OK, Christmas is over, so now it’s time to write down your resolutions for 2003. No, it’s not enough to think them up and leave them in your noggin – that allows for “online editing,” forgetfulness, denial, all those strategies we use to avoid any potential for trying to make some improvement in us and our lives.
For many years I would sit down a couple of days before the new year, create a list of really boring statements about my intended goodness in the next twelve months. Statements like
“Get More Sleep,” “Lose Weight,” and “Exercise More” showed up on these early attempts dedicated to failure, and more often than not, the piece of paper disappeared in the frenetic clean up around the house (also on the list but without the adjective frenetic), and rarely turned up again.
Time, which seems endless when one has accumulated little of it on life’s odometer, suddenly becomes as scarce as the proverbial hen’s teeth when your bones begin to tell you that your odometer is beginning to wobble. If you don’t receive that message clearly, you will get it when you hear a colleague who is no longer working regularly (such a nicer way to put it than “he’s retired, you know”) say something like, “You know, I thought when I ceased crushing grapes in my chosen vineyard, I would have more time, but – by golly [or some equally assertive phrase of emphasis] I just don’t seem to have any time at all.”
Further investigation is needed as to whether he is spending his afternoons organizing his collection of trout flies by color, size, weight, region, and history of success, and entering it into an inheritable data base, polishing the Christmas tree ornaments before placing them into stout plastic boxes filled with crushed tissue paper, or writing a very short book on “Discernible Political Philosophies of Contemporary American Politicians” or a long book called “Family Anecdotes To Bore My Descendants To Tears.”
As time shortens, it should be well spent. Period.
Last year, I sat down and wrote out my goals for 2002 for such categories as work, health, travel and stuff I need to do around the house. I slipped the sheet into one of those plastic sleeve thingies and kept it on the top of my desk. The only goal not achieved will be the renovation of the upstairs bathroom, and that should be done by March of ’03.
So now I have a new sheet, well two actually - one is for 2003, and the second is a preliminary list for 2004.
I’m getting so organized, I think I’d better go lie down for a bit.
Cheers!
Friday, December 27, 2002
Sunday, December 1, 2002
Holiday Shopping
Lately, we’ve been reminded that this year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, there are the fewest shopping days possible. Normally, Thanksgiving is earlier, and so we have more time... as if time to shop was the primary purpose of the season.
Television and newspapers report the current guess as to whether “holiday shopping will save the fourth quarter,” on which businesses have come to rely for a “successful” year. And the traffic reporters tell us about available parking space at area malls. Even technological cognoscenti are telling us that “this is the year for internet retailers.”
To all that, I say, “Bah! Humbug,” but my judgment may not be quite what you think.
This is the time of year to shed the carapace of cynicism, ennui, even despair, and take time to return to the basics of what you believe…or believed, once upon a time.
No matter how many times you have heard the story, whatever story you celebrate, pretend as though you have never heard it before, let it roll into your being and stir the damped fire which sits somewhere deep inside you. Sing the songs, chant the chants, dance the dances as though you have just discovered them – that will be a great gift to the generations waiting and watching you as they learn about your traditions and how to carry them forward into their own time.
Each year when I take out the decorations, some of which go back several generations in my family, I feel graced by the care and affection of those before me who also tended the holiday we celebrate.
And that is the most important gift we can give – the gift of love. It smoothes anxiety, diminishes fear, and quiets the wobblies we feel in these troubled times. Love needs no warranty, is always the right color, size, and style, and – if well tended - lasts, in all its forms, for generations and generations.
May you and yours enjoy and care for your holidays - to the hilt!
-----------------
P.S. On December 24th at 3:00 pm in England and 10:00 am in New York, affiliated stations of Public Radio International will offer the 24th American broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” live from the chapel of King’s College at Cambridge University in Cambridge, England. The choir of King’s College will sing carols and representatives of the community of Cambridge will read lessons from the Old and New Testaments. The service is also broadcast live by BBC Radio in the UK and the BBC World Service both in the UK and around the world on shortwave.
Television and newspapers report the current guess as to whether “holiday shopping will save the fourth quarter,” on which businesses have come to rely for a “successful” year. And the traffic reporters tell us about available parking space at area malls. Even technological cognoscenti are telling us that “this is the year for internet retailers.”
To all that, I say, “Bah! Humbug,” but my judgment may not be quite what you think.
This is the time of year to shed the carapace of cynicism, ennui, even despair, and take time to return to the basics of what you believe…or believed, once upon a time.
No matter how many times you have heard the story, whatever story you celebrate, pretend as though you have never heard it before, let it roll into your being and stir the damped fire which sits somewhere deep inside you. Sing the songs, chant the chants, dance the dances as though you have just discovered them – that will be a great gift to the generations waiting and watching you as they learn about your traditions and how to carry them forward into their own time.
Each year when I take out the decorations, some of which go back several generations in my family, I feel graced by the care and affection of those before me who also tended the holiday we celebrate.
And that is the most important gift we can give – the gift of love. It smoothes anxiety, diminishes fear, and quiets the wobblies we feel in these troubled times. Love needs no warranty, is always the right color, size, and style, and – if well tended - lasts, in all its forms, for generations and generations.
May you and yours enjoy and care for your holidays - to the hilt!
-----------------
P.S. On December 24th at 3:00 pm in England and 10:00 am in New York, affiliated stations of Public Radio International will offer the 24th American broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” live from the chapel of King’s College at Cambridge University in Cambridge, England. The choir of King’s College will sing carols and representatives of the community of Cambridge will read lessons from the Old and New Testaments. The service is also broadcast live by BBC Radio in the UK and the BBC World Service both in the UK and around the world on shortwave.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
The Breath Of Life
Last week in London I saw a new play by David Hare called “The Breath of Life,” starring Dame Maggie Smith and Dame Judi Dench. Smith plays a woman who chose a profession, never married and never had children; Dench one who chose home and children, and the play is an extended conversation between these two English women of “a certain age,” and is introduced by an observation of Paul Gauguin: “Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.”
The link between them is the source of the play’s energy, and in spite of the sensitivity of a male playwright writing for women’s voices, the real strength of the play – for me - lay in the performance by two actors whose performances were so natural that one would hardly have thought they were acting, and that is, without doubt, the best acting of all, and I shall remember their work that evening for a long time.
But all of that is beside my point: Early in the play when the two characters are circling each other verbally, one of the topics which they settle on is “Americans.” A number of the lines are funny, but in the context of our present situation, the following exchange continues to resonate and disturb.
