyday lives. I am not particularly proud to admit that I deal too often from the deck of sarcasm, and it’s become clear to me that it’s done some damage to my relationship with my Son. Damage, in that it clouds our communication, and I know now that it hasn’t helped our ability to live together. I realized, one day, that he didn’t deserve to have his young head screwed with this way; that it was pretty unfair of me. I’m trying to do better with that, and I hope I can make it up to him, somehow. I wasn’t able to see things through his eyes. I hope to live long enough to gain his forgiveness.
It is now one of those means of defense that I’ve inadvertently passed to the next generation, as it was passed to me. I can share the blame, but not the responsibility.
Living with Diversity requires more than accommodation. It requires empathy, understanding, fueled by desires that can only be kindled by unselfishness. That’s what makes it hard. That’s what takes effort, faith, and courage.
It all makes me wonder.

FAQ to the Future

I worked in a TV repair shop for seven years. My tenure included watching consumer electronics (as well as watching TV!) move from the twilight of vacuum tubes to transistors to integrated circuits. I received enough on-the-job training to eventually become a fair technician. These days, I know enough to be willing to take the covers off stuff and either fix them or reduce them to landfill in a matter of moments.
Part of that education was the whole antenna/tuner thing. Remember TV’s with dials? The big one that went from Channel 2 to 13, along with the little one that went from 14 to 83? Very High Frequency and Ultra High Frequency! UHF Stations were usually low power, low self-esteem stations, where reception was wobbly at best – the world really ran on VHF. San Diego was and still is an area overwhelmed with cable subscription; the terrain assures that most consumers can’t get at least 2 channels, combined with our seeming need to have at least 40 channels of lowest-common-denominator programming at our fingertips. Electronic tuners and the reality of cable companies converting UHF stations to VHF numbers for their band had pretty much relegated UHF to the scrap heap, or at least that’s what I thought.
Sunday, we bought a new TV. A(n) HDTV capable TV. I hooked up the cable and DVD and stereo and such and went hunting for a(n) HDTV program. Imagine my dismay when it didn’t look nearly as good as it did in the store. Actually, I was smart enough to realize that I hadn’t yet tapped into the digital vein, just yet. I lacked knowledge. Little did I know what lay in store.
The internet, of course. There is more information – including an abundance of outdated information – than I ever wanted to know about HDTV. The salient point to this essay is that over-the-air HDTV stations are UHF STATIONS! The band seemingly allocated for obscurity in the early 20th century was now and is the platform of innovation and data packets. If only the parents of UHF were alive to see it (I have no idea who that might be, and I’m not sure how to Google that, nor am I compelled to know).
I couldn’t wait to get home and try it out. Alas, I could not find a suitable loop or even bow-tie antenna amidst the morass (we passed ‘clutter’ in 1998) that is my garage. What to do? As a TV and electronics tech for so many years, I a) Have thrown more of these away than you can imagine, and b) could not imagine even paying $1.49 for one at a local store – if I could find one. Bingo! I took a 75-300 ohm converter, and made a loop from terminal to terminal with a length of solder. I attached it to a length of cable, hooked it up, and, as my Mother would say, “Glory Be!” I was getting 4 or so crystal clear channels of HDTV. For FREE! Oh, Serendipity; joy unbound!
The bad news is that I am nestled up against a mountain that I’m confident that will prevent me from ever getting a signal from 2 network transmitters located 13.1 miles away on another peak on the other side (internet information – I was able to determine the exact latitude and longitude of my address, and plot it in relation to the transmitters up to 100 miles away – waaaay too much information). Couple this with the siren song of the independent film channel and a smattering of educational programming for the kids – a cable upgrade is inevitable – resistance is futile. But for now, I’m just tickled pink, happier than a clam at high tide, with my solder-loop antenna stuck to my hi-def TV. Who’d a thunk it?

Someone else is speaking my mind

Thanks to Tom at Unresolved References, an article that addresses this issue better than I could ever hope to.
The Abortion Debate that No One Wants to Have
Study this if you want to understand part of how it feels to be me.
Wow.

