Vacation '07, Chapter V

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

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

Vacation '07, Chapter IV

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

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

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

Vacation '07, Chapter III

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

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

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

Vacation '07, Chapter II

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

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

Vacation '07, Chapter I

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

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

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

Emma's Eight

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

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

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

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

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

The Fair was Good.

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

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

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

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

We're #1!

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

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

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

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

Mr. Excitement is Gone

I miss Tommy Newsom.

You think the truth hurts. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

A really nice thing happened on the way to the Forum

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

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

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

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

A good thing.

The IEP 2007

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

Sick and Tired of being sick and tired

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

Jury Duty Ramblings

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

Amazing Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I are a Service Tech

Things have changed. I am no longer spending 7 hours a day in a windowless room answering telephones, silencing alarms, and haunting online forums. I have been re-assigned into a division of my department called "Building Systems", as a "low-voltage" specialist. What this means is that I am doing many of the things that I was hired to do, and did, from 1986 to about 1991. In the last two weeks, I have installed content for a character generator (a PC that puts information into our Television distribution system, repaired some Nurse Call equipment, replaced a PA amplifier for overhead paging, and watched 2 contractors work. I am also learning (or re-learning, if you will) about the stuff in Building Systems that, while probably necessary, bore the living snot out of me. Things like taking meter readings (a rotating task that takes the average tech about 2-3 hours to accomplish, there are many meters spread all over the facility), testing the water for the boilers and adding the appropriate chemicals, and learning the intricacies of piping and valving and zzzzzzzz. I have an appreciation for these skills - every large building is a living, breathing, pulsing entity with it's own personality, and every good company has people like Mr. Scott or Geordy LaForge of Star Trek to love/hate/cajole it into peak performance. Scotty I kinna be. I do like troubleshooting, and have enjoyed getting my mind and hands into some simple repairs. The new tools are nice, too.
I refuse to accept, however, that this is where I'm supposed to be. Sorry.
I'm having to re-arrange my online existence, though, which is probably a good thing, but a bit consternating. It is nice not to have to get to work, and within 15 minutes feel the pressure when the Operator wants to take a break and leave me with the hospital phones first thing in the morning. Now it's the morning meeting, the meeting after the meeting, stroll down to the shop, open the toolbox, check the email, and start working on the next thing. The old workdays I remember.
I'm going to have to start carrying a notepad though, because I can't just pop up the blogger and riff off a rant. I've had some good (at least I think ) ideas come up only to fade when I try to recall them, later, lately.
I can now go to the bathroom without finding someone to relieve me whilst I relieve myself. The Building Operations Center was all about pressure, to me, and not just on my bladder. Not the kind that excites one into pro-active action or problem resolution. The one where procedures are written, and then interpreted and re-interpreted like The Book Of Revelation to a point where, when something serious occurs, functionaries like myself could have done better. No matter how well we did it. Having to know who's asking, as well as what they want. I don't miss it, but I do miss the time to write.

This place ain't doing me any good
I'm in the wrong town, I should be in Hollywood
Just for a second there I thought I saw something move
Gonna take dancing lessons do the jitterbug rag
Ain't no shortcuts, gonna dress in drag
Only a fool in here would think he's got anything to prove
Lot of water under the bridge, Lot of other stuff too
Don't get up gentlemen, I'm only passing through
People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed
- Bob Dylan, "Things Have Changed"

