ARCHIVES – 2010
Thoughts, musings, rambles, nonsense . . .
Christmas Day, Saturday, December 25, 2010
Last night at the Christmas Eve service at church, the student choir sang a beautiful piece called “A Star,” with the line: “a star of heavenly design, revealing hope to mankind.” Afterward, they came down out of the choir loft and dispersed into the pews. Later when it was time to walk down to the front of the church for communion, I noticed that the students weren’t clumped together as they usually are. On this night, they walked down with their families – sons and daughters united with mothers and fathers.
I saw in that moment a vision of heaven, where loved ones are reunited at the table of the Lord. That, my friends, is the hope of Christmas, the reason for the season.
Merry Christmas to all!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Remember the Orville Redenbacher Popcorn commercial where he bragged that his special corn would pop the top right off the popper? I had that happen yesterday, but with the document shredder. I was sorting through old papers and I kept feeding the machine until the top was lifted off the bucket by the growing pile of shreds under it.
Among the documents I shredded was a snapshot of my life from 27 years ago: a new account deposit slip and temporary checkbook from RepublicBank Dallas, dated June 3, 1983. The one-page transaction log began with my first paycheck from the Dallas Chamber of Commerce for $448.61. That was followed by checks written to LDS Inc. (a defunct long distance phone service), Lone Star Gas, Eckerds, Conoco, Phillips, Visa, MasterCard and Dillards. There was also a check to the Waco Police Department for $7.50. (I must have left town with an outstanding parking ticket.)
At 24 years old and just married, I already owed money to a “who’s who” of creditors. All of those checks drew the account down to $17.91 in one week, but I was saved from financial disaster by the generosity of family and friends. On June 10, I had a deposit of $879 with the notation of “Wedding.”
Incidentally, I kept that checking account for 27 years while my bank changed names four times – from RepublicBank to First Republic, NCNB, Nations Bank and Bank of America. It was a good run but I had to shut it down earlier this year when identity thieves went on a thousand-dollar spree. That was reason enough to shred temporary checks from RepublicBank, even if it no longer exists.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
I’m having difficulty decorating the house for Christmas this year. Not physical difficulty; the decorations that used to be in boxes way up high in the garage are now in a closet not five feet away from where I’m sitting. Not logistical difficulty; I have plenty of time to decorate. Not spiritual difficulty; my heart is full of Christmas, I’m swimming happily in Advent at church, and I’ve filled the air around me with Christmas music. Not emotional difficulty either; I’ve been single for two Christmases already and I decorated for both of them and that was fine.
No, this year it’s more like “transitional” difficulty. I don’t want to fill up my rooms with the Christmases of my past because I’m eager for the Christmases of my future and the new decorations and traditions they will bring. I may yet put the wreath on the door and hang some lights on the camellia bush just to put on a good face for the neighborhood, but that will probably be all.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
I got a letter from my medical insurance provider telling me that the new health care legislation has prompted changes that will make my policy “even more valuable.” Among the valuable changes is that the lifetime limit will be replaced with a “restricted annual limit.” I think that means that if I have a serious illness, I’d do well to make sure it straddles two calendar years. There’s something about a change in “wellness coverage” that is incomprehensible as written. There’s also an “updated appeals process,” which seems to imply that that I will be fighting with them at some point. And my favorite: “Dependent, adult children may remain on your coverage up to age 26.” I don’t have children, dependent or otherwise.
I get all these valuable changes for an additional $80 per month. Keep in mind that these are not changes I can opt out of; I’m forced to pay for them all, including sharing the coverage costs for 26-year-old children everywhere.
Republicans in the House of Representatives say they’re going to repeal or change the health care legislation when they take charge in January, but I doubt my insurer will repeal or change their January 1 premium hike. Maybe I should try out the new appeals process that I'm paying for.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
I went to Dollar Tree to get some discount soap and other necessities and I noticed that White Rain has a product called “For Men: Three in One,” and on the label it explains: “Shampoo, Conditioner, Body Wash.” Apparently somewhere there are men who really don’t care what they slather onto their bodies. Soap is soap and clean is clean, right? Might as well put “Toothpaste, Mouthwash” on the label and call it “Five in One.” Better yet, make it “Six in One” if the blue goop in the bottle will also clean and sanitize the shower. I might actually buy some of that.
Monday, November 29, 2010
As I sit here at my computer watching the sun sink below the back fence, a neighbor somewhere nearby is using a blower to move leaves into piles, presumably so he or she can bag them up and send them to the landfill. I say “presumably” because I’ve seen some people blow their leaves into the street, and that’s just all kinds of wrong.
Anyway, the high-pitched whine of the blower is piercing – even here inside my house – and that has me asking: Is this really the best way to do this? Whatever happened to quietly using a rake to manually pull the leaves into piles? It’s a much better physical workout, the repetitive motion and the quiet crunching of the leaves can prompt some beneficial deep thinking, and it doesn’t cause a man several doors down to contemplate homicide.
Admittedly, I don’t use a rake myself, but I don't use a blower either. With three giant pecan trees on a large corner lot, I get too many leaves to bag up. My solution is to just mow the yard as usual and grind the leaves back into the ground. It doesn’t make any more noise than a regular mowing, and I get a good workout. What's more, it doesn’t blow leaves into the street to clog the storm sewers, and it doesn’t leave stacks of bagged leaves to clog the landfill. If I do bag any leaves, it's at the request of my friend Bob. He takes the bags home and spreads the leaves across his back yard in the dead of winter so his large dogs won't tear up the turf. That's recycling at its best.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
This afternoon I went downtown to Inge’s Barbershop to let Lydia clean me up for the holidays. It was 75 degrees outside so I pulled a short sleeve shirt off a hanger and pretended it was summer. Meanwhile, it’s minus 10 degrees in Great Falls, Montana at 3:00 in the afternoon. I mention that because I was born in Great Falls on a cold January night.
I’m thankful for many things this year, but today I’m thankful that six months after I was born my dad left the Air Force and brought his young family back home to Texas. While the Air Force might not have kept us in Montana, there’s no telling where we might have ended up. And if we’d stayed in Montana, we might have settled in and learned how to survive the winter in order to enjoy the gorgeous springs, summers and falls there. That would have changed everything about who I am and what I know.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Yesterday afternoon I had two men on the roof looking for the source of a leak that allows water to dribble through some woodwork inside whenever it rains hard. The dribble is too far away from the windows and too high on the ceiling to be caused by an issue with the gutters or the outside wall. They looked over a large area of the roof but couldn’t find anything definitive. Uphill from the leak they carefully raised the edges of some shingles and pulled out some nails to look for rust but found none. Twenty feet up the roof, the flashing around the chimney was curling up a little and they reasoned that in the case of strong rain and high wind, water could blow up under the flashing and then travel down the felt under the shingles until finally finding a gap and dribbling out. So they nailed down the flashing and caulked around the edges. Now we wait for the next good rainstorm and see what happens.
And that’s the way things go. Problems can begin one place and remain hidden until they show up in another. The source can be hard to find unless you peel things back and look around. Even then, you may have to take action based on nothing more than faith and prior experience and then wait and see what happens. Meanwhile, two things are certain: These things don’t fix themselves, and the damage gets worse over time.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hmm . . . I let a week go by without posting anything. That’s not because I didn’t have anything “on my mind.” There’s actually been plenty, but other writing and chores diverted me. So, here are a few random thoughts from the past few days:
Thursday was Veterans Day, and on Saturday I went to a family reunion during which the patriarch shared some of his experiences in the Navy during World War II. He said all personnel being shipped to the Pacific theater traveled through Pearl Harbor. The brass wanted everyone to see what had happened there on December 7, 1941, so they’d know without a doubt what they were fighting for.
I feel sorry for Wade Phillips, who last week was fired as head coach of the Dallas Cowboys and then had to watch with the rest of us on Sunday as the 1-7 team finally won again. Did his removal prompt real coaching changes that gave the Cowboys the tools they needed to get their second win of the season? Or had the players – the men who actually compete on the field – finally become embarrassed enough to pull themselves together and win, regardless of who was standing on the sidelines. We'll never know the answer for sure, and for that reason I think Phillips should have been allowed to finish the season.