Sorry, my Muse was Bruised

Man, I’ve been sick. Sick up and fed of being sick. It’s always an amazing feeling to me, as it was this morning, to wake up feeling better than I did when I went to bed, to gradually feel whatever this crud is oh so slowly leaving my body. As the old song goes, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. . .” Amen, sister.
I’m a wimp when it comes to being sick. I don’t wanna, I ain’t gonna; just leave me alone with my bed and my remote control. This, of course, eventually, after a while, makes me feel kinda guilty about all of the things I’m supposed to be doing – one of the sure indications that I’m getting better. I live with one of those people who never seem to do what I do – declare I’m sick, I’m going to bed, and then drop off the face of the earth for a few days. She just keeps on going like the Energizer Bunny. I’m sure that it has a lot to do with her knowing that it won’t get done unless she does it, but I think it goes deeper than that. I do not know how she does it, but in the final analysis I don’t care. I yam what I yam – “just a spud boy who found his real tomato” (30 points for emailing me with the proper reference for that modified lyric).
I went to “the church of Springsteen” a couple of Sundays ago. I found myself on the bow of a houseboat, moored in a cove at Lake Mead, my coughing carcass jammed low into a canvas chair with his latest, “Devils and Dust” mostly gently playing in my headphones. It was one of those moments where the confluence of mood, fatigue, the desert fauna, a cool wind, and artistry brought me to tears more than once. Until the one song with the seemingly out-of place lyrics jerked my reverie back to wherever it is I usually live. One has to appreciate these moments when they occur, they are as fleeting as spring flowers in Death Valley. It’s also hard to describe to someone else, isn’t it? I’ve never been a true fan of ‘The Boss”, but these soft, straining songs reveal feelings beyond polish, beyond production, true experience. Honesty is the best policy. “Matomoros Banks” is my song of the year.
Even though we’ve been doing this for umpteen years now, and I always knew it, I used Google Earth to look around Lake Mead before we left, and was able to see how actually stinkin’ close our wilderness adventure is to Las Vegas. To explain, there is a significant mountain between eastern Las Vegas/Henderson and Lake Mead – getting to Echo Bay requires a 45 minute drive from Boulder City, around this mountain. It’s probably only about 20 miles, as the crow flies, from Echo Bay to the Strip. They are worlds apart, however, which only adds to the awe of it all. The bad news is that, at night, there is a pronounced glow to the West. The good news is that you can still see the Milky Way and shooting stars until you go to sleep. I woke up one night, looked out the window, and saw Mars and the little dipper. It’s so easy to forget that this stuff is always there – a reminder between REM states that to stop and wonder is still a wonderful thing. Whatever your opinion of Las Vegas as a technological triumph over the desert may be, the juxtaposition of it against this wilderness is never lost upon me. All this, of course, from my comfy chair down the hall from a working bathroom and shower, on a Man-made lake. Did I say I’m a wimp when it comes to camping, too? Yeah, probably.

"Strength in the Things that Remain" - Bob Dylan

I have been pondering many small absurdities, lately. I just finished reading a post at languagehat.com, http://www.languagehat.com/archives/002088.php, that describes the (previously unkown to me) practice of intentional fakery in reference works to identify copyright theft. How ingeniously incongruous!

Labor Day Weekend was spent on a Cub Scout campout with Sam. It was somewhat of a milestone for old Dad, because it was now time to actually commit to the purchase of the required equipment – tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, etc. – I’m still working on the “Happy” part of “Happy Camper.” I managed to think of all but three items – sugar, for my tea (haven’t invested in the percolator for coffee, yet), bug spray (our camp was about 200 yards from the “lake” – I think “pond” when I see green water, blue means “lake” to me), and a fishing pole for Sam. I personally prefer dentistry to fishing but hey, it’s not about me. Unless, of course, you’re a mosquito. My legs and arms still look like I’ve been well, part of a control group in an experiment gone horribly wrong. Little Man Sam bore not one welt. I’m not sure what I was exuding, pheromonically I must have been either alluring or argumentative. Sam was just happy to be there, and I think the blood suckers honored that. Of particular note were the little flies that have an affinity for hovering near the opening to one’s ear canals – you know, the ones that send any sentient being screaming into the woods, which of course is quite counterproductive.
All of the requisite Boy Scout charms were evident – campfires, BB guns, archery, hiking in the dark. One of the things that the BSA is still allowed to do by our government is to “retire”, to ceremonially and respectfully burn a worn-out American Flag. It was no small measure of the caliber of the men at this evening campfire to see half of them come out of the audience when the call for veterans, active military, and Eagle Scouts to join the ceremony. These are all good fathers, and many have served us, as well. I’m not altogether sure I’m in the same category. I was humbled, just the same. To me, the Boy Scouts is pretty anachronistic, an institutional holdout against the onslaught of modern life in many of its forms. It is also, in my opinion, something not to be dismissed, either, a glimpse into some truths that will be eventually lost. There is much that I disagree with in the organization I’ve seen, but that, like fishing, is not what it’s about. It’s about providing time and life lessons for tomorrow’s Men. I’m most pleased when I see these guys teaching Sam about things I wasn’t exposed to, like fishing and using a compass, but otherwise just doing things in a way that doesn’t happen in suburban America. I remember my Grandfather teaching me how to bundle up twigs one day; in his brusque manner and insistence that I do such a small task well conveyed values that were both consistent with who he was, as well as an unspoken love in the investment of his attention that have obviously impacted me forever. These are the moments that make the itching, backaches and body odor worthwhile. Not my Grandpa’s, mine, that is.
Speaking of absurdities, the bathrooms/showers (I’m told they were cold showers, which to me are mutually exclusive terms) were divided into three sections. Boys 18 and under, Women, and Men 18 and older. It was just a reminder that nothing’s what it used to be, or should be, for that matter.Anyone got any used fishing gear for sale?