Perfect

Last weekend was our mostly annual houseboat trip. We've done this now, somewhere between 13 - 19 times, depending on which memory you ask. It's been, with a few early exceptions, Lake Mead, 3 couples, no kids, four days, three nights, good food, no phones, watches off, stay up as late as you want and sleep until after the sun comes up, if you so desire.There have been mishaps. The first year, we rented a small boat. When I say small boat, I mean it was probably only 3-5 tons. These boats are essentially Winnebagos on metal pontoons, usually with 2 60hp motors on the back of them. They are not built for speed or maneuverability, although the grizzled old-timers at the marina make it look otherwise. One of those desert rats, evidently, had a grudge against somebody else, and gave us exactly the opposite sort of information that he should have regarding what sort of cove to anchor into. This resulted in our becoming firmly stuck on a bank. Memories of this event include a nearly-ready-to-deliver member of our crew jumping up and down on the deck, in hopes of dislodging us from the mud. It took another boat, tied to the back of ours, pulling with both of our engines in full reverse, about 45 minutes to foul both props and get us offshore. Lessons learned included the value of the prop insurance (we had it!), as well as what we had and had not signed off on. The "orientation" and sign-off sheet have both grown dramatically over the years, as have the red warning stickers that one sees all over the boat. Each one, we know, represents some sort of disaster or ignorant behavior. Microwave ovens are for food only - yes they are. We have come unstuck, in the dark, and managed to get tied back up with only some scrapes to show for it. We have sloshed, rather scarily, through whitecaps to find shelter from storms. We left Vicky behind, in '99, on an ice run. We went back for her, though, just as soon as we realized it. We've had troubles with the boat, getting on, getting off, getting home. They have all paled in comparison to the fun we've had, though, which is, of course, why we keep going back.This year was, as far as I know, the year where nothing went wrong. The weather was great - hot, but not too hot. The water was 76 degrees off the back of the boat - it actually felt cold, getting in. Nights were cool enough for good sleep. We've all trimmed down what we bring on board, so loading in and out has become half the chore that it used to be. We really don't do much, and have done more in years past. The older we get, the sooner we fall asleep, and - for some of us, it's the rest that makes the major part of it - get up later. Not having to be somewhere, or know exactly where the kid is defines the meaning of "respite". You can even get tired of reading that book and just close your eyes and take a nap, nearly any time of the day. Or fall off the back of the boat and cool off. The stars and the moon are incredible to ponder, in your relaxed state, although statements of a galactic nature may elicit snickers from the rest of us, although it may be hard to pick up due to the snoring. It's been a week now, and the post-trip rocking of the solid earth has finally stopped, and there's caffeinenated coffee again. There's too much to do. The countdown timer to next year's trip has already been reset, and we'll bask in the glow from this trip until it turns into anticipation of the next one. This year, however, will be hard to beat.

Sam and The Cello

I got a surprise last week. I came home from work to find one of those band folders, the
kind I hadn't seen since Jr. High School(before it became 'middle school'). I halted, turned, and saw sheets of paper introducing the conductor and signup sheets for music training. Seems Sam wants to learn to play. . . the cello. The Cello .I do not know what brought him to this decision. It was made without my advice. You see, I played the cello for three years, beginning in fourth grade. I had already had 3-4 years of piano lessons by then. The cello was my introduction to many things - stringed instruments, playing with a group, taking instruction and training from a leader in front of others, teamwork, performance, stage fright, the list goes on and on. I moved to bass in the 7th grade because - let's face it, it's much cooler - and I couldn't play the cello. To play a cello well (that is, among other things, to not sound like a seal being eviscerated without
anesthesia) is a difficult thing to do. It is more physically and sonically demanding than a bass, as I'm sure the viola and violin are. I actually asked to look at Sam's fingers, yesterday afternoon; fortunately he has not inherited my father's spatulate fingers and square palms, as did I. I hope this is in his favor.
Do not misunderstand, I think my strong hands are suited to a larger fingerboard, that's all. Unfortunately, musicianship is an alchemy of physical gifts, experience, and discipline. It is most un-democratic and often cruel. It is this cruelty that I fear the most for Samuel.
It is most interesting, this mix of emotions that I feel. We went to the music store - the school music store, where the guitars are in a small room, the drums are up high on the wall, and bins full of sheet music hold the prime real estate. The older gentleman that rented us the cello was very kind; and the instrument is so much better than the school-issued ones - it made me proud that I could provide such a thing for my son. We took it home, and carefully removed it from the case, and fiddled with it a bit. He didn't seem so interested as I tuned it and played a few notes, then handed it to him. He's still pretty apprehensive about the physics, so far, although he demonstrated an early technique for holding the bow that he's already been taught. I'll leave that stuff to his teacher.
I see so many obstacles for him. He has a lovely singing voice that I've only heard here and there - but I don't know how good his 'ear' is. He's never read music. He has a lot to learn about being part of a team. He's going to have to practice. He is a perfectionist. He may not be strong enough or coordinated enough, initially, to physically wrestle an instrument like this. I desperately want him to rise to these challenges, and find a joy in music as I have. It's brought up a lot of memories of my own frustrations and failures with this instrument, and I just fear that this may kill his desire if it doesn't work.
I realize that 85% of this is "normal" parental worrying, and I can't gauge if my nausea is just compounded by my own experience. I'm going to do my level best to not project any of this toward him - it will be a struggle, as it always is, to try and maintain the appropriate pressure for him to do his best, so that he can find the pleasure in it.
I hope he finds the magic that occurs when an orchestra plays beautiful music, to be in the midst of it, to contribute to something greater than oneself. To translate points on a page into music. The physical sensation of resonating wood, rosin, and string at your core.
It's just something I didn't expect, that's all. At least not The Cello.

