Christmas 2007

As we look around us at the end of this year, one is tempted to succumb to a sense of bleakness - war, an unsettled economy, expensive energy, a divisive political life in our country, along with an endless presidential campaign, the increasing impact of changes in our global climate, religious fanaticism, corporate greed, our inability to deal effectively with hurricane, fire, earthquake, and flood, not to mention our national and personal debts.

Beyond all this, we appear to be a country more intrigued with the contemporary equivalent of the "bread and circuses" of Roman times - reality tv, sports, and retail therapy - than with our political life, with the values we want to convey to those walking behind us, and with finding a sense of hope out of the contemporary chaos. That's a complicated sentence, and I apologize for it, but these are complicated times.

Yet there is much in the streams of our lives to value and be grateful for - people and institutions who sustain the people around them in so many ways, those who contribute to the mitigation of catastrophe, those who pause long enough in the tempest of daily life to say, "Thank you," and the adventurous souls who continue to to try to create a better future for all of us through their thought and imagination.

A few years ago, I found my interest in the Christmas of commercial world diminishing in a significant way, to the extent that even on my company's web-site, it is not often mentioned - we ship around the world, and there are so many different (and worthy) traditions out there, I thought it would be foolhardy to try to mention them all or to put one in front of another. So about all you find on our web-site is something about closing for our Christmas break, which is what it is.

What buying I do is done in the small town where I live and occasionally on-line. Nowadays my sisters and I exchange cookies, balsam wreaths, fruitcake, what our mother used to call tokens. How right she was. These are just modest indications of a valuable and loving relationship, and that is sufficient unto the day.

I have told you this story before, but in case you missed it.....Some years ago I was in Cambridge, England, for the annual Christmas Eve presentation of "A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols," from the Chapel of King's College Cambridge (more details about the radio broadcast below). A few days before the service, I ran into the Dean in the Chapel, and during our conversation I said I was surprised that the chapel looked as it did at other times of the year when I had visited - beyond the glories of the building's fabric and glass, there was no hint of the Christmas season - or put simply, what I had become accustomed to in my own country. He sought details, and I said that in the USA, churches are decorated with poinsettias, wreaths, pine trees, ribbons, and so on.

He looked at me kindly and said, "Here, we believe that Christmas is in the heart."

Although I felt about an inch tall after taking onboard what he'd said, I knew instantly, to the marrow of my bones, that he was right, and that one sentence has for many years kept me from toppling into the abyss, you know, the one where we mistake the giving of stuff for the gift of love. It was a great thing the Dean bestowed on me, and during every Christmastide since, I have been exceeding glad of it.

And so at this time I turn inward and try to contemplate anew the simple story which has been a part of my life since I can remember...about a man and his wife travelling home to be taxed, and the birth of a son whose life was to affect much of the world. The words and the music surrounding the story lift up my spirit and sustain me through all the distractions.

On Christmas Day morning, I pour myself a large cup of coffee, sit in my favorite chair, lift Islay the scotty up and put her on my lap. Then we look out to the lake and one of us remembers the Christmases past and feels sustained by memory, love, and the knowledge that if Christmas is not in the heart, it cannot truly be Christmas. The other keeps an eye out for squirrels with full knowledge that any chase will be futile, no matter what. Both perspectives are appropriate and worthy.

To you and yours, Islay and I wish you a happy and contented season celebration of your choice.

Nick Nash

"Love Means Never Having To See Your Mousey" or "Things That Go Gnaw In The Night"

An Introductory Comment From Nick Nash:While I'm away, Ms Lisa Glynne has agreed to step out of the shadows of the Wasatch Mountains into the glare of the blogosphere, and with my great appreciation for her efforts, here she is with her first-ever blog contribution:

Hello, lovely readers....Lisa Glynne here. I have been invited to pinch hit with a screed whilst Dr. Nash is away on another great adventure. Up until the time when I discovered his wonderful website, I thought that a "screed" was a tool that one would use to level freshly poured cement. Chances are, I've been watching too much "This Old House!" Anyway, I felt it was quite an honor to be asked, especially since he has set the screeding bar quite high with his thought provoking insight and wit. But, as I mentioned to him in a recent conversation, I think I can limbo under that bar.

This will be my first screed (or blog) ever, and the idea of it being read as such, the notion of exposing one's thoughts, seems not unlike throwing open the curtains at night in your brightly lit hotel room, only to discover an apartment building full of people right across the way, looking back in. So I will consider this a big wave to you all, and hopefully, you won't run screaming out of the building.

I was born and raised in San Francisco, California , and after a bit of living around, finally settled (for now, at least) in Salt Lake City, Utah, where I am based and working as a flight attendant for a recently-out-of-bankruptcy major air carrier. While on a layover in Honolulu, I heard some lovely music that combined the Hawaiian Slack-Key Guitar with a Dobro and some kind of flute. An unlikely combination of instruments I thought, and after asking someone about the flute, was told it was an Hawaiian Nose Flute. Intrigued, upon my return home, I did some "googling" on the internet and found the site for the Nash Company. Dr. Nash was kind enough to send me some information and history about the instrument, which apparently has ancient origins as a means of communication across the islands before the advent of electricity. It is still being played in the islands to this day, and it is beautiful stuff as long as you can get over the visual, shall I say, discomfort of observing exactly HOW it is played.