I’ve been selected to be a Community Voices contributor to The Dallas Morning News for the next 12 months. On Sunday my first comments appeared – just 60 words in answer to a question about what our community needs. There will be more in the coming months, including longer columns. It’s a volunteer gig, so as they say at the rodeo when a cowboy gets bucked off before the buzzer sounds, “give the man a hand because that’s all he’s gonna get.” Although in this case you can give a “boo” and “hiss” if you wish. Incidentally, I interviewed for a paying job at the News back in 1983 but they didn’t need me and my career took me elsewhere. However, I did have a paper route back in the ‘70s so I can’t say I never had a paying job with the News.
Remnants of my career spilled out all over the floor last week as I emptied two file cabinets and set out to get rid of the junk, organize the important stuff, and give an empty file cabinet to a friend. I accomplished most of that, although I still have some piles to sort through. The urge to hang on to the past is strong.
But, there was an unexpected benefit to the process: The act of sitting on the floor, leafing through clips and work samples, and saying "that was then and this is now” provided inspiration for the continuation of “Aransas Morning” that is posted on this Web site. Watch for a new piece of it in early December.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
When a neighbor sent an urgent e-mail seeking Scout supplies, I found myself digging into a box of stuff that my mother had saved, and there among the badges and scarves was a copy of my first official reporting and writing assignment: A journal recounting the eight-day adventure of Golden Acorn Troop 11B, 1974.
Golden Acorn was a week-long leadership training camp that the Circle 10 Council held for scouts each summer at Camp Cherokee near Athens, Tex. I went as a candidate in 1973, and the next summer I was asked to serve on the staff. When positions were announced, I was embarrassed to learn that I would be the "camp scribe." I took it as them saying I didn’t have the skills or the charisma required to be a patrol counselor and lead a group of seven younger scouts through the week’s training activities. So I decided to put everything I could into being a scribe and produce a keepsake daily journal for everyone at the camp. There was no such document the previous year when I attended.
This is interesting to me now because at the time I had no thoughts about journalism. I’d always done well in English and writing classes, but in the years that followed I didn’t work on the high school newspaper or yearbook. I didn’t even declare journalism as a major in college until I had exhausted two years of general requirements and electives. And I did that only after subjecting myself to aptitude and interest tests that pointed me toward journalism.
As it happens, my journal from Golden Acorn Camp 11B provides early proof that I chose the right career. Not to brag too much, but the document is very detailed with reports on every ceremony and instructional session, the timeliness and quality of every meal, the daily weather (rain was a big factor), inspections and morale.
There are even early hints of sarcasm – “Patrol site sanitation became a problem again and so the counselors were forced to stay up with the children till they cleaned up their mess”; editorializing – “Inspections showed that the patrols had a long way to go before earning the Golden Acorn”; and bawdy humor – “When we got back to camp, the men had prepared a meal consisting of chili, salad, hors d’oeuvres and topless waitresses” (the men were shirtless).
All of this to say that who we have become often can be traced back to events and inspirations that seemed random or inconsequential at the time.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
After two days of steady rain, a new weather system blew into North Texas last night, bringing morning sunshine and a sharp, chilly wind. I hit the lake trail early to ponder the past and fuss over the future, when I found myself in a head-on collision with the glory and fury of life. Coming around a bend and from the shade into the sunlight, I was stopped dead still by a wall of wind. The heat on my back was forgotten as I fought the sting of cold air on my face. The calm of a Mozart concerto was rattled by the cyclone funneling into my ears. Deep blue breakers disintegrated into spray, cat tails leaned across the path, and a pair of coots bobbed in the waves as if anchored to the mud deep below.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Today I exercised my right to vote in a very literal way: I walked the three-mile round-trip to the poll and back. Interesting what you can see from that vantage point: Well-maintained streets and car-crippling potholes. Beautifully landscaped lawns and ugly weed patches. Single-family homes, duplexes and apartments. Nice cars and dented hulks. Banners for Cowboys, Redskins, Longhorns and Sooners. Stray dogs and prissy window barkers. Young mothers with strollers and seniors with walkers. All of that and more in one voting precinct.
We do not live in a homogenous, lockstep, one-size-fits-all society. The diversity in my precinct is just a taste of what is true in my city, county, state and nation. Our problems and needs are diverse, and so are our hopes and dreams. That means our elected leaders must be attentive, resourceful, cooperative and innovative. They need to shout less at each other and listen more to us. They need to know when we need their help, and know when we want to be left alone. The candidates that filled our mailboxes with flyers now need to walk our neighborhoods and see life from our perspective.
Above all else, they need to be honest with us and with each other. They don’t need to tell us they’re going to do something if they know they can’t. We're smarter than they realize, and more understanding than they can imagine. We know that not everything can be fixed.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Texas Rangers are in the World Series for the first time ever, and I’ve jumped on the bandwagon along with tens of thousands of others. I’m not claiming to have been a fan “since the first day they came to town” or anything like that. Certainly I’ve followed their struggles in the newspaper and I've been aware of their stars, their managers and their ill-fated trades, but I've never been a serious, die-hard fan.
The biggest reason for that is I grew up in a football family and that’s always been my focus. Another factor is that while I played little league baseball, I wasn’t very good and so it didn't become an aspiration. And then on top of that, the length of the season and the pace of the games just doesn't suit my attention span.
As best I can recall I’ve been to just five Rangers games, and I remember the circumstances more than the games. Like the time in the spring of 1978 when a bunch of us living in Kokernot Hall at Baylor put down our books and made a spur-of-the-moment dash to Arlington. The attraction wasn’t the Texas Rangers so much as it was the Detroit Tigers’ Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, an eccentric pitcher known for talking to the baseball. I don't recall who won that night, but I remember the camaraderie of the road trip.
And that is probably the best way to explain why I've jumped on the bandwagon. Admittedly, there’s plenty to love about these Rangers – the stories of redemption, patience and courage. But more than that it’s about being part of something bigger than ourselves, something that brings us together as a community, that has people honking their horns in excitement rather than anger and high-fiving each other in the line at the grocery store. I was in a room with dozens of strangers Friday night to witness Neftali Feliz strike out Alex Rodriguez and send the Rangers to the Series. The room exploded and I exploded with it. It was electric. It was infectious. It was historic.
Who doesn't want to be a part of something like that?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
On Saturday I went to the annual Wallace family reunion in deep East Texas. It was the first reunion without Uncle Kenny Wallace, who had been the last living member of the 10-sibling Wallace clan. Kenny passed away in August at 94, and while we missed him greatly the room was full of nieces, nephews and cousins making it clear that the family is still strong.
Laid out on a table at the reunion were hand-drawn family trees for Kenny and his brothers and sisters – each one branching out into new generations of Wallaces and folks with other surnames. I’m only one-quarter Wallace, but my name is on the tree that springs from Kenny’s sister Anna Belle, so that means I belong. But I’ve never needed a piece of paper to tell me that; the Wallaces have always made everyone feel like they belong.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I’ve been to four college football games in three stadiums this fall, and it's time to rise up and rant about the pro-style audio-video displays that someone somewhere has decided is “entertainment.” It’s not the instant replays that I object to, or the player introductions or the listing of stats. This is all good use of the technology (although we did fine without it). Rather, it’s the generic spirit stuff, the TV commercials, and the brain-banging noise that I don't like.
Here’s the deal: Most colleges and universities have cheerleaders, pep squads, bands and other on-field spirit groups. They try out, practice hard, suit up, and come to the game ready to perform. But why should they if they're going to have to compete with the noisy garbage blaring from the giant video screens. In the worst case I witnessed, the home team band was playing a fight song when they were drowned out by generic spirit nonsense on the big screen. That means that someone sitting in the press box representing the home team pushed a button and overwhelmed their own band. I was there for the visiting team, and even I was offended by this act of disrespect.
Come on, people, this is college sports. It’s about college kids. Let the kids do their thing. Let them provide the entertainment. No, let them BE the entertainment.
If I want all this generic, hyped-up noise, I’ll go to a pro game. They have plenty of it, although it wasn’t always so. I went to the Tom Landry exhibit at the State Fair of Texas and was reminded by photos that the only entertainment available at the ballgames in the ‘60s and ‘70s – and the only entertainment the fans wanted – was the action on the field.
I’ve not been to a game at Cowboys Stadium, and based on the $50 parking pass my neighbor was selling last week, I can’t even afford to sit in the parking lot. But that’s okay because I have no interest in being blasted by the giant video screen. All I want to see and hear is the action on the field, and the best seat for that is in my own den – where I can still hear myself shout at the refs.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I was sitting in the dining room this morning, sipping coffee and typing some e-mails on my iPhone because it’s warmer in that room, when I found myself with three visitors.