Madeleine: Their politicians always put on that tone of special shock. “This situation endangers American lives.” As if American lives were automatically different from any other kind….
Frances: But isn’t that what they believe?
Madeleine: That’s how they are. Because they’re richer than everyone else, so they have to insist their dramas are more significant.
(An example of trivial “ugly American” behavior follows, and the dialogue continues)
Madeleine:…At once the most powerful people on earth and now it appears the most fearful…
Frances: Perhaps that’s why.
Madeleine: The most risk averse. Life with all the life taken out of it.
Frances: Perhaps they just feel they have more to lose.
Madeleine: Well, they don’t.
Frances: Of course not.
Franklin D Roosevelt told us that we had nothing to fear but fear itself. Several decades later, the great political philosopher and cartoonist, Walt Kelly, observed through his character Pogo who was running for President, “We have met the enemy, and they is us.” The truth, of course, lies outside the boundaries which we have created for ourselves. Look beyond the President, the play, and Pogo, and decide what it is you see and believe.
The link between them is the source of the play’s energy, and in spite of the sensitivity of a male playwright writing for women’s voices, the real strength of the play – for me - lay in the performance by two actors whose performances were so natural that one would hardly have thought they were acting, and that is, without doubt, the best acting of all, and I shall remember their work that evening for a long time.
But all of that is beside my point: Early in the play when the two characters are circling each other verbally, one of the topics which they settle on is “Americans.” A number of the lines are funny, but in the context of our present situation, the following exchange continues to resonate and disturb.
Madeleine: Their politicians always put on that tone of special shock. “This situation endangers American lives.” As if American lives were automatically different from any other kind….
Frances: But isn’t that what they believe?
Madeleine: That’s how they are. Because they’re richer than everyone else, so they have to insist their dramas are more significant.
(An example of trivial “ugly American” behavior follows, and the dialogue continues)
Madeleine:…At once the most powerful people on earth and now it appears the most fearful…
Frances: Perhaps that’s why.
Madeleine: The most risk averse. Life with all the life taken out of it.
Frances: Perhaps they just feel they have more to lose.
Madeleine: Well, they don’t.
Frances: Of course not.
Franklin D Roosevelt told us that we had nothing to fear but fear itself. Several decades later, the great political philosopher and cartoonist, Walt Kelly, observed through his character Pogo who was running for President, “We have met the enemy, and they is us.” The truth, of course, lies outside the boundaries which we have created for ourselves. Look beyond the President, the play, and Pogo, and decide what it is you see and believe.
Thanksgiving Remembered...
In my memory, which is better than it used to be because I make up more interesting stuff to fill in the blanks which arrive more frequently these days, I have this recollection of Norman Rockwell’s well loved painting of a Thanksgiving Day Celebration.
In my memory, the father is carving a gorgeous turkey surrounded by the animated faces of his children, the whole making up the impossibly happy family.
In truth, however, the painting shows Grandpa standing at the head of the table watching Grandma place the roasted bird in front of him for carving, with all those around the table looking happy, if not downright excited.
Well, I got the animated faces right.
Nowadays, gramps and gramma are having Thanksgiving in Vero Beach, Mom and Dad are divorced, and sons would rather spend Thanksgiving watching a football game or playing video games, and daughters would rather be anyplace but here. In general, nobody has time to get together anymore. Or so it seems.
The Rockwell painting is called “Freedom from Want,” one of the four freedoms about which Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke decades ago.
Safe to say that we have almost achieved freedom from want in this country, although there are too many among us who do not have enough of food, of shelter, of clothing, of education, of security, of love. We would do well on Thanksgiving to eat less and donate what we save to the Salvation Army or a local food shelf. Better yet, find someone who’s alone on that day and invite them to join in. Sometimes a stranger vitalizes the usual gaggle of relatives who have become so accustomed to seeing each other that they can almost repeat jokes telepathically.
I don’t know whether all those tales about the rugged pilgrims and the helpful natives gathering for a feast are true, but I like to think so. I do know it took a good deal of religious commitment and several dollops of genuine courage to leave England and sail to the New World to make a new life in a strange and often hostile land.
One of my ancestors was in the group that founded what we now call New Haven, and you have to know that name was well and carefully chosen. All we know of him was that he was a gunsmith and signed the document which governed the colony there. But if he hadn’t left his village in England, fled to Holland to escape religious persecution, and made the long voyage here, I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my computer writing this today.
This year on Thanksgiving, I shall be thinking of him and his wife Margery and the long chain of Nashes between them and me. And next year I shall visit his home town in Bewdley, near Ribbesford, in the English countryside and see some of the family ironwork in a local church, and I shall be thankful again…as we all should be, every day, for some aspect of our lives.
In my memory, the father is carving a gorgeous turkey surrounded by the animated faces of his children, the whole making up the impossibly happy family.
In truth, however, the painting shows Grandpa standing at the head of the table watching Grandma place the roasted bird in front of him for carving, with all those around the table looking happy, if not downright excited.
Well, I got the animated faces right.
Nowadays, gramps and gramma are having Thanksgiving in Vero Beach, Mom and Dad are divorced, and sons would rather spend Thanksgiving watching a football game or playing video games, and daughters would rather be anyplace but here. In general, nobody has time to get together anymore. Or so it seems.
The Rockwell painting is called “Freedom from Want,” one of the four freedoms about which Franklin Delano Roosevelt spoke decades ago.
Safe to say that we have almost achieved freedom from want in this country, although there are too many among us who do not have enough of food, of shelter, of clothing, of education, of security, of love. We would do well on Thanksgiving to eat less and donate what we save to the Salvation Army or a local food shelf. Better yet, find someone who’s alone on that day and invite them to join in. Sometimes a stranger vitalizes the usual gaggle of relatives who have become so accustomed to seeing each other that they can almost repeat jokes telepathically.
I don’t know whether all those tales about the rugged pilgrims and the helpful natives gathering for a feast are true, but I like to think so. I do know it took a good deal of religious commitment and several dollops of genuine courage to leave England and sail to the New World to make a new life in a strange and often hostile land.
One of my ancestors was in the group that founded what we now call New Haven, and you have to know that name was well and carefully chosen. All we know of him was that he was a gunsmith and signed the document which governed the colony there. But if he hadn’t left his village in England, fled to Holland to escape religious persecution, and made the long voyage here, I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my computer writing this today.
This year on Thanksgiving, I shall be thinking of him and his wife Margery and the long chain of Nashes between them and me. And next year I shall visit his home town in Bewdley, near Ribbesford, in the English countryside and see some of the family ironwork in a local church, and I shall be thankful again…as we all should be, every day, for some aspect of our lives.