Always Broke on Thursdays

I’m always broke on Thursdays. It doesn’t matter when I get money out, or how much it is. When I say broke, I mean that there’s no folding money in my wallet. What it means is that, lunchtime on Thursdays, I have to go to the ATM in the lobby and pay $1.50 for the privilege of taking money out of my account. What is interesting is that I know this, yet I do not take appropriate action to remedy it. Sometimes, when I kiss my wife goodbye in the morning, I’ll beg for what she might have in her purse, but I don’t like to do that – it makes her have to actually have to process information beyond her twilight routine of kissing me goodbye, and it usually means a trip for her to the ATM. I have thought to myself, on Wednesdays, “you should go by the bank on your way home,” only to find myself pulling into the driveway without doing so.
I’m sure that you are wondering why I’m telling you this. There are three reasons that I can think of. First, there are no new episodes of Seinfeld, and some of you may be missing it. Second, this event is prompting me to realize how very habitual I am. I get up, get ready, go to work, work is the same, every day (at least since 2001), eat lunch at the same place, get in my car, and drive straight home 92 days out of 100. I have actually had days off where I get the feeling that I am doing something wrong; truant, as it were. I have become institutionalized. I am like the bear at the zoo, pacing back and forth in a self-stimulating rut that also assures me that I’m not going to be bothered, beyond, of course, those things that invade my routine. I used to think that this was faithfulness; lately, I’m seeing it as fearful. I’ve pulled the lid over the top of the box I’m in.
So, what should I do? Should I just head for Tijuana some afternoon? Nah, it’s like a whole different country down there. I have plenty of things to do. I really need to just get busy and start doing them. I’m hoping that by writing it down, confessional-style, it’ll help prompt me to action. I’ll let you know. And, by the way, this is a rhetorical question. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like the answers most of you would give me, thanks just the same.
Perhaps you don’t have this problem. Perhaps you do, to some extent. Maybe this little exercise might prod you out of a little mire, which would make it worth publishing, which brings us to reason number three.
I felt like I needed to write something. It’s been a few weeks. I suspect I’ll have some more to write about in another week or so.

9/11

Remember.

Beetljz Beetljz Beetljz!