Take Me out to the Ballgame

Warning: This essay consists of whining and complaining, and items that are designed to annoy one’s conscience. Those who have already mastered correct thinking need not go any further.

"To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost."
- Gustave Flaubert

We went to a baseball game a Petco Park last night. I do not like Petco Park, for a number of selfish, inconsequential reasons. For those of you unfamiliar with San Diego, we citizens subsidized the installation of a wonderful baseball-only stadium in the heart of Downtown, which now solely belongs to a few millionaires. The majority of us now drive by the perfectly good former venue, Qualcomm Stadium (formerly San Diego Stadium), with the second-largest parking lot in the United States, to wend our way through construction zones and evening traffic to find parking somewhere near Petco Park. As our constitution dictates, the closer you get, the more you pay. We pulled into a lot a mere mile or so away, where a woman advised me that, for $10, we could park and someone would watch our car for 2 hours after the game. Wow. We got out, I handed her a bill, to receive the reply “A whole TEN?” This of course, indicated that some sort of tip was in order and I could probably expect some sort of minor damage resulting from my lack of proper downtown parking etiquette. This, gratefully, did not happen, but she was not there when we returned after the game, either. My guess is she didn’t get enough tips. It’s a little known fact that tipping is one of the things that drove the taller, smarter people West nearly two centuries ago, leaving most of the griping gladhanders in the Tri-State Area. Too bad they put in the Trans-Continental Railway.

“The rich get richer, the poor get the picture”
- Midnight Oil

One of the aspects of our vibrant, growing downtown – and it’s probably true for yours, too – is homeless people. I seldom go downtown, but when I do, it’s usually some sort of occasion – a fancy dinner, ballgame, sightseeing with visitors, or jury duty. On all but the latter, I’m on my best behavior to try and have a good time. This, by design, means that I will be spending what is euphemistically known as “discretionary income”. Therefore, the sight of my fellow men, women, and children curling up for the night under dirty blankets and sleeping bags tends to shoot my mood all to hell. The fact that I’m now feeling both ashamed and defensive as we stroll this gauntlet to the shiny venue with the perfect lawn; they are sentiments that haven’t dulled yet from my three whole visits there. I don’t even go down the mental road of circumstances, choices, “that’s just the way it is” (Bruce Hornsby), etc. much, this time. I just don’t like it.
I know I’m cheap. My grandparents slept under newspapers during the Great Depression, ok? But spending over $100 for three people to go to a baseball game is still too much, as far as I am concerned. Now this did include $35 for food – $3.50 for each fish taco, $7.00 for a chicken quesadilla, and 3 drinks (yes, we could’ve hauled food in, but one’s choices are limited when considering the hike in – it’s all cold by then – but then, so was the fish taco). The San Diego Padres use volunteer workers to man the counters, and then certain profits go to the charities that the volunteers represent – so I guess I can feel warm all over for that. Our seats, three rows from the top of the stadium (oops, park), were over $60. I particularly enjoyed the pre-game show, with a guided tour of one player’s home, including such items as the 60-inch plasma TV the Padres gave him last year, which is mounted on the patio wall in the back yard, near the putting green. OK, so now I know my place in the great universe – somewhere between his life and those lying on the sidewalk, outside. Ironies abound.
The game was what it is – watching the Western Division leaders play what looks like under .500 ball. They deserved to lose this game, and they did. A couple of great plays, too. The blessing and boon of baseball is that there is too much of it – plays become important only within context, to most of us. That there’s a lot of games means more of us get to see them, unlike say, football or golf. That there’s a lot of games means that some games don’t seem to um, command one’s attention like they probably should.
It’s hard to get into the game when there’s so many distractions, too, like the lousy sight line from our seats to home plate, where, if anyone in any of the 20 rows in front of us moved, was instantly obscured. Must I say that this was pretty constant? We had the distinct pleasure of sitting behind a large group; their socialization included constant seating changes and pleasant conversation. I think they had a wonderful time.
The game ended, and we made our way out into the night and the homeless-street-slalom back to our car.
My night ended, and I do mean ended, as we drove through the stoplights to the freeway home. Stopping at one intersection, I looked over to see a shape, under a blanket, in a cubbyhole at the corner. Parked next to the shape was an empty wheelchair. I turned to Vicky, who was looking with me, and said, “There has to be a better way.” She nodded. We drove home and got into bed.
It’s a great game. Or is it?