First was a woman who I thought was hanging advertising on the door. But when I waved at her, she waved back and just stood there so I went out to see what she wanted. It turns out she was a friend of Debra’s who lives in the next neighborhood. She said she’s getting ready to paint her house and she’s always liked our paint scheme – tan for the woodwork and dark green for the windows and wrought iron. She had a handful of paint samples and wanted to see if she could match the colors. I told her the front hadn’t been painted in years and was faded from the sun. I led her around to the side, which was painted just a year ago and is still bright. "Oh yes, that's much better," she said.
Not 10 minutes later, I watched two men in coats and ties with notebooks come up the walk. I knew before I opened the door that they were Jehovah’s Witnesses and not salesmen pitching electric service or political candidates. I spoke to them on the porch and then invited them in for a moment. They complimented the décor and then one began to talk about “the real, living God.” Before he got too far I let him know that I was a lifelong Baptist. He asked if I was married, and I told him I had been for 25 years and she was a lifelong Catholic. The other man said “you made it work?” and I said, “yes, because we worshiped the same ‘real, living God’ and not the church.” They thanked me for letting them in and allowing them to provide "mutual support" or something like that.
So, dots to connect and questions to ask: What do people see when they see me coming? Do I present anything worth copying? Have my colors faded, or is my faith still bright? And what is my focus: God, the church, both?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Friday night I returned to my high school (J.J. Pearce in Richardson) to see a football game for the first time in 34 years. It was an exciting game – we beat McKinney North in a score-fest of 52 to 49 – but I really went to see and hear the Mighty Mustang Marching Band, because that’s where I spent my high school Friday nights. Much has changed, but much is the same.
Starting with appearances, the band looked sharp but their uniforms are of a different style and they look more comfortable than the heavy wool uniforms we wore that were always too hot or too drafty. In our day the seniors had first dibs on fittings and the pants and coats got tighter or baggier the younger you were. From what I could see, everyone has a good fit nowadays.
Musically, Pearce has a different fight song (although they played a piece of the old one while marching onto the field), but the school song is the same. I never learned the words because I was always playing it, so I just listened this time and found myself remembering the low woodwind line.
The halftime show was great, and it looks like they’re marching more kids than we did. We always kept it below 100 while some of our rivals marched twice that many, which meant we had extra kids (underclassmen of course) to help move ladders and percussion equipment and all of that. I noticed they have a lot of parent boosters doing that grunt work now.
In my day we always played “Killing Me Softy” during the fourth quarter. It was a popular song at the time and we had a great arrangement, but it also fit because our team was usually getting killed by the fourth quarter if not earlier. The Mustangs were fighting hard Friday night so there was no need for musical sarcasm.
However, the band still plays “The Horse,” and that brought back lots of great memories. It’s a jazzy, up-tempo song that begs the band to move and jive with the music, and they did. Which highlights something that hasn’t changed: On any Friday night, win or lose, the band is always having the most fun.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Last night I sat down at the computer and typed out my will. Not one of those grim “. . . being of sound mind and body . . .” documents that lawyers in the movies read aloud to wooden family members sitting stiffly in hard wooden chairs. Rather, a brief, bulleted outline of how I want my possessions shared among my loved ones – hopefully later and not sooner.
I found the task satisfying; I like the idea of planning ahead and showering the people I love with my stuff, as well as giving substantial portions to people in need. But, there’s also a feeling of sadness knowing I won’t be around for the high-fives and thank-yous. (That’s a good justification for sharing things while I’m still around.)
Before I went to bed I printed the page and left it on my desk. I did that so I could review it first thing this morning, but as I left the room it felt like I was leaving it out . . . just in case. Thankfully, the only person to find it this morning was me. I’ve sent a copy to the lawyer and that’s that – for now.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Old Testament reading in the church’s liturgical calendar today is from the third chapter of Job: “May the day of my birth perish, and the night it was said, 'A boy is born!' . . . . Why did I not perish at birth, and die as I came from the womb?” Needless to say, Job was having a very bad day.
I’ve never felt that way, not even in the worst of times. I’ve cried “why me?!” and “why this?!” and “what the ___?!” but I’ve never cursed my own birth. Even when things were at their lowest, I’ve been able to look back at earlier days and recall moments so splendid and wonderful that I could say, “thank God I was here at least for that.” And if I’ve been patient and trusting – or even if I’ve been impatient and bitter – better times have always come around again.
A couple of years ago when I was hurting, a wise man leaned over to me and said, “Easter always comes just in time.” While it happened to be the Easter season, I know he wasn’t talking about our eternal salvation through Christ. He was talking about salvation from the trials of this life; he was talking about brighter days on this side of heaven. And he was so right: Easter does come just in time. It comes in wonderfully unexpected ways, and often in the form of wonderfully special people.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Yesterday I heard an old song on the radio and downloaded it for 99 cents, but when I played it back I was totally unsatisfied. The song is “It’s Too Late To Turn Back Now” by Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose. Okay, I know this is hardly a cutting-edge song, but I was trying to buy a memory.
It was the summer of 1972 and my older brother was off on a two-week trip to Philmont Scout Ranch. I was usually a tag-along little brother in those days, but I was too young to go to Philmont, so I stayed home and made my own fun. That included twisting the knob on the radio.
My brother liked country music – and I did too because he controlled the radio – but with him gone I started listening to more pop music and as the days went by and the Top 40 repeated itself, I heard tunes that I liked. We had a cassette recorder and I put the microphone next to the radio and hit the record button whenever I heard something I liked. My technique was poor and I always missed the first notes of a song before I hit the button. Sometimes I’d just record several songs in a row and then edit the cassette later by recording over a song I didn’t want to keep. That left fragments of discarded songs between the songs I wanted.
The result was pretty bad, but still it was my first compilation tape and a “soundtrack” for that summer. To this day I remember many of the songs that were on that tape: “Hold Your Head Up” by Argent, “Black and White” by Three Dog Night, “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” by The Hollies, “Guitar Man” by Bread, “Brandy” by Looking Glass. Nothing outrageous or controversial, but definitely different from the country twang I’d been listening to. More important, it marked the beginning of me stepping out on my own and developing a diverse taste in music.
I have many of those songs on CDs and I could download more and reconstruct that tape, but it wouldn’t be the same. Like I said, when I listened to “It’s Too Late” on my iPod, I hardly recognized it. It was too clean, too perfect. I was accustomed to hearing it in mono on a cassette recorder.
Next time I’m at my parents’ house I’m going to ask if they have any old cassettes stashed away in a box somewhere.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I’ve become lazy and complacent as the summer heat drags on into mid-September. I’ve quit watering, which has allowed some of the scorched flowers to wither and fade. No great loss since it soon will be time to put in fall flowers. Still, the beds look raggedy and tired. Meanwhile, a few recent showers – including 8 inches dumped in one day last week by Tropical Storm Hermine – have perked up parts of the yard and especially the Bermuda. A walk in the backyard this morning revealed that some of the grass is shin high and will be a chore to mow. Out front the grass and weeds are lapping over the sidewalk, and that’s going to tax my cheap edger and my patience too. And that’s the problem with laziness and complacency: Things get out of hand and work gets harder.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
I recently visited the Oklahoma City National Memorial. It was my second visit to the memorial, and my first visit to the adjacent museum. I found the memorial as beautiful and thoughtful as it was when I first saw it eight years ago. On the other hand, the museum is overwhelming and devastating. But, it should be visited at least once as a reminder of what happened and what can happen.
I say that because while the proposed mosque and community center near Ground Zero in New York City has raised debate about the teachings of Islam, the memorial and museum in Oklahoma City is a reminder that even blond-haired, blue-eyed Americans are capable of unspeakable evil.
Incidentally, after visiting the memorial the first time, I wrote about it but never shared it. Those thoughts can be found among my Essays, titled "Memorials: Painful, but necessary."
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I’ve got a bone to pick with George Gershwin. Yes, that George Gershwin. Why did he give us just two minutes of heaven buried in the 17-minute brilliance of “Rhapsody in Blue”?
Sunday afternoon we went downtown to hear the Dallas Symphony perform a program of “Gershwin Favorites” with Marvin Hamlisch, the DSO’s new pops conductor. The concert was wonderful, and of course “Rhapsody” is a wonderful piece of music, starting off with the famed swooping clarinet that says from the start that this is a jazz piece for orchestra. Like everyone, I listened and marveled at the play between the orchestra and guest pianist Kevin Cole, and then at 11 minutes and 25 seconds my breath was taken away. That’s the point where the piano solo trails off and the orchestra slides into that most dreamy and sumptuous of American melodies.