Monday, October 14, 2002
We're High On Speed
Everybody’s in such a hurry today. From my pespective as a morning pedestrian on my walk around the lake, I walk on the road or on a path right next to it, and the vehicles race by, with no special regard for me – or for the speed limit for that matter.
I worry about that cup of coffee or cell phone in the right hand, or the paper in the briefcase that the driver might be reaching over to get as he or she approaches me. In my mind’s eye, I see the car swerve toward me and then I have to change the channel.
This perception of being completely defenseless against these missiles going by me, three feet away, at forty miles an hour, has made me intolerant of speeders, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness of tires spinning by me and sound systems with the insistent beat of juvenile idiocy pouring out the windows.
I’ve tried to persuade the city administrators to stop by the road, walk with me, stand where I walk, but either they do not deign to visit or they stay safely ensconced in their own multi-ton missiles.
The police make an attempt at enforcement every once in a while, but they have other priorities.
It is no longer a personal priority to understand that speed limits are set for a reason and that to obey them is desirable. We are all too important (yes, me too, but only on occasion) so that when late for that important appointment, we bend the rules in our favor and race down the road. Much easier than allowing sufficient time to arrive without breaking the unenforced law.
But here’s the point: Speeding doesn’t really get you there significantly faster than just going the speed limit. Probably isn’t too good for your blood pressure, either.
When I’m out walking, all the late people speeding doesn’t do one damn thing for my language or my blood pressure. I walk for exercise and for the loons and their chick, the ducks and the geese and the egrets and the sunrise and the wind in my face and the ever-changing clouds.
But you’re in a hurry and don’t see a bit of it. You think you’re on your way to more important things, but you would never convince me of it.
Thing of the fragile pedestrian just off your right fender; drive safely – and slowly – and how about starting today...now?
I worry about that cup of coffee or cell phone in the right hand, or the paper in the briefcase that the driver might be reaching over to get as he or she approaches me. In my mind’s eye, I see the car swerve toward me and then I have to change the channel.
This perception of being completely defenseless against these missiles going by me, three feet away, at forty miles an hour, has made me intolerant of speeders, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness of tires spinning by me and sound systems with the insistent beat of juvenile idiocy pouring out the windows.
I’ve tried to persuade the city administrators to stop by the road, walk with me, stand where I walk, but either they do not deign to visit or they stay safely ensconced in their own multi-ton missiles.
The police make an attempt at enforcement every once in a while, but they have other priorities.
It is no longer a personal priority to understand that speed limits are set for a reason and that to obey them is desirable. We are all too important (yes, me too, but only on occasion) so that when late for that important appointment, we bend the rules in our favor and race down the road. Much easier than allowing sufficient time to arrive without breaking the unenforced law.
But here’s the point: Speeding doesn’t really get you there significantly faster than just going the speed limit. Probably isn’t too good for your blood pressure, either.
When I’m out walking, all the late people speeding doesn’t do one damn thing for my language or my blood pressure. I walk for exercise and for the loons and their chick, the ducks and the geese and the egrets and the sunrise and the wind in my face and the ever-changing clouds.
But you’re in a hurry and don’t see a bit of it. You think you’re on your way to more important things, but you would never convince me of it.
Thing of the fragile pedestrian just off your right fender; drive safely – and slowly – and how about starting today...now?
Tuesday, October 1, 2002
The Maul, er, Mall of America
Recently, Karen and I paid a rare visit to The Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, located not far from our airport and nearly as big as. The Mall of America is celebrating its tenth anniversary which, according to those who are paid to invent meaningless declarations, is a Big Deal.
If you like a great big shopping mall with every national chain you can find in separate malls in other and more sensible parts of the country. If you must buy your shirts from a start with a 1957 Buick halfway through the show window, then by golly, the Mall of America is the place for you. If you watch Entertainment Tonight, believe Las Vegas to be one of the great places to pass more than about six hours, then you should hitch up your britches and move your tush in the direction of – yup – The Mall of America.
Or if you think that an indoor roller coaster is the cat’s meow, then point your roadster toward The Mall of America.
What I can’t figure out is this: If you are a beautiful person, the Mall of America cannot do a thing for you. If you are not a beautiful person, all the gewgaws and gimcracks which you might acquire by ripping your credit card through a card reader at warp speed ain’t gonna help.
I understand that for some shopping is therapy, entertainment, a chance to get together and waste time with people you like. It is also a delusion – surrounding yourself with stuff is not the freeway to bliss.
If you’re going to look at stuff, you’d be better off looking at great paintings, sculpture, or furniture at a local museum. That visit won’t cost you very much, and in the process you might find your spirit uplifted by the beauty and creative vitality which surrounds you.
I used to wonder why my father always wore clothes which were thirty years out of date and shoes which were half a century old. It took me a while to discover that he was not much for fashion (although he was interested in style), and his shoes were handmade in London, cost him a fortune, but he amortized that expense over a lifetime of comfort, so they were cheap in the long run (And yes, I wear them now, so they’re now in their eighth decade of active use. )
Clothes do not make the man, and an active intelligence is never out of date – unless it falls into desuetude (God, I love using that word!), through lack of use. Maybe you learn that only after your fourth decade on the planet.
Watching the shoppers at the Mall of America, now celebrating its tenth anniversary, made me sad – sad about the impact marketing has on our lives, sad about anybody believing they were acquiring some harbinger of happiness in such a place, sad about the fact that our government is trying to sell us on a war on Iraq with the same flimsy propositions and lack of evidence used to sell us on the latest model of (fill in the blank here).
If you like a great big shopping mall with every national chain you can find in separate malls in other and more sensible parts of the country. If you must buy your shirts from a start with a 1957 Buick halfway through the show window, then by golly, the Mall of America is the place for you. If you watch Entertainment Tonight, believe Las Vegas to be one of the great places to pass more than about six hours, then you should hitch up your britches and move your tush in the direction of – yup – The Mall of America.
Or if you think that an indoor roller coaster is the cat’s meow, then point your roadster toward The Mall of America.
What I can’t figure out is this: If you are a beautiful person, the Mall of America cannot do a thing for you. If you are not a beautiful person, all the gewgaws and gimcracks which you might acquire by ripping your credit card through a card reader at warp speed ain’t gonna help.
I understand that for some shopping is therapy, entertainment, a chance to get together and waste time with people you like. It is also a delusion – surrounding yourself with stuff is not the freeway to bliss.