Lost Wages, Gained Perspective

Been gone on the weeklong, family road-trip vacation. I’m going to make some observations, omitting of course, those pleasantries that accompany most road trips. Things like the proliferation of white plastic shopping bags that accumulate everything from wet bathing suits to half-empty packages of broken cookies, which, after 4 days on the road, make one’s vehicle testament to the reality that you are indeed living out of your car.
I don’t like Las Vegas. I’m too cheap to pay a valet, so it’s hiking through the casino, bags in hand, feeling like a hillbilly; Ellis Island with shiny lights and air conditioning. The smell of stale cigarettes. Hangdog expressions of boredom on what must be ‘regulars’. The sidewalks with their mottled, sun-baked stains of desiccated fluids of unknown origin. The weirdness that is Fremont Street – both attractive and repulsing at the same time, ala Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena on New Year’s Eve.
My favorite Vegas experience this time – I’m up with Emma at 7:45 in the morning. We’ve already had breakfast, and I’ve pushed her stroller through the restaurant and arcade levels. I’m doing a slow circle around the casino floor when I spy a BMW convertible rotating slowly above some slot machines. I amble over and, with nothing better to do, am inspecting the rear disc brakes, grillwork, and suspension as they roll by, when I hear a voice: "You know, it’s not the fall that hurts, it’s the sudden stop at the end that gets you." I turn, startled, to see a fine member of the casino’s security force. "If a member of the Nevada gaming commission were here, you could be fined up to $500 – you can move through the casino, but you can’t stop." Thank you, very much. I’ve had a vision of standing in front of a judge, prosecutor explaining my intention to corrupt a 6-year old in diapers into a gaming prodigy. Before 8 in the morning. By someone who remembers every one of the 17 nickels he’s ever put in a slot machine. I’d ask for a jury trial, and 13 boxes of tissues – for the tears of laughter that would soon result. Book em, Dan-O! The poor guy was right, so I ambled on without external comment. He probably hates his job, too.
Changing gears, climates, and viewpoints, what is it that draws us to places like Bryce and Zion canyons? It’s easy to understand the science; The US Park Service does a wonderful job of explaining that with their maps, visitor centers, and programs. To say that Bryce Canyon is a place to see the process of erosion is akin to remarking that Michaelangelo knew how to paint ceilings. It was easier to point out, a little later, to Sam – after demanding that he shut off the Gamecube and look out the car window – that this was truly a unique place, by the fact that English-speaking Americans were in the minority at both locations. These are truly global treasures.
In these places, we can see the forces that we’ve gotten so good at manipulating, but not controlling, and we wonder at the cycle of upheaval and wearing down, as well as the beauty of how our earth is constructed. If you’ve been to places like the Grand Canyon, or Canyon de Chelle, you can appreciate how they appear in the midst of plain earth, almost wound-like. To this battered mind (and I mean the deep-fried, not beaten variety), it’s what makes these places spiritual – the confluence of life-giving water, wind, and fertile ground in the middle of desolation; stark colors and human-figured hoodoos rising from cool canyon floors. And the views. There are poets unlike myself to give verse to landscapes that reach multiples of miles, clouds displaying lightning and thunder, the smell of rain far away. Call it a sense of place, a sense of awe, the lack of oxygen at high altitude. A temporary change of perspective, clearing the senses, then back in the car to Elmo on the portable DVD and pizza for dinner.
Everything I’ve come to expect from the family vacation.