It caught me off guard – perhaps because I’ve not heard the piece in a long time – and it didn’t take but a moment for me to get a big lump in my throat and then tears in my eyes. Such is the power of great music. I wanted more, but then just as quickly as it came the melody trailed off and the piano and orchestra returned to the more jazzy themes that make up the bulk of the piece.
We were sitting on the front row of the balcony – the “Grand Tier” as they call it at the Meyerson – and if I’d been standing I might have swooned and gone over the railing like the guy did earlier this year at The Ballpark in Arlington. Unlike him, I might have died, and that would have been okay because I’ve always hoped that when we die we hear wonderful music. If God takes requests, then I’d like to hear those two minutes of Gershwin.
But why just two minutes? Why not a whole grand piece written around that gorgeous melody? Hamlisch said that Gershwin wrote “Rhapsody in Blue” in three weeks to keep a commitment he’d forgotten until his brother Ira read about it in the newspaper. Wild, huh? One of the greatest pieces of American music almost never happened.
So, do we applaud Gershwin for beauty and brilliance despite his procrastination, or do we chide him for not getting an early start and giving us a bigger piece of heaven? That’ll be on my list of questions when I get there.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
We’ve reached that time of the year when nature seems kind of stuck. Summer won’t leave, and fall is dragging its heels. No matter how much I water, the grass is a pale green and has stopped growing, and the red caladiums have faded to pink. A couple of dozen wasps have been clinging to my office window for a week now. They’re not building a nest, they’re not coming and going, they’re just sitting there as if waiting for someone or something to give them a cue for what to do next. Maybe they’re waiting for cooler weather to go wherever wasps go in the fall. I’ve avoided the temptation to go out and spray them because they’re not bothering anybody. And besides, I’m sort of waiting for cues myself. Life is good, but there are always questions to be answered and decisions to be made.
But waiting is okay; waiting is good. I could pull up the caladiums and rush to plant something new, but that would just burn up too. I'll wait till cooler weather to plant pansies or whatever. I'm sure the wasps will get up and go at the appropriate time. And God will nudge me in the right directions when he thinks I'm ready. His timing is always better than mine.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Last week we said goodbye to Kenneth Wallace, 94. He was my great uncle on the family tree, but he was my great uncle because of who he was.
My parents were both only children so we didn’t have any regular aunts and uncles, but my grandparents had lots of siblings and Kenny was the youngest. And because he and my great aunt Lucy had no children, they doted on their nephews and nieces and great nephews and nieces. Lucy was the life of the party and made us giggle and laugh till we were sick, while Kenny had a quiet, gentle strength and an ever-present smile that was equally magnetic. Steady, calm, consistent – he may be the most “together” person I’ve ever known.
As I grew up and began to experience life’s twists and turns, Kenny became a role model in two unexpected ways. With no children of my own, I found myself wanting to emulate Kenny and at least be a good uncle. I doubt that I’ve measured up, but it’s a role I’ve always tried to take seriously. And then when Kenny lost his dear Lucy after more than 50 years together, I saw him hold his head high, lean on his faith and family, and keep getting up every day and getting the most out of whatever life had to offer. It wasn’t long before God blessed him with a wonderful new love and companion. In recent years as life has taken me down that same path, it’s Kenny that I’ve wanted to emulate again.
So last week I drove the 230 miles to East Texas for Kenny’s funeral with my brother and his son – my nephew. It was a good trip with lots of good conversation – some of it serious and some of it just silly. And while we were deep in the Piney Woods where cell signals are weak, my nephew got an unexpected call from his brother – my oldest nephew – in Afghanistan. I was pleased when he asked to speak to me and I was handed the phone.
I didn’t say much – just a simple “how ya doin’?” and “I’m thinkin’ ‘boutcha.” That's what Uncle Kenny would say.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Geico has one of the best ad campaigns in years, and my new favorite has a drill sergeant- turned-therapist chewing the head off a client, calling him a "jackwagon" for having no self-respect and letting the color yellow make him feel sad.
"Jackwagon" is a word I wasn't familiar with so I looked it up. One source says it was brought to the military at the beginning of WWII by Northwest loggers who were appalled by the outdated equipment they were given – outdated like the old wagons that once carried huge jacks used to lift felled trees. Over time, "jackwagon" came to mean a person who is out of step, out of touch, incompetent, inept, weak, useless.
The commercial makes me laugh out loud every time I see it, but I'm grateful that military drill sergeants are really that tough. That's what's needed to help young men and women focus and prepare for the dangers and decisions they face in combat zones. There's just no room for jackwagons.
As I write this my oldest nephew is in Afghanistan leading a platoon of Marines. I know for a fact he's no jackwagon, and I pray he has none in his command. There are 50 families praying they get home safely in seven months.
Meanwhile, our military men and women must contend with civilian jackwagons left and right – whether it’s the treasonous jackwagons that don’t give a second thought to publishing classified information about military strategies, or the administrative jackwagons at Arlington National Cemetery who can’t tell a hole in the ground from, well, you know . . .
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
With the temperature pushing up to 104 degrees, it’s so hot that even the squirrels are taking a break from tearing up the flower beds and the yard in search of food. This afternoon I found a tangle of the critters taking an afternoon nap on the cool stone windowsill outside my office window. They must have been youngsters because the three of them were like preschoolers who have been told it’s nap time but they can’t quite settle down. There was always at least one of them getting up and moving around, stepping all over the other two and prompting either playful wrestling or irritated fighting.
I generally dislike squirrels and if I’d had a quick way to capture and remove the three I would have done so even though there are dozens more of them out there. Short of that, I normally would at least rap on the window and send them leaping for safety. But it’s too hot to wage war so I decided to give them the afternoon off.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
This morning at 5:30 I took a long walk at White Rock Lake and watched the sun come up.
I’m rarely up that early, and certainly never outside at that hour, but I was up this morning to mark the two-year anniversary of Debra's departure to the next life. The actual date is July 31 (Saturday), but two years ago it was on a Thursday and for some reason Thursday feels more real to me. Sort of like Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday and wouldn't be right on any other day. Debra left us at 6:50 a.m. on a Thursday, so I wanted to be out of the house early and the lake seemed like a good place to be.
At 5:30 there were already plenty of joggers and cyclists out on the trail, and amazingly many of them were chattering about work – strategies, formulas, maneuvers, coups. It was a stark reminder that life does go on. I don’t know if they noticed the blue-gray clouds turning orange and rose. If not, then they missed the point of being out at that hour.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Mowing the lawn for the first time in 10 days, I went to a shady corner of the back yard and was surprised to find a beautiful pink amaryllis in full bloom. I didn’t plant it (it’s one of numerous plants that were here before our arrival in 1992), and I don’t recall ever seeing it bloom. So I stopped to admire it and then went in the house to get my camera.
Only when zooming in and focusing did I notice the bright green poison ivy wrapped around the amaryllis stalk. And isn’t that the way it always is: beauty and beast, pleasure and pain, agony and ecstasy, sunshine and rain. One always seems to come with the other.
The key is to enjoy the good and not obsess about the bad. I could spray the poison ivy with chemicals but I’d probably kill the amaryllis too. Best to leave things alone and enjoy the pink blooms. Come fall the poison ivy will wither and eventually die, and hopefully the amaryllis will come back in the spring.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Celtic Christian tradition describes thin places where heaven and earth almost touch, where the gap narrows and God’s presence is felt more readily. I visited such a place recently.
My traveling companion and I were enjoying a beautiful morning drive to Taos, New Mexico. We had weaved through Cimarron Canyon with its towering palisade cliffs and clear rushing stream and were climbing up through the pass toward Eagle Nest when we decided that the moment called for some nice music. As she leafed through my CD case I saw her come across Mozart and I said, “that one has the Clarinet Concerto in A Major.” I know it’s one of her favorites, and it’s one of my favorites too. (I believe it is one of the 10 greatest pieces of music ever written.) “Oh yes!” she said, and slid the CD into the player.
We stopped talking as the soft clarinet melody began to fill the car, and then we swayed gently as the full orchestra seemed to push us past the trees and cliffs, in and out of sunlight and shadows, and up to where the highway crests and curls down into the valley of Eagle Nest Lake.