If you’re going to look at stuff, you’d be better off looking at great paintings, sculpture, or furniture at a local museum. That visit won’t cost you very much, and in the process you might find your spirit uplifted by the beauty and creative vitality which surrounds you.
I used to wonder why my father always wore clothes which were thirty years out of date and shoes which were half a century old. It took me a while to discover that he was not much for fashion (although he was interested in style), and his shoes were handmade in London, cost him a fortune, but he amortized that expense over a lifetime of comfort, so they were cheap in the long run (And yes, I wear them now, so they’re now in their eighth decade of active use. )
Clothes do not make the man, and an active intelligence is never out of date – unless it falls into desuetude (God, I love using that word!), through lack of use. Maybe you learn that only after your fourth decade on the planet.
Watching the shoppers at the Mall of America, now celebrating its tenth anniversary, made me sad – sad about the impact marketing has on our lives, sad about anybody believing they were acquiring some harbinger of happiness in such a place, sad about the fact that our government is trying to sell us on a war on Iraq with the same flimsy propositions and lack of evidence used to sell us on the latest model of (fill in the blank here).
Friday, September 20, 2002
The Remote
There are times when I feel imprisoned - by rules and regulations, the expectations of others, unsatisfying but required demands on my time, even by goals I have set for myself during one of those occasions of unreasonable optimism. We've all "been there," to use the current argot, haven't we?
I've worked on recognizing the symptoms early, and when I feel an attack around the corner, I head for the room where the television is allowed to exist and pick up the remote control.
Well, not the remote control. ALL THE REMOTE CONTROLS....the one for the satellite dish which also controls some but not all of the functions of the VCR and none of the controls of the DVD player. Let's see, I am now holding three remote controls...what have I forgotten?
Oh, the remote control for the home theatre audio receiver, without which none of the other machines can generate sound. I sit in the Media Command Center, with the La-Z-Boy's leg lifter fully deployed for intergalactic travel with a remote on each chair arm, and the two key modules in my lap for instant access in case of unwanted contact with commercials, program promos, station breaks, and other electronic debris which impede my sense of electron dominance. My heaven, how I love those clickers!
As if the remotes weren't enough, the television has multiple inputs which must be properly chosen, and the set itself must be set on channel 3, but I these are the last things I check before every Media Launch.
Pick up the satellite remote, make sure the satellite system is on, then press the tv selector and the on button to turn on the tv. Then press the satellite button in order to change channels for Hawaiian Music, old quiz shows, pay per view, world cup soccer,news from almost too many place, and movies from places like Home Box Office and its ilk.
Once everything is fully deployed, I can feel the wind blowing through my follicular remnants as I achieve complete command of my system at Warp Speed, tearing through the world of electrons, truly the King of My World.
Need to tape something....find a blank tape from the pile of unlabelled tapes, jam it in the machine, click more buttons on the satellite remote to set up the auto timing device. Ah-hah, victory is mine...unless I taped over that really fascinating BBC documentary on the Estonians who won the Eurovision Song Contest last year (true!). Well, it will be on again...just check the monthly satellite program guide which is the size of the Grand Forks, North Dakota telephone book.
So you can see why I am The Captain of the Remotes in my house, and here's the best part: Nobody, repeat nobody - except perhaps for any 10 year old boy - can decipher my system! Only I can manage this complex community of electrons. "Well, Jim, me hearty, whadya think about that?" I imagine myself saying in the voice of Robert Newton as Long John Silver in a long ago British film of "Treasure Island."
As these feelings of power rush through me, I know that the home theatre remote can learn from all the other remotes (allegedly), but I am too busy managing My World of Entertainment to take the time. There are places to go, people to see, and besides, I would have to Read the Manuals, and when you're in charge, you just don't have The Time. It's part of the challenge of being in charge of something, anything.
A rainy day perhaps, when exploring fills me with ennui or even gas. Until then, I will juggle my remotes cleverly, creatively, and carefully, heh-heh-heh.
But I must be quiet about all this....part of the Guys' Oath for Remote Control Commanders, or she won't let me clean out the garage.
Jim, boy, be still, and maybe we can crank up the barbecue grill soon....
I've worked on recognizing the symptoms early, and when I feel an attack around the corner, I head for the room where the television is allowed to exist and pick up the remote control.
Well, not the remote control. ALL THE REMOTE CONTROLS....the one for the satellite dish which also controls some but not all of the functions of the VCR and none of the controls of the DVD player. Let's see, I am now holding three remote controls...what have I forgotten?
Oh, the remote control for the home theatre audio receiver, without which none of the other machines can generate sound. I sit in the Media Command Center, with the La-Z-Boy's leg lifter fully deployed for intergalactic travel with a remote on each chair arm, and the two key modules in my lap for instant access in case of unwanted contact with commercials, program promos, station breaks, and other electronic debris which impede my sense of electron dominance. My heaven, how I love those clickers!
As if the remotes weren't enough, the television has multiple inputs which must be properly chosen, and the set itself must be set on channel 3, but I these are the last things I check before every Media Launch.
Pick up the satellite remote, make sure the satellite system is on, then press the tv selector and the on button to turn on the tv. Then press the satellite button in order to change channels for Hawaiian Music, old quiz shows, pay per view, world cup soccer,news from almost too many place, and movies from places like Home Box Office and its ilk.
Once everything is fully deployed, I can feel the wind blowing through my follicular remnants as I achieve complete command of my system at Warp Speed, tearing through the world of electrons, truly the King of My World.
Need to tape something....find a blank tape from the pile of unlabelled tapes, jam it in the machine, click more buttons on the satellite remote to set up the auto timing device. Ah-hah, victory is mine...unless I taped over that really fascinating BBC documentary on the Estonians who won the Eurovision Song Contest last year (true!). Well, it will be on again...just check the monthly satellite program guide which is the size of the Grand Forks, North Dakota telephone book.
So you can see why I am The Captain of the Remotes in my house, and here's the best part: Nobody, repeat nobody - except perhaps for any 10 year old boy - can decipher my system! Only I can manage this complex community of electrons. "Well, Jim, me hearty, whadya think about that?" I imagine myself saying in the voice of Robert Newton as Long John Silver in a long ago British film of "Treasure Island."
As these feelings of power rush through me, I know that the home theatre remote can learn from all the other remotes (allegedly), but I am too busy managing My World of Entertainment to take the time. There are places to go, people to see, and besides, I would have to Read the Manuals, and when you're in charge, you just don't have The Time. It's part of the challenge of being in charge of something, anything.
A rainy day perhaps, when exploring fills me with ennui or even gas. Until then, I will juggle my remotes cleverly, creatively, and carefully, heh-heh-heh.