Just another Manic Wednesday

I worked in a TV repair shop for seven years. For nearly all of them, M*A*S*H re-runs were on at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. There was always at least one TV on in the shop; there are certain shows that I have nearly committed to memory. I’ve been thinking of one, these last few days.
The main story revolves around a package that Col. Potter receives at the beginning of the episode. He’s mad and moody. Eventually, the main cast members are asked to assemble in his tent one evening.
Col. Potter was a veteran of WWI, and he and some buddies had found a cache of liquor in a French chateau where they were pinned down. They had formed a "tontine" – the only time I’ve heard that term used – wherein they would save the last bottle, and it would go to the last survivor of the bunch. Col. Potter is now the lone survivor. He’s been mourning for his lost comrades. His current circle of friends listen as he describes each one. Then the tone changes. "As much as I loved these friends, I love you even more," he says to those gathered around him. He asks them to join him in a toast to his departed buddies. The toast is, "Love and Friendship." I have to say that it’s a scene that moves me, just thinking about it. On those rare occasions when I choose to use it, it’s a toast that I can barely get out. Guess I’m just a sentimentalist. Big surprise.
I’ve been thinking about it lately, most likely because I’ve had the opportunity to rekindle some friendships that have been dormant for some 20-odd years. One of the things that I didn’t fully grasp until recently was that the relationships we build are "eternal" (scope of that word still yet to be fully realized by this larger-than-average, yet not-quite-ripe cranium). Some go stale, some go dormant, and some are forcefully terminated only to return via all of the complicated means available in this world. Six degrees of separation really isn’t that much. In fact, I’m considering having Kevin Bacon’s love child. The technology is here. But that is another story.
I don’t think it hits most of us until our mid to late 30’s is that the only thing that separates those octogenarians sitting at a park bench from the 6-year olds wildly to-and-fro-ing on the swings is time and the probability of a broken hip. As my mind begins to tick off a growing list of those things that I won’t do again, or can’t now, from piloting a plane (heart’s decertified) or climb the Matterhorn (too fat), to include riding that roller coaster or even trying kayaking, I feel a sense of loss of my own potential, but not desire.
So, here I sit, across the table from my Best Man. I see his face, which reflects my own subtle (but not really) maturation from my memory of our shiny, youthful foreheads as we stood on those church platforms half a generation ago. His eyes are the same, and the mannerisms, and the things that bound our intellects together oh so very long ago spark and sizzle and it’s as if nothing was ever any different. Rekindle is the right word, because there is a warmth between us that, sadly, I do not feel as often as I’d like. That we are both now staid members of our respective communities belie the sheer goofiness that we participated in adolescence, it provides a foundation for understanding each other’s current shenanigans.
I also got to spend some time with my "current" and geographically closer friends, recently. They mean so much to me in ways I can’t express, well, I just can’t express it. For reasons that could probably stand several years of expensive analysis (or that I could probably sum up in 3-4 paragraphs for you at a later time), I don’t have many friends. Let’s just leave it at that. The friends I do have, well, I like them a lot. Through the ebb and flow our our relationships, I feel like I’ve been taking more than I’ve been giving lately, I hope that I can edge the balance sheet back the other way, someday.
I hope the device of using someone else’s writing to set up what I’d like to say has worked for you – it’s part of the constant drama in my head. A little observation, a little humor, a little gratitude, a little confession, a little essay from me to you. Thanks to online community, there are some of you I’ve never been remotely physically close to. Some of you, I may never see again, this side of the veil. I may see a couple of you in a week or so. Thanks, today, for all of you.
Love and Friendship.
And no, I’m not drinking and blogging, but I am in the hospital. At work. Thanks for asking.