I can’t believe it. Beetlejz is shutting down. To me, it’s like In-n-Out burger closing. I’ll still eat, but it just won’t be the same.
Beetlejz (his online name) has run a bunch of gaming servers, some public, some private, long before I got involved in online gaming, circa 2003. He and Slippyfist have, over the years, been continuously updating and modifying their servers to attract and keep good players. I stumbled onto their Return to Castle Wolfenstein Tram server; I liked it because it played the same map over and over; I could concentrate on learning its layout while I was being shot down, over and over again. In this type of game, teams compete on a timed map to either achieve or defend objectives. There are innumerable ways to modify the game settings to influence how this is done. When a player is killed, he goes into “limbo”, and then “respawns” – returns to the map at predetermined spots. One of the things that set Beetlejz servers apart from most others was that this number of respawns was limited. What this meant was that, if you just ran around killing and be killed, chances are that you’d run out of lives before the round, and your team would not achieve their objective. To play on Beetle, you needed to be part of the team, make a contribution. It’s more fun and satisfying, that way, particularly after you gain some skill.
The virtual world of FPS (first person shooter) gaming has been, although it is now “maturing”, a realm dominated by young men. A lot of servers are available to shoot, kill, hack, and otherwise act like 15 year-olds. Beetlejz welcomed them, and old farts like me, and provided a place for us all to play a better game. They also ran a website. Between voice chat, game chat, and the website, we got to know each other. In short, a community.
This stuff is still new to most of us, and beetle was one of those opportunities to be a member of a different sort of group. I’m part of a few of these now, for different reasons, and it’s changed the nature of my life. There have been arguments, misunderstandings, and they have required different skills to resolve, but it’s all been pretty good.
Online games have life-cycles, there’s a new Wolfenstein game on the horizon. It’s why the servers have been less busy, and why they’re shutting down. I don’t know if I’ll move to the next version or not, we’ll see. I might just do so to keep up with my buds on Beetle, should they decide to fire a server up again. I’m grateful to them for keeping the website going, and I’m sure that some of us will see each other out there on the net. After all, they’re my friends.
So, to Beetle, Slippy, Gramps, PantsofGod (yes, I still really don’t know why she has that name), Talbot, Vortex, sabotage (who lives about 3 miles from me, but we’ve never met), TheScud, BBQDog, Shodan, Baz(I still miss ya, man), leafie, and even Spec7ral and GorgeousGeorge, along with a host of others, thanks for letting old Marvin interrupt your fine games with chat spam, bad puns, and silly haiku while I planted some dyno here and there and harassed you with sniper fire. You helped me through some rough times, and most of you didn’t even know it. I hope I’ve gained some friendships that’ll last, and I’d really like to meet most of you (lol) if I get the chance. From the beaches of Europe to the ice-covered slopes of Norway, V586 (Good Game), and V43 (Thank You). Hope ta see ya on Old Farts (another server), or on the forums. Vaya con Dios.

Anniversary Correction

Evidently my marriage is older than the PC. By two months.
It's a nice article. 16K of RAM. If my memory serves, it was a blazing 4.77 MHz.
Yellow or green screen. Dot-matrix printer. spreadsheet goodness.
Happy 25, PC!

And I just found out that the Internet is 15!
Happy Birthday to you!