But I must be quiet about all this....part of the Guys' Oath for Remote Control Commanders, or she won't let me clean out the garage.
Jim, boy, be still, and maybe we can crank up the barbecue grill soon....
Monday, August 12, 2002
Drums Along The Mohawk
Recently, I spent time in a part of the world which was riven by conflict, involving two nations – one very old and one quite new – where bands of terrorists burned and killed on both sides, and each sunrise must have made everyone pause and wonder what might befall them at their work or home that day.
No, I was not in the Middle East. I was visiting the Mohawk Valley of New York State, where the English and Americans fought, not only for the wheat so necessary to feed a large army but also for the division of the thirteen colonies. The English believed that such a division would lead to their victory.
One of my ancestors was in the county militia which, with their allies, the Oneida, arrived at a place, now called Oriskany, and were cut to pieces by the English and their allies, the Seneca and the Mohawk. Even the Iroquois Confederacy was not immune to internal dispute, it seemed.
Some call it an ambush, but whatever it was, it was a bloodbath, with over 500 of the colonists killed or wounded, including my ancestor, out of the total colonial force of 700.
He was an officer, and because he was on horseback, he made an easy target and died early. Another relative, a young boy, who was a fifer, also died.
For the second time, my older sister and one of her grandchildren, and I met and attended the commemoration ceremony at the battleground on August 6th. She thinks each one should understand something about her grandmother’s ancestors, and there is enough to see in the Mohawk valley to satisfy most youngsters, and if not, there is always a backseat nap or a visit to the Golden Arches for the latest toy in the kids’ meal.
A hundred or so descendants of the soldiers who fought (on all sides) were joined by representatives of a variety of organizations, re-enactors who fired volleys from their flintlocks in honor of the fallen, people from the community, and group of speakers who had the daunting job of reminding us of this great sacrifice 225 years ago.
We sat on hay bales in a natural amphitheater near the great monument, and not too far into the ceremony, a broad stripe of sunlight struck the line of trees where the ambush took place, lingered for a minute or two and was swept away into the surrounding dusk. No matter one’s views about such coincidences, there is a tendency to want to believe that it was not a coincidence, whatever it might have been.
On this sacred ground, we were far, far away from the events of September 11th, 2001 but, in truth, not far at all, and several of the speakers brought it into their remarks. We shall be dealing with the impact of the events of September 11th, 2001 for a very long time, and with its memory far longer.
Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, a man about whom I know virtually nothing, fought and died at Oriskany. As his descendant, I am still moved by coming to that place and honoring his memory and those of all who fought at his side.
George Santayana said something along the lines that those who do not understand history are condemned to repeat it. In places like Oriskany or Lexington or Antietam or Gettysburg or a local fort or battle site, there is much to be learned, but only if each of us decides to make it possible for our children and grandchildren to do so.
I’m not too well versed in my country’s history, but I’m determined to get a handle on the American Revolution in the next year or so. The last grand-child will be eligible in a couple of years, and if I’m invited to join in, I’d better be prepared.
So had you.
No, I was not in the Middle East. I was visiting the Mohawk Valley of New York State, where the English and Americans fought, not only for the wheat so necessary to feed a large army but also for the division of the thirteen colonies. The English believed that such a division would lead to their victory.
One of my ancestors was in the county militia which, with their allies, the Oneida, arrived at a place, now called Oriskany, and were cut to pieces by the English and their allies, the Seneca and the Mohawk. Even the Iroquois Confederacy was not immune to internal dispute, it seemed.
Some call it an ambush, but whatever it was, it was a bloodbath, with over 500 of the colonists killed or wounded, including my ancestor, out of the total colonial force of 700.
He was an officer, and because he was on horseback, he made an easy target and died early. Another relative, a young boy, who was a fifer, also died.
For the second time, my older sister and one of her grandchildren, and I met and attended the commemoration ceremony at the battleground on August 6th. She thinks each one should understand something about her grandmother’s ancestors, and there is enough to see in the Mohawk valley to satisfy most youngsters, and if not, there is always a backseat nap or a visit to the Golden Arches for the latest toy in the kids’ meal.
A hundred or so descendants of the soldiers who fought (on all sides) were joined by representatives of a variety of organizations, re-enactors who fired volleys from their flintlocks in honor of the fallen, people from the community, and group of speakers who had the daunting job of reminding us of this great sacrifice 225 years ago.
We sat on hay bales in a natural amphitheater near the great monument, and not too far into the ceremony, a broad stripe of sunlight struck the line of trees where the ambush took place, lingered for a minute or two and was swept away into the surrounding dusk. No matter one’s views about such coincidences, there is a tendency to want to believe that it was not a coincidence, whatever it might have been.
On this sacred ground, we were far, far away from the events of September 11th, 2001 but, in truth, not far at all, and several of the speakers brought it into their remarks. We shall be dealing with the impact of the events of September 11th, 2001 for a very long time, and with its memory far longer.
Two hundred and twenty-five years ago, a man about whom I know virtually nothing, fought and died at Oriskany. As his descendant, I am still moved by coming to that place and honoring his memory and those of all who fought at his side.
George Santayana said something along the lines that those who do not understand history are condemned to repeat it. In places like Oriskany or Lexington or Antietam or Gettysburg or a local fort or battle site, there is much to be learned, but only if each of us decides to make it possible for our children and grandchildren to do so.
I’m not too well versed in my country’s history, but I’m determined to get a handle on the American Revolution in the next year or so. The last grand-child will be eligible in a couple of years, and if I’m invited to join in, I’d better be prepared.
So had you.
Thursday, July 25, 2002
My Friend Sigvard
Sigvard Hammar lived his life in a wheelchair, and while that is a true fact, it is perhaps one of the less important ones about him. Here’s another fact: Once you got to know Sigvard you forgot about the wheelchair – mostly.
He was a small man, and not much of him was functional except his brain, his mouth, and one hand. Nothing stopped him from doing anything. Anything. He traveled the world, he wrote columns which made people mad as hell, he loved classical music and opera especially.
It was impossible to forget his eyes; they burned past your brightly polished exterior, and before you knew it, you had the clear impression that Sigvard had burrowed into your core and was beginning to pull open the dresser drawers where you store your ideas, opinions, plans, hopes, and fears. Most of what he found, he tossed into the corners, but when he came across a part of you he found interesting, then the questions would begin, coming at you in a cascade. It was fun and exhausting.
If you asked him a question about himself, often he would deflect it….I knew him for over two decades and in spite of valiant attempts, I could tell you nothing about his growing up, just a little about his education, nothing about his family. He was the most interesting cipher I’ve known.