Happy Birthday, Emma or Mr. Maudlin rides again

I'm copying this post today from my favorite Down Syndrome Parent's Forum:
As far as I can tell, below is my first post on Downsyn, in July, 2000.
*****
There is not a lot more that I can add to the tremendous amount of wisdom already posted in these preceding messages. Only to add that it seems to me that you are doing the right things - first, seeking the best for your child's health. Second, you are taking the courageous step of seeking information and help for what you are feeling. My advice to you is to read and re-read these messages for the faith, hope, comfort and courage that you will find in and around the words written. Faith and trust start with you.My daughter will be one year old this week. We did not know that she had DS until her birth. I have turned over and over in my mind what it would have been like to have had months to think about her with DS before she was actually present, and I honestly can't say if it would have been better or not. In the first hours and days of her life, I actually wished that her medical problems would take her life, and that we could be the brave parents experiencing a terrible loss, and then move on. The reality is that we lost the daughter that we wanted - she never existed. Yesterday, I arrived home from work to find Emma asleep in her crib. She slept through our dinner until nearly 8 o'clock. I was angry because I didn't get to spend hardly any time with her. In the midst of all of the things that worry, frighten, annoy, and grieve me, the best part of my life is when I get to hold and play with both of my kids. Emma's smile can melt the coldest steel. Sitting in my chair with her asleep on my chest brings me the greatest sense of peace and contentment that I have ever known. This message is getting long -- I am having to develop attributes that I never wanted to have - but I am a better person as a result.I have to address life quality issues at every turn - but I have become a source of strength and courage for others.My heart is broken - but it is through this that I am learning what really matters.Life is a gift - Love takes courage - God will bless your efforts if you trust him to.That's enough for me for one day.
*****
Today is Emma’s sixth birthday. A lot has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all. Some things are not as clear to me as they seemed then, to be honest, seeing my own words prompts me to seek some of the strength I’ve been denying myself due to self-pity, lately.
My children are still my greatest source of strength. Emma was in asleep my lap, last night, and I just waited a little while before carrying her to bed (no small task, these days). She’s not so innocent, anymore; she’s a formidable presence in this world. We’re all struggling with getting her to new levels of communication and behavior; our (hers and ours) hardest work right now is to try, not to revert to what’s worked in the past. I am so proud of my son, Samuel. His compassion, watchfulness, and patience with all of us – I try desperately to not take for granted.
There are no adequate words for me to express my admiration for Vicky. She bears the brunt of the daily grind, the chasing, the doctors, the medicine, the bills, the angry guy that comes home every afternoon, the laundry, and the myriad of other things that don’t immediately come to mind. She’s an amazing Mom. She doesn’t let up. I don’t know how she does it.
So, the party’s on Saturday, there’ll be pictures, maybe an annual cake-video.
It’s appropriate that my first post began by acknowledging others here, some have gone on, some remain. I want to end this one the same way. You folks inspire, challenge, and make this world a better place, day by day, diaper by diaper, sign by sign. Some of you now move entire communities, having never thought yourselves capable of such things. One of the things I realized, that Dan Rather got booed for, and we just don’t talk about enough, is the need for courage. I find courage here, every day.
Thank you.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Had the special joy of going to the cinema for the second Sunday in a row, to the same mall where the Parking Structure elevator is still not working, meaning I get to bump the stroller down three flights of stairs again. But back to our movie.
Johnny Depp, once again succeeds in portraying a creep. Imagery and cgi wonders abound. Our hero lives in a completely unique hovel amidst rows and rows of moribund row houses. His other four competitors are so caricatured at the beginning that there is absolutely no suspense as to the outcome, even for someone like me who was completely unfamiliar with the story. Christopher Lee is perfect in his role as Father of the Creep. Oompah-Loompahs bring much-needed levity and music, as do a roomful of squirrels possessing a collective wisdom far beyond that of their owner. The fat kid's face looks like a baby's butt, it's so rotund and translucent, his blue eyes would have made any fuhrer proud. Major props also to the look of absolute focus on the face of Violet's mom. They should have been from Dallas, not Florida.The scene where candy gets teleported by TV, but gets smaller, wasn't too well thought out, either. Everybody knows that the camera adds ten pounds. I guess in the world of fantasy, anything can happen.
Oh, one other thing. I guess, in today's PG, PC world, it's o.k. to use the word "retard" (as uttered by the totally unlikeable video-game playing techno-nerd kid), but not "bastard" (you'll have to watch the movie). They both describe wrinkles in the human condition, shouldn't they get equal weight? After watching videos in the "Back to the Future" series with my kids, recently, this movie was stellar in terms of language, if not in respect for "diversity".More importantly, the kids loved it. It was serendipitous that my son and I had just concluded watching "2001: A Space Odyssey" the day before, it made one of the "in-jokes" pretty funny for him. The air conditioning was working fine, and I almost got a nap in the middle of it. The Squrrels woke me up.