As I write this in late autumn, we are in the middle of a brilliant Fall here in Utah. The Wasatch Mountains are frosted with snow, the red, gold, orange and greenish leaves are particularly gorgeous against that backdrop, and the air is crisp. So crisp in fact, that mice, those little 4 legged critters, 'Mus Musculus' (according to Wikipedia) are looking for warmer places to snuggle into. I myself have heard some scampering in the attic, which is fine with me as long as the scampering STAYS in the attic. Little miceys have to live too, after all. I came by this attitude of rodentia tolerance during my formative years when my brother and I, after the passing of our beloved German Shepherd (who acted as a sort of canine Nanny to us) begged our parents for another pet.

The prospect of loving and eventually losing another dog or cat was not high on our folks' "fun things to do" list. They were, however, amenable to the idea of something small and furry and seemingly (to them) devoid of personality, which lived in a cage and to which we would not get awfully attached. Upon our visit to the local pet purveyor, we discovered that there had apparently been a run on gerbils and hamsters, and the only warm-blooded caged mammals left were 3 brown and cream colored Hooded (brown color runs from head down to the end of the spine, with cream color in the balance) Rattus Norvegicus, or, domesticated Norway Rats. We were young enough that there was no stigma attached to owning rats as pets - after all, we were raised on the Mickey Mouse Club, and never realized that rats were critters much maligned (remember Edward G. Robinson's famous "You Dirty Rat" line?); e.g., the under-rat. So we took them home, named them after some silly cartoon characters, and helped them set up Rattus Norvegicus housekeepingus. To our delight, we discovered that a) they were very social creatures, both towards each other and towards us, b) they were smart and trainable, and c) their breath always smelled like celery. We had a lovely albeit short relationship with them, until they went to "Farmer Brown's Ranch," a euphemism our parents used to shield us from the inevitable outcome of their pre-ordained brief lifespan.

Now, my original intention in this screed was not to wax rhapsodic about pet rat ownership, but to demonstrate my familiarity and affection for small tail-bearing mammals who try to coexist with us during the cold, dark winters. But more importantly, I want to tell you about my friend Renee, a strong woman - a golfer, swimmer, runner, and hiker, not to mention a former professional hula dancer who has toured all over the world. Definitely not a wimp. But who, not having had the childhood experience of getting up close and personal with rodents with long tails, justifiably draws the line at sharing her space with them.

One day upon returning home from a trip, a weary Renee entered her lavishly appointed, meticulously kept kitchen. A fabulous cook, she has every implement of culinary creativity a woman could ask for, and she knows how to use them. You won't be surprised when I tell you that she is also a perfectionist when it comes to ingredients; every item of produce, every dairy product, every spice and seasoning is chosen with a trained and artistic eye.

Which is why she was so perplexed to see a bunch of perfectly ripened bananas on the counter, with one tiny hole in the best one. She couldn't imagine having overlooked it when she bought them. She was pondering a possible explanation when her beloved husband Jason entered the room, chatted with her for a bit, then became quite nervous and was very obviously trying to gently shoo her into another room. After a bit more chat, she swore he was trying to get her out of the house entirely, suggesting a few non-urgent (to her) "errands."

But unfortunately she did not leave soon enough, because out of the corner of her eye she saw a grey, definitely non-domesticated blur race across the floor. A MOUSE! Jason sprung into action and, using the most humane of techniques, managed to "escort" the furry four-legged invader back out into the wilds of suburbia.

I think you will agree, dear reader, that is true love. Not only did the uber-thoughtful Jason take on the role of small-game-hunter, he tried his utmost to do it discreetly enough so that Renee would never even have to know that Stuart-Little-In-The-Raw had dropped by for a visit.

Love is love, whether it takes the form of a a kid and her pet rats, or the conquering mouse-hero and his very lucky bride. Unless, of course, you're the uninvited four-footed in the story.

Lisa Glynne

Turning Over An Old Leaf

As I write this, I'm sitting in my "new" home office in the old farmhouse by the lake, and for a change the morning sunlight is streaming through the windows. But before it gets to me, it entertains the remaining leaves on the old oak trees and turns them a golden tan. My house is surrounded by oaks, and so every fall, unless there is a lot of wind, my house is surrounded by oak leaves.

When I was closer to the ground and all my physical systems were nearly perfect, I loved jumping in the piles of leaves every autumn. They stuck in your hair (those were the good old days), your clothes, and there was leaf dust up my nose. After the pile had reached a certain size, it was dragged on a tarp to the driveway and ceremonially burned. Now, it was not so much the glow of the leaves as they turned to ash, but the smell of the smoke It said "Fall, this is it, get your jollies - football, caramel apples, warmish days and coolish nights, because the snow is just around the corner." We never called it autumn because, I think, at that stage of the game, we lacked perspective.