You should know that Sigvard was Swedish, worked as a columnist for several newspapers through his career and also as a music presenter for Swedish National Radio, and he began a chamber music festival in a small town in the North of Sweden. His live was spent in almost perpetual motion, in spite of his handicapped. (Friends, bear with me, not being able to walk ever is not a “challenge,” it is a handicap.)
He rolled into my life when I was program director at Minnesota Public Radio. I thought I was just being hospitable to colleagues from another public service broadcasting organization. What happened was that Sigvard changed my life.
He peeled back the smooth carapace of the touristy Sweden and made sure I met singers and conductors and instrumentalists and broadcasters and people in the recording business, the symphony business, the opera business, the music management business.
.
åTwo of them were the baritone Hakan Hagegard and Elisabeth Soderstrom (because of the variability of the internet, I have not entered the Swedish diacritical marks which are an integral part of their names, and I hope they will forgive me.) You may remember Hakan from Ingmar Bergman’s film of The Magic Flute and his long and notable opera and recital career, and Soderstrom, now retired, was a performer of such intelligence and good judgment that I had wanted to meet her for years. So, we ended up making a radio series with them in Hakan’s country church in the west of Sweden.
That wouldn’t have happened without Sigvard and other friends of his in “the radio.” He was like a chef who took ideas and sprinkled them with people – or maybe it was the other way around. The chaos he created upset some, delighted most, himself particularly, and he managed his way around the world with the help of the magical Monika who calmed the waters he’d just passed through and loved him through all kinds of weather.
I last talked with Sigvard at Christmas. He said he had cancer, but it was nothing to worry about. He left us during the midsummer celebrations in Sweden. Typical of him to wait until everybody’s attention was somewhere else, and then he just slipped out a side door.
I shall miss him to the end of my time.
He was a small man, and not much of him was functional except his brain, his mouth, and one hand. Nothing stopped him from doing anything. Anything. He traveled the world, he wrote columns which made people mad as hell, he loved classical music and opera especially.
It was impossible to forget his eyes; they burned past your brightly polished exterior, and before you knew it, you had the clear impression that Sigvard had burrowed into your core and was beginning to pull open the dresser drawers where you store your ideas, opinions, plans, hopes, and fears. Most of what he found, he tossed into the corners, but when he came across a part of you he found interesting, then the questions would begin, coming at you in a cascade. It was fun and exhausting.
If you asked him a question about himself, often he would deflect it….I knew him for over two decades and in spite of valiant attempts, I could tell you nothing about his growing up, just a little about his education, nothing about his family. He was the most interesting cipher I’ve known.
You should know that Sigvard was Swedish, worked as a columnist for several newspapers through his career and also as a music presenter for Swedish National Radio, and he began a chamber music festival in a small town in the North of Sweden. His live was spent in almost perpetual motion, in spite of his handicapped. (Friends, bear with me, not being able to walk ever is not a “challenge,” it is a handicap.)
He rolled into my life when I was program director at Minnesota Public Radio. I thought I was just being hospitable to colleagues from another public service broadcasting organization. What happened was that Sigvard changed my life.
He peeled back the smooth carapace of the touristy Sweden and made sure I met singers and conductors and instrumentalists and broadcasters and people in the recording business, the symphony business, the opera business, the music management business.
.
åTwo of them were the baritone Hakan Hagegard and Elisabeth Soderstrom (because of the variability of the internet, I have not entered the Swedish diacritical marks which are an integral part of their names, and I hope they will forgive me.) You may remember Hakan from Ingmar Bergman’s film of The Magic Flute and his long and notable opera and recital career, and Soderstrom, now retired, was a performer of such intelligence and good judgment that I had wanted to meet her for years. So, we ended up making a radio series with them in Hakan’s country church in the west of Sweden.
That wouldn’t have happened without Sigvard and other friends of his in “the radio.” He was like a chef who took ideas and sprinkled them with people – or maybe it was the other way around. The chaos he created upset some, delighted most, himself particularly, and he managed his way around the world with the help of the magical Monika who calmed the waters he’d just passed through and loved him through all kinds of weather.
I last talked with Sigvard at Christmas. He said he had cancer, but it was nothing to worry about. He left us during the midsummer celebrations in Sweden. Typical of him to wait until everybody’s attention was somewhere else, and then he just slipped out a side door.
I shall miss him to the end of my time.
Monday, July 1, 2002
Schadenfreude
It just won’t stop…will it? I mean all the news from large corporations about platinum parachutes for executives who departed under a cloud with a small mountain of stock options, who’ve ordered the shredding of documents, authorized accounting games to ensure their wallets will be filled while the stockholders reel in shock at the results – these incompetent and dishonest employees, consultants, auditors. The innocent lose their hard-won pension funds; then the layoffs and firings of the innocent begin in order to “save the enterprise.”
After the events have been uncovered, the good ship Mendacity pulls up in front of the cameras, and the statements of innocence come down the gangway and present themselves for our delectation – the charges are baseless, without foundation, it didn’t happen, you don’t understand, we’ll leave it up to a jury of my client’s peers, what’s the big deal, everybody does it, I didn’t know that what I was doing was against the law, and I was not trying to avoid paying sales tax…you know the drill, you’ve seen it enough by now.
Enron, Arthur Andersen, Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Martha Stewart, Tyco, the Catholic Church in America, Global Crossing, Merrill Lynch, Qwest, WorldCom, and any American corporation moving its headquarters to Bermuda to avoid taxation, there appear to be so many miscreants you need a program to keep track of it all.
The distance between us and the corporations with which we do business or in which we own stock has become vast and uncrossable, and as our capacity to have much influence on how they deal with us is null and void . I used to put my money in bank with headquarters here in my home town. Now the bank is run from the West Coast, and to get my money, I go to what they call their local “store.” When I go to the big, bullseyed discount chain store, I am not a customer, I am a “guest.” When I go to the annual shareholders’ meeting of a company, that is the one day in the year when it is “my company,” at the end of which we ratify that salaries are up and the dividend is unchanged. “The map is not the territory it represents,” wrote Alfred Korzybski, the father of semantics, but, alas, the proxy statement and annual report don’t seem to represent the scheming and shenanigans of today’s swashbuckling corporate pirates.
In these parts and in a small way, we’ve had some fun with Martha Stewart, and it turns out that we weren’t doing satire as much as accurately anticipating the future (i.e., our “Martha Stewart Doesn’t Knead My Dough” products). No matter what your opinion on her ImClone transaction might be, she remains innocent until the law determines otherwise, but some of us must enjoy imagining her saying,”Yes, my new 7 by 10 foot home will look larger when I paint it in a calmingpastel color, and you can diminish the strong verticals of the bars by painting each of them in several contrasting hues.”