Do Not Speak Ill of the Ed

My Mother-in-law, Marian, has certainly seen her share of tragedy. It would be imprudent to detail it all here, and I suspect that there has been more than I’m aware of in her lifetime. Recent events, however, have made this student of irony shake his head in disbelief.
When she married Ed, somewhere around 20 years or so ago, he was a friendly enough guy, but well, standoffish in an indefinable sort of way. Efforts to get to know each other better were awkward, by all parties involved, to the point where we all just sort of gave up after a time. I never disliked Ed. Ed was what would now be called an old-school mainframe computer guy – and when he retired, he wanted nothing to do with computers. About 3 years ago, in a rare moment of generosity, he handed me 2 boxes of blank 5 ¼ floppies. I thanked him for the gift, and actually kept them in a drawer for a few months before disposing of them. I think he was sincere in his own way; I did not tell him that these disks were obsolete and unusable. I think his view of technology stopped with his retirement. His involvement with my family eroded to the point where he was merely present when we were at their house – he came and went as if we weren’t there.
I really can’t say, then what happened to him in the last year or so. I have learned recently that Ed was weirder with his money than I’d previously known. I do not nor really want to know about how two older adults, marrying later in life, deal with such things. He evidently tried to pull some shenanigans with Marian’s estate, effectively taking all of it from her heirs, were she to go before he did. It was the reason for their pending divorce. When she confronted him with it, he continued to try and “make deals” with her. The irony in all of this, from my perspective, was that he 1) had more money than he could have spent in what was left of his frugal lifetime, and 2) he had no family to leave this inheritance to, just his church. I can only surmise that he felt that leaving additional funds to God would somehow add jewelry to his crown in paradise – maybe even a gated community up there.
The resulting rift left Ed to find accommodation in a trailer park in Palm Desert. Marian spoke with him about a week before they found him. He specifically mentioned that he was not going to have a $300 a month air conditioning bill, like his neighbors. Marian says she really didn’t recognize him when asked to identify his body. That he should die, alone, a victim of both his self-imposed loneliness and unwillingness to turn down the thermostat is a pitiful end for anyone.
There were forces driving Ed that I think I can recognize, but can’t fully understand. He served us all in Korea, and I don’t think the experience was a positive one. I think his religious behavior was more compulsion than devotion. I think Ed was compelled to do many things, and therein lies the tragedy for him. Whether or not Marian was able to see and share with the person behind those compulsions, I don’t know. I do know that, by the time I entered his life, he was not able to bridge many of the relational gaps that we all deal with to make life work. Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t make up for it, but it takes two to tango, you know, and Ed didn’t want to dance. When told that we’d had a daughter with Down Syndrome, his message was, “Get over it and move on.” He was right, if not a little too abrupt for my generation. He was always kind, if aloof, with my children, although it’s hard to be aloof with Emma.
Marian had signed the divorce papers, Ed had not, so they were married when he died. Marian chose to take care of his final arrangements, including a ceremony for their square-dance friends. I think that that was mighty nice of her. The ultimate irony is that she, evidently, now gets to determine how his estate is disbursed. I hope it brings her some comfort for the nonsense she had to deal with.
It’s been rumored that some of that legacy may even trickle down to pay for air conditioning at my house. If it’s true, I know that I’ll think of Ed whenever I hear it kick on. Ironies abound.

The World's Fastest Indian

We just saw this movie, last weekend. Typically, I only see the first half of most movies, as we don't settle the house down (i.e. Emma goes to bed) until about 9 p.m.; the combination of inertia and recliner usually do me in. The fact that a movie engages me to the point of missing sleep, then, should suffice as endorsement enough. With this picture, the craftsmanship projects a love for the subject matter in a way that is palpable, and it tells a story that is as interesting as it is worth telling. The accompanying special features really only tell you what you already knew, - that the making of this movie drew everyone concerned into a magical realm of creativity that produces a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
I don't know anyone who does not like Anthony Hopkins. When he says that this is the best work he's ever done, it does not sound like the typical hyperbole that seeps out of press kits. Evidently, one day on the set, Burt Munro (the main character of the movie)'s children were brought to tears by his performance, he had become their father. His performance is that good.
The story is of a man of singular purpose, a dream to run his 1920 home-modified "motorsicle" halfway around the world at the Bonneville Speed Trials in the early 1960's. His naivete' about the rest of the world creates quite a journey for all of us as he pursues that dream through obstacles that would have turned most around, the least of which is his lack of pre-registration for the event and complete lack of any safety gear. That he was allowed to run at all is a miracle that probably could not happen in today's world.
This is not a Disney Movie by anyone's definition. Burt meets a cross-dressing angel in Hollywood, as well as a friendly Widow or two along the way, and he's no Boy Scout. Kids not old enough to get it won't, and those old enough won't suffer any psychic damage from it. Burt's charm is a wonder to witness, and he forges friendships as surely as he casts his own cylinder heads.
We enjoyed this movie immensly. I found it to be entertaining and inspiring. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Go Padres!

I am not a huge sports fan. I found this article today about the Padres, and I think you should read it.
Just warms the cockles of me heart it does, and hope it does the same for you.
Well Done!