I glanced over and noticed she had tears in her eyes, and she said, “this is one of those thin places they talk about.” I grinned and giggled a little, touched by how the moment had moved her. I too was moved – not just by the combined majesty of the music and the scenery, but by God’s grace in allowing me to share that moment in that thin place with someone so lovely.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Yesterday my parents gave me a framed print titled “Dallas Skyline From Oak Cliff.” Painted in watercolor by Ed Bearden in the 1960s, it depicts a car with fins starting across one of the bridges spanning the Trinity River, with the “skyscrapers” of downtown Dallas reaching up to touch a stormy afternoon sky.
Interestingly, I stare at a similar print by the same artist when I get my hair cut downtown at Enge’s Barber Shop across the street from Lincoln Plaza. That building is not in either print, of course, because it wasn’t built until the mid 1980s. Instead, the tallest buildings in Bearden’s images are Southland Life, Republic National Bank, and Mercantile Bank.
I’m pleased to have the print because it is a relic from the first house I recall living in – at 521 Salem Drive in Richardson. It hung on a brick wall above a sofa in the same room that I wrote about on June 20 – the room where I dropped and shattered two one-gallon glass jugs of milk.
Looking at the Bearden print and thinking about that house makes me think about all the places I’ve lived: A duplex in Great Falls, Montana where I was born. A little wood frame house in Sherman after my parents came home to Texas. The house on Salem and then a new house on Shady Creek where I lived from third grade until I graduated from high school. A dorm room at Baylor for two years and then an apartment for two more. An efficiency apartment for a year after I graduated and then a garage apartment near downtown Waco. And in Dallas: an apartment a block from Turtle Creek, a condo in Bryan Place near downtown, a rent house off East Grand and then another near the Arboretum, and now this house that was built in 1949 and has been my home since late 1992. That’s 13 different residences, 13 different perspectives.
Last night I crossed the Trinity River again, driving from Oak Cliff into downtown Dallas. The skyline doesn’t look anything like the one that Bearden painted, although his three skyscrapers still stand. One is a hotel now, and the other two have been converted to apartments. Tonight someone is calling those towers home.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
We’ve entered the most dangerous season of the year on the trails at White Rock Lake. The Tour de France is under way in Europe, and all the Lance wannabees in Dallas are churning their cranks for all they’re worth.
It’s the same thing you sometimes see on a cool Sunday evening after the Cowboys have played. Kids will go out into the yard or to the park with a football and start running plays. They’re pretending to be their favorite players and seeing if maybe they too have what it takes to be a star.
So it is at White Rock, but it’s more dangerous because the cyclists are racing down trails shared by joggers, walkers, strollers, children, even ducks. Any unexpected or unsignaled move by any of those groups can result in disaster.
As a walker who has cycled, and a cyclist who has walked, I’ve experienced the trail from both perspectives. It’s a great place to be, but only if everyone is paying attention to everyone else. And the cyclists carry the biggest burden of caution because they’re going the fastest.
So, let’s all be careful and get to the finish line safely.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Wilshire Baptist Church has a labyrinth built into the new columbarium garden, and I recently wrote an article for the church’s Tapestry newsletter explaining how the labyrinth is symbolic of our life journey with its many twists and turns (see “Recent Articles”). Then I listed some suggestions on how to experience the labyrinth, including: “Don’t try to look ahead or focus on the center of the labyrinth while walking. Live in the moment and focus on the path just in front of your feet.” The point being that in the labyrinth, as in life, we must trust God and the path He’s put us on.
Hah . . . I made it sound so easy! The truth is it’s very, very difficult. Lately I’ve had a hard time focusing on what’s right in front of me. I want to look ahead and get a glimpse of what the future holds. I want to know that it’s all going to be okay, all going to turn out well, that this path will take me safely where I want to go.
But where I want to go and where God wants to take me may be two different places. Or if the destination is the same, the path to reach it may be more dangerous than what I would choose. God knows that If I knew all the details ahead of time, I might balk. If I’d known years ago all that I know today about life and love, I might have said “no thank you” and just sat down on the path and marked time. I’d have avoided some pain and heartbreak for sure.
I would have missed plenty of joy too. So I’m going to try to follow my own advice and focus on what’s right in front of me today and trust tomorrow and the rest of the journey to God.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Last night after Wilshire Winds rehearsal we were standing around talking and Don came over and said he had marked his one-year anniversary without Sue. And James said it was coming on six years for him without Glenda. And then Don noted that it was almost two years for me without Debra. (This is the worst club I've ever been in.)
There was a time when each of us was counting the hours and the days. Now we’re logging months and years, and it’s enough to make the head spin. While it’s true that time softens the pain, it also widens the gap. That makes time both a blessing and a curse. Time is also an unquantifiable commodity; we don't know how much we have. So blessing or curse depends on what we do with the minutes we hold in our hands.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Once again, worlds collide and I find myself connecting the dots.
Yesterday morning I met Salah Boukadoum, a Dallas entrepreneur whose latest venture, Soap Hope, is striving to end poverty by selling all-natural soap products and investing 100% of the profits in microloans for women entrepreneurs in poverty. It’s the type of endeavor I wrote about on June 4, but Soap Hope is only the beginning. Salah is using Soap Hope to perfect a business model called “Good Returns” where businesses invest in projects that provide continuous empowerment rather than a one-time fix.
Then last night I went to see our friend George Gagliardi in a production of “1776” at the ArtCentre Theatre in Plano. As usual George humbly downplayed his role, but as it turns out his character, Caesar Rodney of Delaware, played a pivotal role in the founding of our nation when he risked his life and got out of his sick bed to vote “yea” for the Declaration of Independence.
We tend to look at the July 4th holiday on a macro level – national independence, patriotism, American pride and all of that. But the single votes cast by congressional delegates like Caesar Rodney in 1776 and the business decisions of people like Salah Boukadoum in 2010 remind us that big, important things happen based on small, individual actions. Every vote counts, and I’m talking about the little “votes” we cast every day in the way we spend our time, energy and money. Those little votes can help provide or deny independence to others.
Sunday, June 20, 2010 – Father’s Day
I have the ultimate “spilt milk” story. It was the early 1960s, I was five or six years old, and in those days the milk man still made house calls with bottles of milk. He’d put them in a wooden box on the front porch and then my parents would carry them into the house.
On a particular Saturday morning, Mom was out running errands and Dad was working in the yard. But before he got busy, he told me, “when the milk man comes, don’t touch the bottles. I’ll bring them in later.”
For whatever reason I didn’t hear that or understand it, or my desire to help was stronger than my desire to obey, because when the milk came, I decided I should carry it into the house. These were not pint, not quart, not half-gallon plastic bottles; they were one-gallon glass jugs.
Somehow I managed to wrestle the two jugs out of the box on the porch, into my arms, and through the front door. I don’t recall exactly what happened next, but just when I got to the middle of the den, the jugs began to wobble and before I could gain control they both hit the hard linoleum floor, bursting and sending a flood of milk to all four corners of the room.
It was a disaster and I knew I couldn’t clean it up on my own so I went out into the yard and, probably with tears in my eyes, I told Dad what happened. I prepared myself for the worst: execution, excommunication, exile, or at least extreme spanking. But that didn’t happen. I just remember being told to go to my room. I seem to recall sliding into the narrow space between the trundle beds and Dad coming in later to talk to me.
And that’s the point: I don’t recall any punishment, but I do recall a feeling of forgiveness and love. The incident was not leaned on, did not become an ongoing lesson, did not become a part of family lore to be retold over and over again to my shame and embarrassment for the rest of my life. None of that. I disobeyed, made a horrible mess, it was cleaned up, and we moved on.
And that's the way it's always been with Dad: Slow to anger, quick to encourage, never judgmental, endlessly patient and always forgiving.
More than the ultimate “spilt milk” story, it’s a story of forgiveness and love that can only come from a father who has modeled his life after his Heavenly Father.
Monday, June 14, 2010
We all will experience loss at some point – parent, spouse, child, friend, sibling, grandparent, pet, job, health. And while from the outside it may look like some losses are more significant than others, the measuring sticks are meaningless when you’re on the inside. When it’s your loss, it hurts badly, and that’s all you know.
Last summer I was on a DART train on a Saturday and I sat behind a man who was clearly stricken. His head was hanging, his shoulders were shaking, and when he turned for a moment to see if anyone was watching him, I could see the tears streaming down his face. When he saw that I’d seen him, he cleared his throat and asked me, “Have you ever lost someone?” I answered, “Yes.” He turned away for a moment and then turned back and said, “My neighbors think I’m crazy, but my cat died and I just don’t know what to do now. She was all I had.”