That’s called Schadenfreude, the pleasure we find in the misery of others, and none of us is exempt from it. So, as the mob did in the Place de la Concorde in Paris a couple of hundred years ago during another revolution, when aristocrats arrived at the guillotine in their carts, we shall look forward to the humbling of these corporate swindlers with their skewed values, their insensitivity to their larger responsibilities, their ability to foam at the mouth with claims of innocence which will, I am sure, turn out to be good old-fashioned codswallop which is English for bull droppings.
Lest we get carried away with our feelings of moral fervor, we might do well to look at how we’re doing as a country. Let’s see - we still haven’t paid our UN dues, don’t wish to participate in international treaties concerning human rights, international tribunals, or global warming, think of the environment as nothing more than an economic asset, celebrate our reliance on imported petroleum, and incarcerate aliens with no access to legal counsel. We have a hard time acknowledging the AIDS crisis as it sweeps through an Africa, one of several places in the globe where starvation rules, we are unlikely to admit that much of what is made for us to consume world is produced by children of the third world, and our government, in spite of its own scientists, pretends that global warming is not a fact. Nor are we shocked to accept the opinion that we are the moral judge of the rest of the world, label nations as evil without providing much in the way evidence, and we would like to determine who rules where.
This is the same country whose people contributed fully and freely to the victims of last September’s horrific events, whose people have sent and continue to send aid to a myriad of poor countries, many of which remain ungrateful, whose people were willing to stand up for the country of Afghanistan when it needed our help, and whose people welcome immigrants by the thousand each year, as these newcomers express anew the impulse of freedom which brought our forebears here in the first place.
Our barrel seems to have more rotten apples in it just now. Maybe it’s a phase and will pass, but only if we ensure that it.
Have a nice 4th. Read the Declaration of Independence, ooh and aah at the fireworks and the music, and let’s get to work – me, you, us.
After the events have been uncovered, the good ship Mendacity pulls up in front of the cameras, and the statements of innocence come down the gangway and present themselves for our delectation – the charges are baseless, without foundation, it didn’t happen, you don’t understand, we’ll leave it up to a jury of my client’s peers, what’s the big deal, everybody does it, I didn’t know that what I was doing was against the law, and I was not trying to avoid paying sales tax…you know the drill, you’ve seen it enough by now.
Enron, Arthur Andersen, Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Martha Stewart, Tyco, the Catholic Church in America, Global Crossing, Merrill Lynch, Qwest, WorldCom, and any American corporation moving its headquarters to Bermuda to avoid taxation, there appear to be so many miscreants you need a program to keep track of it all.
The distance between us and the corporations with which we do business or in which we own stock has become vast and uncrossable, and as our capacity to have much influence on how they deal with us is null and void . I used to put my money in bank with headquarters here in my home town. Now the bank is run from the West Coast, and to get my money, I go to what they call their local “store.” When I go to the big, bullseyed discount chain store, I am not a customer, I am a “guest.” When I go to the annual shareholders’ meeting of a company, that is the one day in the year when it is “my company,” at the end of which we ratify that salaries are up and the dividend is unchanged. “The map is not the territory it represents,” wrote Alfred Korzybski, the father of semantics, but, alas, the proxy statement and annual report don’t seem to represent the scheming and shenanigans of today’s swashbuckling corporate pirates.
In these parts and in a small way, we’ve had some fun with Martha Stewart, and it turns out that we weren’t doing satire as much as accurately anticipating the future (i.e., our “Martha Stewart Doesn’t Knead My Dough” products). No matter what your opinion on her ImClone transaction might be, she remains innocent until the law determines otherwise, but some of us must enjoy imagining her saying,”Yes, my new 7 by 10 foot home will look larger when I paint it in a calmingpastel color, and you can diminish the strong verticals of the bars by painting each of them in several contrasting hues.”
That’s called Schadenfreude, the pleasure we find in the misery of others, and none of us is exempt from it. So, as the mob did in the Place de la Concorde in Paris a couple of hundred years ago during another revolution, when aristocrats arrived at the guillotine in their carts, we shall look forward to the humbling of these corporate swindlers with their skewed values, their insensitivity to their larger responsibilities, their ability to foam at the mouth with claims of innocence which will, I am sure, turn out to be good old-fashioned codswallop which is English for bull droppings.
Lest we get carried away with our feelings of moral fervor, we might do well to look at how we’re doing as a country. Let’s see - we still haven’t paid our UN dues, don’t wish to participate in international treaties concerning human rights, international tribunals, or global warming, think of the environment as nothing more than an economic asset, celebrate our reliance on imported petroleum, and incarcerate aliens with no access to legal counsel. We have a hard time acknowledging the AIDS crisis as it sweeps through an Africa, one of several places in the globe where starvation rules, we are unlikely to admit that much of what is made for us to consume world is produced by children of the third world, and our government, in spite of its own scientists, pretends that global warming is not a fact. Nor are we shocked to accept the opinion that we are the moral judge of the rest of the world, label nations as evil without providing much in the way evidence, and we would like to determine who rules where.
This is the same country whose people contributed fully and freely to the victims of last September’s horrific events, whose people have sent and continue to send aid to a myriad of poor countries, many of which remain ungrateful, whose people were willing to stand up for the country of Afghanistan when it needed our help, and whose people welcome immigrants by the thousand each year, as these newcomers express anew the impulse of freedom which brought our forebears here in the first place.
Our barrel seems to have more rotten apples in it just now. Maybe it’s a phase and will pass, but only if we ensure that it.
Have a nice 4th. Read the Declaration of Independence, ooh and aah at the fireworks and the music, and let’s get to work – me, you, us.
Wednesday, May 1, 2002
The Queen Mother
I never knew either one of my grandmothers…one died the year before I was born, the other within a month of my arrival. The closest person who played that role for me was a warm and loving nurse who worked for my grandfather, and she was a grandmother in all but name.
Upon her death (and burial in our family plot because she was so beloved), I decided that Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother would be a good substitute grandmother, so I began thinking of her as my grandma, on the basis that if much of Britain thought of her that way, one or two of us “colonials” could participate in that fantasy.
never saw her in person, but I read a lot about her, heard stories about her, two of which I’ll tell you in a bit, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither anecdote has ever been published.