Silver Jubilee

Well, we made it. Not that I had my doubts, but things happen. And a lot has happened.
We hit the official 25 year mark for married-dom on Monday. There are any number of things to put this “achievement” in perspective. Celebrating my parents’ 50th anniversary at the same time. Visiting with my 90-year old grandmother, who looked up at a picture of Grandpa Charles and said, “I don’t remember sleeping with that man.” The space program is older than my marriage.
However, this union has been around longer than the Personal Computer, VCR’s, CD’s, MP3’s, IPods, indoor football, and Green Day. It has survived 3 wars, AIDS, several recessions, the War on Inflation, and “Saved by the Bell.” We’ve even stayed together through “Back to the Future III;” what a clunker that was.
We’re not the same people that we were, going into this thing. We’ve changed. What hasn’t changed is our commitment to each other. I’ve learned that every good marriage has a certain air of mystery about it. People say a lot of practical things, but there’s more to this two-candles-into-one-flame thing than meets the eye. Alchemy – turning (in my case) lead into gold. A bit of science, a bit of magic, and some hard work.
We are not proud people, but I am proud of what we do have – a safe, stable home for all four of us. I love to go home. I like to be home. My wife and kids are (more often than not) glad to see me. I am at my best when I am with them. We’re good, together. Increasingly, not a lot of people have this.
I’m glad I got married. I’m glad I’m still married. I can’t imagine life without her. In a world where seemingly everything has changed, it’s one of the few constants in my mind and heart. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

MySpace ends where your nose begins

The internet is often described as a dangerous place, and it certainly can be. Just as we hear very little news about all of the good that our soldiers are doing in Iraq, there is little to be said about the benefits of so much information availability to anyone “connected”. From banking to special-interest groups to online gaming, to finding out which blank CD-RW’s will work with my recorder, it’s all there. Part of living in any society is development of the skill of discernment – veracity seems to be hidden, even in fast-food restaurant ads. Which brings me to today’s topic. How do we teach “netiquette”?
Parents, school districts, and individuals are struggling with naughty, derogatory, nasty, and even inciting information from their children online – another battle between the lines of free speech, bad behavior, and personal safety and security. (Mostly) Teens text-message each other with alarming speed these days; there are even sites where one can post ratings and dating experiences for others to judge; adults too. “Kiss and tell” has taken on yet another dimension.
I carry on online “conversations” on a daily basis with people that I’ve never met physically. These sorts of conversations, for me, began on BBS systems, pre-internet “bulletin boards” quite a while ago , initially inhabited by uber-geeks (and I are one), soon expanding to topics like religion and politics. This is where I learned my first lessons about online behavior. In nearly twenty years of participation and observation, I have not seen anyone’s ideas, philosophy, or salvation change as a result of anything posted in a “religion” thread. I have seen a lot of arguing, name-calling, mis-communication, and hurt feelings resulting from them, but no movement of any significance. As a participant in the communities I frequent, I have learned that it is almost too easy to be taken in an emotional direction by someone that was never intended, and it is so very easy to then fire off a reply filled with righteous indignation. These posts inevitably fester and foster those with an opinion on either side of “the issue” – real, unintended, or not – and can bring wave upon wave of heated debate and division to people whose intent was support and mutual interest. What’s lacking is the social infrastructure. People post things on the internet that they would never say in most social settings. When it’s said, there is no restraint inherent in the receiver being there to react, or anyone else, for that matter. There are none of the cues available to the receiver that we take for granted when we are physically together – tone, inflection, body language. Therefore, the context is limited by the rules of the community, the existing (or lack of) relationship between the parties, as well as the context that the receiver is in when the message is read. As a receiver, all of these things have influenced how I’ve read someone’s message, and what is communicated in my direction has not always been clear. I have learned, often requiring apologies, to moderate myself in how as well as what I will react to. As a “Moderator” – one who has the responsibility for maintaining the rules of one such community, I’ve learned to apply some standards to my online behavior, as well as that of others.
So, what’s my beef? It is precisely that we cannot ask our children to do what we do not do, ourselves. I merely have to point you to any recent political campaign advertising you have witnessed. How about “Entertainment Tonight” or “Extra”, or whatever those shows are called? Any negative snippet of information, innuendo, or inappropriate photo of a public personality is rushed to the screen, put out with little regard to context or propriety, and sensationalized to the point of stupidity. My 9 year old realizes the farcical, condescending nature of a political ad that calls a congressional candidate “dangerous”. He will learn, soon enough, that most of the danger in our government comes from the Executive branch, then the Judicial branch, and Congress last, but that’s a lesson for another time.
There has been a lot of attention focused upon MySpace. I signed up at the invitation of an online friend whose husband is in a band. One of the things that has contributed to MySpace’s success is it’s facilitation of local bands; distributing their music and performance dates, etc. I have also seen a great deal of what I would deem inappropriate content in the arena of personal spaces, but that’s because I’m a middle-aged married man uh, “not seeking”, as it were. It’s another aspect of the community. There are some things to note, here. First, I deem myself mature enough to control my own behavior. Second, I do not access MySpace when my children are around. Third, I would not allow my son to have a MySpace account. Fourth, I monitor his activity (and he is young enough and so far smart enough – through talking with him as well as monitoring his activity) to not want to go to places like this. We had a conversation just last night at dinner regarding a Nickelodeon game site that was interactive to a point that he’d never been before, and it was an opportunity to discuss “netiquette” with him some more. I expect this dialogue to continue, of course.
I suspect that this is not the case in these households where teenagers are posting abusive information about their schoolmates. Different school districts and even individual schools have reacted to this sort of behavior in different ways. It is a formidable and new problem to deal with this sort of private behavior that affects a public community. I agree that it is a problem, however I think that suppressing the medium is not the answer. It is a matter of personal accountability; and therefore a parental responsibility. Children, particularly teenagers, have always found the means to group themselves and ostracize others. When it interferes with the educational process, and even causes damage to another person, it should be dealt with, and parents need to be held liable for minors’ actions in this realm, as well. Some new paradigms for internet speech and behavior by minors as it applies to the educational environment need to be developed, without dissembling their First Amendment rights to criticize ideas or even institutions. That is a critical part of our educational process that needs to be held a little dearer, as far as I’m concerned.
What’s the answer to the larger, societal problem, then? I don’t know. I vote with my remote control and with posts like this. Like those religion threads, I don’t necessarily think I’m changing anyone’s mind, I’m interested in keeping the dialogue alive in your head, as we all make decisions about what we view and popularize. Many of these lines regarding freedom and responsibility are being re-drawn, and we need to be talking more about how. For many of us, it’s a matter of what we type, to whom, and about what. I hope I’ve given you pause to think about it.