I said, “I don’t think you're crazy at all. She was your companion, your family, and now you’re lonely and you miss her.” He nodded, and then he asked, “Who did you lose?” I answered, “My wife.”
He immediately began to back-pedal: “I’m so sorry, you must think I’m a fool to be crying over a cat when you’ve lost so much more.” I said, “Oh no, your loss is as big as mine because it’s your loss, and nobody can judge what that means to you.”
I believed that then, and I believe it even more today. I’ve lost a spouse, a sister, grandparents, a high school buddy, favorite pets, and beloved mentors. Each loss has been uniquely significant and life changing. I don’t place one above the other because at the time, each one hurt terribly.
The good news is that each loss has also been a learning experience and an opportunity to grow. Each loss brings us closer to our own humanity and our brotherhood and sisterhood with those around us. The more we lose, the more we understand pain and the more we’re willing to give to others when their time of pain comes.
Each loss leaves a hole in the heart that seemingly can never be filled, but if we’re paying attention and we’re open, we find that God, family and friends are eager to fill that hole with something wonderful: Their love.
Friday, June 11, 2010
I read today that the standards editor at The New York Times has advised reporters not to use the word “tweet” when talking about Twitter. He says they should use other constructions: “a Twitter update,” “a message on Twitter,” etc. He reasons: “Outside of ornithological contexts, ‘tweet’ has not yet achieved the status of standard English. And standard English is what we should use in news articles.”
I agree completely. I still want to reserve “tweet” to describe the sound the Redbirds make outside my office window.
Friday, June 4, 2010
I’ve been away for a couple of weeks, traveling and then coming home and jumping into a backlog of work that I’ve made for myself. But leaving the computer for a while to catch up on some chores around the house led me to think about what I’ve seen recently. And sometimes if you stop and try to connect the dots, you’ll find some interesting patterns.
Two weeks ago I was in Cimarron, New Mexico for my nephew Denver’s high school graduation. He finished first in his class, gave a great speech, and we’re all so proud of him. He’ll be a freshman at Baylor next year and we know he’ll excel in everything he does. Because Denver’s class was small – just 31 kids – we got to know more about each of them. Everyone in his class has a plan for the future; 26 are going to college, two are going to trade schools, two are entering the workforce, and one is joining the Army. All have their sights set on doing something meaningful with their lives.
I got home from that trip at noon on a Monday, shook out my duffle bag and reloaded, because on Tuesday morning I was on a plane to the Dominican Republic. Nine of us from Wilshire Baptist Church went to see firsthand what two great organizations, Esperanza International and Buckner International, are doing to help transform lives with micro-financing of small businesses and developing schools and community centers. I came home moved by the spirit of the people there who are working extremely hard and stretching the little resources they have to build better lives for their families and their communities.
And then on Memorial Day I gathered with friends at Flag Pole Hill to picnic and hear the Dallas Symphony play patriotic tunes topped off with fireworks. It was a night to be thankful for our freedom and prosperity made possible in large part by the sacrifices of others.
We Americans sometimes think we invented the idea of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” After all, it’s hand written in ink in our Declaration of Independence. But if you read the entire sentence before that phrase, you’ll recall that it says: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”
In other words, this is not an American ideal; it’s a universal desire, placed in every human who has ever breathed by our common creator – whether in the hills of Cimarron, the farms of Vasquez, or the streets of Dallas. That being the case, it seems to me that when we see other people struggling to achieve their dreams we should either pitch in and help in a dignified way or at least clear a path and get out of the way so they can succeed on their own. Above all else, we should work to remove the impediments to our neighbors’ desire for prosperity and happiness, and certainly we should never be an impediment ourselves. Not everyone will succeed in the same way, but everyone has the inalienable right to try.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
I just spent an hour out in the morning sun mowing and cleaning up the street. Yes, the street. I have a corner lot, and the pavement at the corner is cracked, which promotes the growth of weeds and grass, which then catches dirt and debris that floats down the street when it rains, which pretty soon creates a pretty good island on the street in front of my house. So several times a year I go out with a mower, shovel and broom and scoop it all up and carry it away. I do it because the City of Dallas never comes to clean up their property. In fact, while I was working today a white pick-up with the words “Dallas Streets” on the side came by. I know it was a supervisor because he just stared at me and drove on by the way supervisors do. They don’t pay me for the work I do for them, but a thumbs up would’ve been nice.
In other news:
My brother R.W. and his family are in the middle of high school graduation fever, which prompted the following post on Facebook:
“Did I tell you it was crazy around here right now? I was getting groceries and in a hurry! I loaded my goods in the pickup bed and jumped in the truck only to find my steering wheel and dash were completely gone! I could feel eyes on me, sure nuff the guy next to me was laughing his tail off.....I was sitting in the backseat of our 4 door truck!”
I responded that it was right up there with the time he and I drove a few miles to check on our horse and then when it was time to go home we found the car’s transmission was messed up – it would only go in reverse. So we backed all the way home – only to find that the parking brake was engaged!
Sunday, May 9, 2010 – Mother's Day
“The Lord knows the way through the wilderness, and all I have to do is follow.
Strength for the day is mine always, and all I need for tomorrow.”
It’s a simple little song, but a powerful statement of faith. My mother sang that song out loud in the face of tragedy years ago, and I’ve heard her singing that song and others ever since. Not actually singing them, but living them. I’ve certainly heard them during the past few years, and they’ve helped me get through the worst of times.
It’s appropriate that Mother’s Day falls on Sunday because motherhood is a sacred calling. It’s true that every female of a certain age and sound health can mother a child, but that’s not the same thing as motherhood. In fact, a woman doesn’t have to physically give birth to be called to motherhood. She has to be willing to give everything else – her mind, heart and soul – in a sacred compact with God to love, nurture and protect one of His own.
Motherhood is a full-time calling, and the best mothers are the ones that place this calling above everything else. My mother has had an amazing career as a teacher, principal, administrator, trainer and mentor, and yet she has never stopped being a great mother. And I’m not just talking about coming home from work and putting on an apron to do motherly chores. I’m talking about always being there emotionally and spiritually for her family. And I’m talking about unselfishly giving and sharing everything she has – including her faith, her songs.
The best mothers never stop being mothers, and that can be a source of friction, especially with sons. At some point a boy trying to be a man believes he no longer needs to be mothered, but a woman called to motherhood cannot stop being a mother. I know I’m guilty of pushing back sometimes, and it’s fruitless to do so. It’s also disrespectful and irreverent. This is her calling, after all.
So, Mom, keep on mothering me – keep on singing your songs – and I’ll keep on listening.
Friday, May 7, 2010
While mowing the yard today I noticed a wasp nest under construction in the corner above the back door. It was still small – just a dozen cells at most – but I knew that if I left it alone it’d become the size of a dinner platter in no time and I’d be trapped in the house for the summer. So, confronting one of my greatest fears (wasps, death, and public speaking are my top three), I got a stick and quickly wacked the nest down, punctuating my strokes with a few expletives just in case they were watching.
Later I found a postcard in the mail from a man saying he wanted to pay me cash for my house. I have two words for him: BUZZ OFF!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Today is Cinco de Mayo, and it's as good a day as any to confess that I was an idiot when it came to studying foreign languages. Not just because I did poorly – and I did very, very poorly – but because I chose to devote all of my academic language requirements in both high school and college to French . . . in Texas . . . which has a 1,200-mile border with Mexico and not France. Perhaps I was an idiot in Geography too.
Friday, April 30, 2010
High winds blew the power out in my neighborhood late last night. With the television and the internet unavailable to entertain me, I sat on the front porch in the dark and watched the moon rise over the trees. That's a show worth watching again.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Some days it feels like someone or something bigger than me is running the show. I like those days.
Yesterday I had lunch in Dallas with a development officer from Baylor University to discuss creating a small journalism scholarship in Debra’s memory. I would do it with funds that were entrusted to Debra by a dear friend. Debra always used the funds for charitable causes and I will do the same.
After lunch I decided to visit Calvary Hill Cemetery where Debra’s friend is buried. As I stood at her gravesite, I suddenly recalled that she was born and raised in Waco. She loved the city so much that she’d often say “everything is Waco,” so I felt good that some of her life’s treasure would be returning to Waco in the form of the scholarship.