Now this may sound silly or bizarre or more than a bit “off plumb,” but I genuinely enjoyed reading about her, watching films and video of her opening this, unveiling that, going into hospital, leaving hospital, accepting bouquets from small children, and smiling, endlessly smiling, and waving, endlessly waving to us.
I worried about her when her grandchildren had marital woes (why did I first type that “martial?”, I celebrated at the royal occasions of celebration, most of which she attended, and toward the end, I was concerned about the impact of the death of her daughter, Princess Margaret, and what it might do to her otherwise indomitable spirit.
When the Germans bombed Buckingham Palace, there was considerable damage. Next morning, the Queen (as she was then) said, “Now, we can look the East End in the face,” a reference to the pasting that part of London had taken from the Germans during the Blitz. Who could not love and cheer and wave back at a monarch like that, one who did not escape to Canada during the War and kept her daughters close to hand?
With her support (and indeed, direction), her husband George VI managed to be a better King than anyone might have expected, and his death, from cancer at a relatively young age, was a terrible blow to her, but she sailed onto the next chapters of her life with the same enthusiasm and energy which had marked all her years.
She loved horses (the late mystery writer Dick Francis, rode for her for many years, and she enjoyed music, poetry, art, and a healthy dollop of gin and tonic, it has been said.
She managed being both royal and human simultaneously, and that is no mean accomplishment.
Upon her death (and burial in our family plot because she was so beloved), I decided that Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother would be a good substitute grandmother, so I began thinking of her as my grandma, on the basis that if much of Britain thought of her that way, one or two of us “colonials” could participate in that fantasy.
never saw her in person, but I read a lot about her, heard stories about her, two of which I’ll tell you in a bit, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither anecdote has ever been published.
Now this may sound silly or bizarre or more than a bit “off plumb,” but I genuinely enjoyed reading about her, watching films and video of her opening this, unveiling that, going into hospital, leaving hospital, accepting bouquets from small children, and smiling, endlessly smiling, and waving, endlessly waving to us.
I worried about her when her grandchildren had marital woes (why did I first type that “martial?”, I celebrated at the royal occasions of celebration, most of which she attended, and toward the end, I was concerned about the impact of the death of her daughter, Princess Margaret, and what it might do to her otherwise indomitable spirit.
When the Germans bombed Buckingham Palace, there was considerable damage. Next morning, the Queen (as she was then) said, “Now, we can look the East End in the face,” a reference to the pasting that part of London had taken from the Germans during the Blitz. Who could not love and cheer and wave back at a monarch like that, one who did not escape to Canada during the War and kept her daughters close to hand?
With her support (and indeed, direction), her husband George VI managed to be a better King than anyone might have expected, and his death, from cancer at a relatively young age, was a terrible blow to her, but she sailed onto the next chapters of her life with the same enthusiasm and energy which had marked all her years.
She loved horses (the late mystery writer Dick Francis, rode for her for many years, and she enjoyed music, poetry, art, and a healthy dollop of gin and tonic, it has been said.
She managed being both royal and human simultaneously, and that is no mean accomplishment.
Tuesday, April 16, 2002
Nicholas Nash Another Return of the Loons www.nashco.com
At the end of a long dreary stretch, I moved my computer down to a table in the guestroom, primarily because that room has more natural light and a view of the small lake on which I live.
As each gray and dreary day arrived, I even stopped looking out the window: I knew there was ice, it was gray at the end of winter, and there was no compelling reason to lift my head to look out.
One morning last week, I noticed that there was some open water just off the shore, and on my walk I noted a pair of geese observing the water from the road like two timid swimmers, afraid of the shock of the cold. I looked to the edge of the receding ice and saw ducks behaving just like the geese.
At last, signs of real Spring, not that awful Mother nature joke she’d played on us the previous week, she gave us a sweet Sunday full of sun and incipient warmth, followed immediately by six inches of snow just after dawn on Monday. People were beginning to talk to themselves, and I was one of them.
That afternoon, something made me raise my head and look out toward the lake. In a glance, winter ended, Spring began, and Summer could not be far behind.
Just off the shore was the very first loon of the season….a large bird, with its black and white stripes up the neck, flattish head, and long beak, serene in the narrow strip of open water. The loon can only be a loon – it is unique, can’t be confused with other water birds. At the sight, my heart leaped up.
Primitive, with a series of haunting, wailing calls, the sound of a loon seems to connect with the primitive parts of our brain. One cannot hear the call of a loon without feeling a frisson of excitement, of delight, of the ageless call of the wild. Once heard, the sounds of a loon are never forgotten.
In these northern climes, the calendar is often irrelevant, and that is why we discuss the weather endlessly and why the television meteorologists with their gizmos and gadgets and dopplers still seem to have a sixty percent chance of getting the forecast wrong, sixty miles either side of a line running between any two points in Minnesota.
So Spring began here - with a loon, swimming in silence.
More than enough, I believe.
At the end of a long dreary stretch, I moved my computer down to a table in the guestroom, primarily because that room has more natural light and a view of the small lake on which I live.
As each gray and dreary day arrived, I even stopped looking out the window: I knew there was ice, it was gray at the end of winter, and there was no compelling reason to lift my head to look out.
One morning last week, I noticed that there was some open water just off the shore, and on my walk I noted a pair of geese observing the water from the road like two timid swimmers, afraid of the shock of the cold. I looked to the edge of the receding ice and saw ducks behaving just like the geese.
At last, signs of real Spring, not that awful Mother nature joke she’d played on us the previous week, she gave us a sweet Sunday full of sun and incipient warmth, followed immediately by six inches of snow just after dawn on Monday. People were beginning to talk to themselves, and I was one of them.
That afternoon, something made me raise my head and look out toward the lake. In a glance, winter ended, Spring began, and Summer could not be far behind.
Just off the shore was the very first loon of the season….a large bird, with its black and white stripes up the neck, flattish head, and long beak, serene in the narrow strip of open water. The loon can only be a loon – it is unique, can’t be confused with other water birds. At the sight, my heart leaped up.
Primitive, with a series of haunting, wailing calls, the sound of a loon seems to connect with the primitive parts of our brain. One cannot hear the call of a loon without feeling a frisson of excitement, of delight, of the ageless call of the wild. Once heard, the sounds of a loon are never forgotten.
In these northern climes, the calendar is often irrelevant, and that is why we discuss the weather endlessly and why the television meteorologists with their gizmos and gadgets and dopplers still seem to have a sixty percent chance of getting the forecast wrong, sixty miles either side of a line running between any two points in Minnesota.
So Spring began here - with a loon, swimming in silence.
More than enough, I believe.
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