Fantastic 4 falls flat

I won't compete with Roger Ebert on this one - he says what's on my mind in this review. I had read, and agree that this is a movie best suited for 10 year-olds. I agree, just be sure and bring their game-boys along, so they can keep themselves occupied while the utterly idiotic, boring dialogue runs out. Sam put up the arm rests and laid down for a while during this movie - he should have been drawn in and kept interested. It was nice to see Michael Chiklis on the big screen - his eyes peering through his dirt-colored rubber suit do more acting than most of the combined cast of this turd. Blurry cgi effects only cement the feeling that it's not going to get any better before the film runs out. Emma signed twice to mom that she wanted to go potty, turns out she was really just commenting on the movie.

London 07/07/05

Dear Friends,
I personally share your shock, sorrow, and anger at this cowardly exhibit by those who seem intent upon their own destruction. Just as we will never forget 9/11, we remember and celebrate the resilience and resolve of Londoners through history in the face of tyranny and terror. My sincere desire is that these perpetrators are rounded up and at least removed from free society, where they enjoy what they seek to destroy.

Fetters in Twain

Sufficient time has passed, to the point where I don’t remember much visual detail, but the impressions are revived every now and again in broad, vivid emotional recollection. After 34 years, I am still unsure as to the timing of this wave, but it washes over me occasionally, and I am glad.
One of the things that we don’t really experience, here in the New World, is the phenomenon of ancient cities, destroyed and rebuilt on the resulting ruins, century upon century. Rome is such a city. I remember quipping to my friends, with all the cynicism that a 14-year old could muster, that Rome was “like Tijuana, the dirt was just 1400 years older.” It is true that youth is wasted upon the young. Reaching parts of old Rome requires descending from the modern city to excavated and preserved levels, which only adds to one’s sense of leaving current time as well as space. This stuff is way old, and it smells old as one leaves the light and heat of the day to descend into the streets of the Forum – yes, the original one – and then into Mamertine Prison.
My efforts to refresh my memory today tell me that there is no confirmation that Saints Paul and Peter were ever here; it still does not diminish the effect that it had upon me, as I’m sure it continues to have upon others. I was with a tour group of about 14 people, mostly teens with a few sponsors, including my parents. Our Father, who art in Temecula, had specifically requested this particular stop on our Roman Holiday.
This prison was initially created as a cistern, with two chambers. The lower one was originally only accessed via a hole in its roof – prisoners were lowered (or thrown) into the lower section. I clearly remember a large metal door that was shown to lead into the ancient sewer system, and was informed that some unfortunates that did not survive their incarceration were merely disposed of in this manner. Having endured what at that point seemed a lifetime of Sunday school lessons depicting Peter and Paul singing the doors of prisons open, those illustrations paled into oblivion. This was a serious place, and a cold, dank, dark hole where the only access to light and life was controlled by taunting soldiers above, in conditions not much better than one’s own. Gazing at the bricks, feeling the cold in the midst of what I knew was a hot Summer’s day a couple of centuries above me, in the silence found only in subterranean places or perhaps deep space – I think I got a sense of how cold, hungry, and utterly alone one could be. I am happy to say that that’s the closest I’ve ever been to incarceration, so far. Perhaps this memory is one reason why.
Then comes the moment that means so much to me. We held hands, in a circle within the cistern, and began to sing an old hymn. My initial 14-year old resistance to the “corny-ness” of the moment began to melt within me as the familiar words began to take on a gripping reality:
“Once I was bound by sin’s galling fetters,
Chained like a slave, I suffered in vain.
Then I received a glorious freedom,
Freedom that rent my fetters in twain.
Glorious Freedom, Wonderful Freedom!
No more in chains of sin I repine
Jesus the glorious Emancipator
Now and Forever, He shall be mine!"
I don’t remember leaving the prison. I really don’t remember anything else from that day. I do know that a lot of things came into clearer focus for me that day – what others had done for me, the power of faith. Increasingly, over the years, gratitude to my parents for providing such an opportunity for me, that enabling such experiences was a pretty important calling. That light can truly pierce the darkness, in all its forms, in the darkest of places. That’s a few of them. I suppose, in a sense, it’s given me a certain confidence that things are never quite that bad, that there’s a spirit available in the worst circumstances, that God will never “leave me or forsake me.” As I said, it’s a feeling I get every once in a while . . .