And then on a whim I drove up the hill to visit one of Calvary Hill’s most famous residents: hotelier Conrad Hilton. His grave is identifiable by a giant black granite marker that simply says “HILTON.” (I’ve always thought it must have come from a hotel in Hawaii.) But below that is a more modest granite marker with the words “Christmas is Forever” because Hilton was born on December 25, 1887. That’s always intrigued me as a joyous philosophy to live by. Still, there’s a greater philosophy engraved there – a quote from Hilton – that I didn’t notice until yesterday: “Charity is a supreme virtue and the great channel through which the mercy of God is passed on to mankind.”
No pats on the back, please. Like I said, some days . . .
Monday, April 26, 2010
It was open warfare as I hiked at the lake early this morning. A red-winged black bird pursued a shrieking swallow in tight circles through the sky like a Mustang locked on the tail of a Messerschmitt. Ducks and coots raced to the shoreline to claim strategic beachheads for the day's campaign. Mockingbirds dive-bombed squirrels whose reconnaissance for acorns had them encroaching on nests. A fisherman struggled to negotiate the surrender of a large catfish that was hooked on his line but tangled in the reeds. And men and women of all ages fought the battle of the bulge on foot and on bicycle.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
I went to the dentist yesterday morning and had a "substitute" hygienist filling in for the regular person I’ve seen for years. The newcomer poked around in my mouth and with great authority said "did you know that you have this?” and, "how long has that been happening?" and, “that needs some attention." Everything she catalogued was old news to me and I just grunted "yes" to every comment. When the dentist came in she stood over us both and went down the list again as he looked me over. But he made no comment about any of it. Instead, he snapped off his gloves, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "my prescription for you is that you go out and have some fun."
I think that's pretty good advice. There will always be issues that need to be dealt with when the time is right – or just accepted and lived with – and maybe the best thing to do in the interim is to go out and have some fun.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Earlier this week I emailed an invoice for writing a pair of articles about wind turbine construction (a breezy topic) and then I felt a twinge of concern because I don’t have another project to jump into. But when I shared my slight uneasiness with a friend, she reminded me that this is why I left full-time work – to clear time in my day and make room in my head and heart for my own writing.
So today with no deadlines looming, I went out in the yard to try to bring some order to the springtime clutter. As I pulled weeds in the flowerbeds my mind started to wander, and before long the thoughts began to flow. I had to sit down on the porch and make some notes so I wouldn’t forget. I spent the rest of the day at my computer writing.
Nobody paid me for any of that, but some day it may find its way onto a printed page, so in that regard it was a good day "at work."
Thursday, April 8, 2010
My iPhone is infected; it has a virus. No, I didn’t download a bad application or open a corrupt email. I very innocently created an iTunes playlist of songs from the ‘70s and early ‘80s – a soundtrack from my so-called “formative” years.
Actually, the virus isn’t in my iPhone; it’s in my head and heart. I inherited a deep sentimental, nostalgic streak, and for someone like me music from the past can be an addictive, debilitating drug. One song leads to another and the next thing I know I’m stoned on the sights, sounds and feelings from a mythical golden era. Coming down is a real bummer, too, as I lurch from age 18 back to 51. Ouch!
I hit bottom a couple of days ago while listening to, ironically, “Reminiscing.” The song by The Little River Band is about a couple recalling the birth of their romance during the Glenn Miller and Cole Porter days. That’s not my time, of course, but the song hit the radio during my sophomore year in college, and that very definitely was my time. As memories hung thick in the air, I realized that if I spend too much time in the fog of the past I’ll miss what is shaping up to be a bright and wonderful future.
As with most addictions, quitting cold turkey doesn’t usually work. Often a replacement drug is prescribed. So I’m not purging all my old music. Instead, I’m gathering new music to intermingle with it and create a new soundtrack for this time of my life. Today I'm listening to songs like “Bella Luna” by Jason Mraz, “Time” by Shawn McDonald, “Reign of Love” by Coldplay, and even a new song by some old friends – “No More Cloudy Days” by The Eagles.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010 – An Easter Thought
Penance. That was the word in my head last week as I lay on my back for a CT scan of my kidneys and bladder. My annual lab work showed a chemical blip and my doctor recommended the scans.
Everything checked out fine, but while waiting for the test and then the results it did cross my mind that this might be the beginning of my own trials following Debra’s fight with cancer that began three years ago this month and ended 20 months ago. My thoughts of “my turn now” were heightened by the memory of the many times I laid hands on Debra while she was sleeping and prayed – silently but fervently – that God would take away her disease and, if necessary, give it to me. I was tempting God (if that’s even possible) with a top-shelf miracle: Heal Debra, and do so by giving me her ovarian cancer. Imagine the headlines. It was a ridiculous idea, but that’s the nature of love and desperation.
Ridiculous too that I should equate one scan with the dozens of times that Debra was scanned, probed and tested. So if not a penance, then at least I was seeing life and death from her perspective – inside the machine – if only for a moment.
But Easter reminds me that Debra’s perspective has changed, and so should mine. She no longer suffers, she likely has no memory of suffering, and she doesn’t need or want me to suffer in any way to help pay some mysterious account that is due.
I know that in my head, but like many of us my heart is wired with guilt and regret. More than 2000 years after God established a new covenant with the suffering, death and resurrection of his son, we’re still lining up at the temple to buy doves and lambs in the form of self-flagellation, self-deprivation, work-a-holism, addiction to good deeds, and when none of that brings us peace, addictions of other types.
God doesn’t ask for any of that. He asks only that we love him, accept his gifts of redemption and grace, love our neighbors as ourselves, and live well as long as we live.
Toward the end of her life Debra said, “I’ve been so stupid. I should have stopped working and instead concentrated on getting well.” But the reality is – and I told her then – she did both of those things, and she did them wonderfully. She endured every treatment that modern medicine had to offer, and at the same time she kept living her life – forcefully and meaningfully.
So I’m going to strive to follow her example: Live well in His name, help comfort those around me who are suffering, and conduct myself with dignity when my time of suffering comes.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Recently I had the pleasure of escorting my nephew and his girlfriend to Baylor, my alma mater. They’ve been accepted and they’re on the last round of visits before deciding which one of several schools to attend in the fall. We had a great time and for me it was as close as I will get to making the trip with a child of my own – although without the angst of the empty nest in a few months. Still, I wasn’t spared from the buffeting winds of change. Every step and every turn of the head brought back memories, and I easily saw the campus through the eyes of a 20-year-old. But every time I caught my reflection in a glass door or window, it wasn’t me that I saw; it was my father, who brought me on a similar trip years ago.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Notes from the lake:
Walking past Doctor’s Hospital into the park, three healthcare workers in scrubs are sitting beneath a tree, smoking. It must be the worst of all addictions.
Two lovers sitting on a stone wall. She’s leaning against him, gazing out at the water, enjoying the closeness. He has his arms wrapped around her, chin on her shoulder, contemplating his next move.
A man rides by on his bicycle. He’s barely moving faster than me, but his legs are spinning at a zillion miles per hour. The path is level for miles but he’s in an uphill gear. He’ll learn soon enough that sometimes you have to change gears to keep from wearing out.
Across from the lake the Arboretum is swarming with shrieking children. The only thing louder is the city truck emptying the dumpsters.
I suspect that if I didn’t have a stock market app on my iPhone I wouldn’t really care about the stock market. But the button is there just waiting to be touched. The result is too much information about the daily – no, hourly – ups and downs of my personal economy. It’s like taking this long hike at the lake and looking down at my feet the entire time, never seeing the world around me.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
With the thermometer pushing toward 70 and the monthly brush and bulk trash pick-up coming on Monday, I went out in the yard yesterday for the first time in months.
It wasn’t a day to dig deeply into spring because it isn’t springtime yet. Sure, the daffodils are blooming, tulips are showing their green leaves, and clover is beginning to invade the brown grass, but that’s all just a preview. The camellia bush – the queen of winter – is still blooming wildly, and the old pecan trees are a month or more from showing any signs of life. They know that it’s not too late for another freeze.
Instead, yesterday was a day for getting ready for spring. Doing basic clean-up such as restacking stones that had tumbled down from the beds and draining the brackish pecan leaf “tea” from the fountain. Cutting back the brown stems from the lantana, potato bush and salvia, and removing extraneous growth from the bottoms of the crepe myrtles. And resisting the urge to yank out the dried remains of last year’s snapdragons, mums and zinnias. I’ve discovered that many of those will come back if given a chance, and those that do come back tend to be the heartiest and prettiest having survived the punishment of squirrels and winter cold.