Sam's da Man

I'm really proud of my Son, Samuel. He puts up with a lot, always has, and his understanding of the world is growing along with a really compassionate personality. I recently moved a better computer into his room, mostly for the selfish reason that it helps to keep him off of mine. Saturday, he tried to install a LEGO PC game. The video card in his computer just won't quite do it. There's another game that only runs certain parts and not others, the vid card is the culprit there, too. We were talking about it, and I remarked that it was just that some of the requirements for the games were outside the card's operating parameters. He nodded, and we continued talking for a couple more minutes. He's 9. He walked away, and I had to take a moment and realize how much he knows, already. It's often hard for me to remember and treat him like the kid he is. As his Dad, I instinctively put pressure on him about the way he does things, because I want him to, of course, do better than I do. I am also keenly aware that he seems to be a more easygoing kid than I was, and I'm glad for that. I really want him to be comfortable with his intellect, yet challenge him enough to enable him to excel where he wants to.
He just got third place in the Spelling Bee at school. I was happy that he had a good time, as well as doing well. His growing appetite for Science is really cool to watch; he's becoming authoritative on a few subjects - I hope he can maintain it through Calculus and Chemistry, he's gonna need those Miller genes to pull through.
Speaking of genes, I am really proud of how he helps out with his sister. He really does, including letting her just jump in and on him and wrestle with him without overwhelming her. She can't say his name yet, but he's attentive, just the same. I can tell, from the other room, by the tone of his voice, when he's trying to help her - there's an honest earnestness that puts a lump in my throat. Yes, I can tell when he's annoyed, too.
He's a pretty good guy. I like him a lot.

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.