So, what about all the cars I saw parked at the nursery yesterday morning? Those people just have spring fever, and spring fever makes a fool of many of us.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
On Saturday I attended a beautiful wedding in Houston – a wonderful celebration for the new couple, their families and friends. It wasn’t until we got to the church that I realized we were just a couple of miles from M.D. Anderson Cancer Center, my last destination in Houston 20 months ago.
I've been to three weddings and three funerals since Debra left us, and the weddings affect me the most. I think it's because of all the joy and promise that are heaped up on the altar in front of the new couple. The words “sickness” and “poorer” and “till death” probably don’t register at all. They didn’t for me.
So my prayer for the newlyweds – for all newlyweds – is that they take those words seriously. Not to cast a shadow of doom on their joy, but as the basis for a solemn promise to hold each other close, make every moment count, and never take anything for granted. Oh, and while you're at it, try to laugh a lot!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Last night I strayed out of my comfort zone and into the kitchen to make a casserole. I do have a small repertoire of meals that I can cook, but nothing that involves a lot of measuring, chopping, mixing and other kitchen labor. Most involve a box, pan, water and spoon.
But, with the gift of a pound of fresh boiled Gulf shrimp, I was inspired to do more than the typical guy thing – plop down in front of the TV with the shrimp and a bowl of red sauce. Instead, I found a recipe in a Wilshire Baptist Church cookbook for a shrimp and rice casserole that seemed do-able. Still, it was a stretch for me because it required buying ingredients that I’ve never bought before as well as chopping vegetables, sautéing some of the ingredients, and careful measuring of everything lest it become something completely different.
It turned out pretty well, but before I pat myself on the back with a big spoon I want to say a couple of things. First, I need to apologize to anyone who called me while I was cooking. In the heat of battle I can get a bit brusque. (Maybe that’s why those TV reality show chefs are always shouting.)
More important, I want to thank all of the wonderful cooks that have kept me fed and happy over the years. I’m not talking about fancy restaurant chefs. I’m talking about the everyday people who have invited me to sit at their table to enjoy a meal that they claim they “just threw together” or “worked up” on the spur of the moment. I know better; I know it’s hard work and a true gift.
So, big hearty thanks to Ann, Terri, Anna Belle, Martha, Debra, Melba, LeAnn, Lisa, Estell, Lucy, Thelma, Sally, Jim, Mark, John . . . among many others.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The slopes of Winfrey Point are brown and bare, save for a scattering of giant white boulders – remnants of the great snowstorm of 2010. Some are five feet tall and from a distance shine in the sunlight like great chips of white marble. On closer inspection they’re marked with dirt and grass, evidence that they were created by pushing and rolling snow across the hillside – probably to form the bases of giant snowmen. Something about them reminds me of seeing Stonehenge on the plains of Wiltshire; perhaps it’s the way they stand out in stark contrast to the bare landscape around them. The megaliths of Stonehenge will likely stand forever, while hour by hour the “Winfrey marbles” get smaller and smaller as they’re absorbed back into the earth and sky. I hope the people who formed them kept records of that historic day. The folks who built Stonehenge didn’t leave squat about when and why they did so.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Yesterday I took a long walk at the lake, trying to get in four miles while it was sunny and warm before the clouds and rain promised for the rest of the week. I parked up by the clubhouse on Winfrey Point and before I started walking I set my iPod on shuffle, creating my own private radio station with 900 of my favorite songs played in random order. And then I set the iSteps pedometer on zero.
As I began to walk I heard “Meet Me in the Deerpark” by Michael Franks and “I Still Believe in You” by The Desert Rose Band. Next was “No More Cloudy Days,” a beautiful song by The Eagles about finding new love: “I believe in second chances, I believe in angels too, I believe in new romances, baby I believe in you.”
And then came the sound of shuffling and coughing and the voice of author Robert Benson. I’d forgotten that Benson’s talks from a few years ago at church are on my iPod. At first I was annoyed because I was in the mood for music and not talk, but before I could shuffle past Benson I had a thought: “listen.”
For the next 33 minutes I walked and listened to Benson explain how the act of receiving the Eucharist is the central prayer of the Christian life, and how we – as the hands and feet of Christ on earth – are invited to be “taken, blessed, broken, and shared.” It’s a wonderful soliloquy from Benson’s book, Living Prayer, and one of his key points is this: While we all love to be taken, blessed and shared, we don’t like the part about being broken. But, we can’t be blessed and shared as God intended until we are broken.
After Benson, my iPod shuffled to “Everything I Own” by Bread. (Yes, I’m a sappy dufus.) The song is often thought to be a romantic love song, but it was written by David Gates as a tribute to his late father. Among the words: “Is there someone you know, you’re loving them so, but taking them all for granted. You may lose them one day, someone takes them away, and they don’t hear the words you long to say.”
As I listened I was struck by the way Benson’s long talk about being broken was book-ended by songs about finding love and losing love. My initial thought was that a more logical order would have been: lost love, brokenness, found love. But, life is rarely so orderly, and on further reflection it seems to make sense. While none of us wants to be broken, and we certainly don’t want to return to brokenness or live in that state very long, reflecting on what we’ve been through can propel us to face the future with new vigor and focus on sharing ourselves with others. And, it can help prevent us from never taking anyone or anything for granted ever again.
Incidentally, when I got back to the car and checked my pedometer, it had stopped at 12 steps. Not enough to log any miles or calories burned. It did show my speed: I’d gone nowhere at a brisk 2.5 miles per hour. But actually, I’d gone much further than I had planned.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Dance of the Seasons
It’s that time of year in North Texas when winter throws its weight around the dance floor, fall doesn’t know when to go home, and springtime flirts at the doorway. Case in point: Tuesday afternoon I went out to the yard in shirtsleeves to pick up the last of the pecans and found the bright green stalks of daffodils poking up through the dry leaves around the base of the tree. Yesterday we had spring-like thunderstorms, and today we’re threatened with ice and snow. The only season not making an appearance this week is summer, but hey, let’s not rush her.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
A touching moment on last night's “Kennedy Center Honors” broadcast: Jazz legend Dave Brubeck watching his four sons perform. Brubeck was completely surprised when they were revealed on stage, and as they played his face lit up with pleasure and joy – like a father hearing a baby speak his name. As they continued Brubeck’s eyes danced to the rhythm of the music – his music – and it was clear that he delighted in his sons’ mastery and love of the strange language of jazz that he had helped create.
It was very different from the fatherly exasperation that I witnessed Brubeck display at a concert performed with his sons at Baylor around 1980. The concert didn’t start on time, and eventually Brubeck walked out on stage alone and explained: "Sorry about the delay. My idiot son locked his bass in the dressing room."
But even then, this father of music and sons had a twinkle in his eye.
Monday, December 28, 2009
On Christmas Eve as I sat in a candlelight service at church I became momentarily overwhelmed by the changes that life has brought. Just two years ago I sat in that same place with Debra. Last year she was gone from us and I spent Christmas with family elsewhere. This year I sat in church with new friends.
It’s enough to take your breath away, and for a moment that’s what it did to me. I wanted to stand up and shout, “God, please, no more changes!”
Had I done that, I would have interrupted the telling of the Christmas story in scripture, carol and homily – a story that hasn’t changed for more than 2000 years, and that has been a common thread woven through every one of the 50 Christmases I’ve experienced.
People come and go, gifts delight and then fade, but the story remains constant.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Last night I went to a production of Dicken's "A Christmas Carol" at the Dallas Theater Center. It's a wonderful presentation of the classic tale with a flawless cast, imaginative set design, musical numbers sparingly used at just the right moments, and heart-pounding special effects. But still, it's the story and words that touched me most.
After being visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past and Things Present, Scrooge is finally confronted by the Ghost of Things Yet to Come. Having already learned so much from the other two spirits about the pain and despair he has brought to others, Scrooge falls to his knees and addresses the Ghost of Things to Come with submission and new-found wisdom (and I paraphrase): "I know the journey you will take me on will be difficult, but if it helps to make me a better man, then I am ready to go with you."
Which raises the question: How often do we run and hide from discomfort and inconvenience and in the process miss opportunities to learn, grow, and ultimately become better citizens of the world?
Hmmmmm....
Copyright © 2010 Jeff Hampton