When I became a home owner, I discovered the down-side of leaves. I had to rake the damn things and discovered that their arrival on the ground occurred continually, as opposed to all at once. I learned by heart the prayer for the wind to come and convey my leaves to my neighbors' yards or to the street so I could pretend that the result had nothing whatsoever to do with me.

Three decades ago when I moved to my present home named "Shambles" as much for the way a Scottish terrier moves when not chasing squirrels as for the pathetic quality of my housekeeping - I had to learn to live with an acre of oak trees. Year upon year, every autumn weekend I went out with the rake and a tarp and raked and raked and raked and hauled and hauled and hauled. It was wearying and tiresome.

Local ordinances prevented the burning of leaves, so I started bagging them up, until plastic bags were forbidden, in favor of large and not inexpensive paper bags.

The next step was to buy a shredder to reduce the volume of leaves, and that in turn reduced the number of paper bags of leaves, which lowered the cost of having the garbage service pick them up and take them to what must be the world's largest compost heap.

Then my hip began to deteriorate, although I am sure that the 75 shredded bags of oak leaves each autumn had nothing to do with it. No sirree.

I couldn't rake 'em, couldn't burn 'em, had become tired of shredding 'em, and hated hauling 'em out to the driveway.

What to do? I mulled this over through a winter and finally decided to hire a lawn service which offered a fall clean-up. I had some difficulty persuading myself that paying somebody else to cut the grass just so he would be willing to vacuum up all my leaves and remove them from the premises, but thinking about shredding, bagging, and hauling seventy-five bags of leaves became the fulcrum for my decision to pay a lot more money to solve the problem.

My hip and my back were grateful. My wallet less so, but it has come to accept the advantages of this tactical decision.

One of the best decisions I ever made, it turns out. Now my only worry is whether Roland will show up before the snow covers the leaves, but so far he has a perfect record of making it in time - sometimes, just.

I don't think about leaves much any more, certainly not about jumping in piles of them or about burning them or smelling their smoke. But when the light transforms them of an autumn morning, happy memories from other earlier times begin to appear in my head.

When the memories of youth quieten, I remind myself that each of us is like a leaf - unique, transitory, more beautiful and compelling when we find that light which illumines us.

Beatrix Potter & Mrs Tiggy Winkle

On my first visit to England - almost too many decades ago, it seems - I met the memory of Beatrix Potter. Meandering in the Lake District, I happened upon "Hilltop," near Sawrey, the first property she bought when she decided to live away from her wealthy family's home in London.

It was a grey rainy day when I visited, and because it was late in the afternoon, I was the only one in the house, about which I don't recall much. But I do remember - vividly - my amazement at the luminous quality of her watercolors. Unlike the reproductions in her books of that time, these pictures just jumped off the page into your heart without so much as a by-your-leave.

On my way back to the car, I asked one of the older women on duty if any of the Royal Ballet film "Peter Rabbit," had been shot near the premises.

"Yes," she said. "As I was coming to work in the coach (bus), I looked out the window and across the road, Frederick Ashton, who was a very tall man, came bounding down the hill as Mrs Tiggy Winkle. I said to the coach driver, "Oh, look, there's Mrs Tiggy Winkle. He seemed quite surprised to see a six foot plus badger in an apron carrying a basket, surrounded by a film crew."

She paused, then added with a laugh in her voice, "You know that man has never looked at me the same way since."

I suppose the books about Peter Rabbit and all his friends were read to me when I was very young - I simply don't remember. But I have never forgot that brief exchange in the Lake District.

That experience returned in a rush recently when I sat down to watch "Miss Potter, a movie with Renée Zellweger in the lead. I had been impressed, but not overwhelmingly, in her portrayals of Bridget Jones. She was nearly convincing, I thought in wrestling the English accent to the ground, so I was not especially sanguine about this attempt.

I have long been a great admirer of small films, especially from the UK, where the rhythms of story telling require of the audience more patience and an open heart, as well as - truth be told - a modest grasp of the history and zeitgeist of the time in which the story is told.

I forgot about Ms Zellweger's accent in about ninety seconds - the same length of time it took Helen Mirren to disappear completely in her portrayal of Queen Elizabeth II. Zellweger is marvelous and is surrounded by a first rate cast.

The conflict in the film between daughter and mother, mediated to a degree by Beatrix's father, and her lifelong commitment to drawing animals and making up stories about them were sufficient to keep my interest, and Zellweger's portrayal of an independent woman struggling to free herself of the Victorian era is compelling.

No robots, no loud explosions, no guns, no violence, and no profanity - quiet enough for you to respond to the story. And if you don't like the story, then just wait for the shots of the landscapes in Scotland and the Lake District.

In its own way, Miss Potter reminded me of "Sweet Land," another quiet film, made here in Minnesota. Both are great ways to spend an evening, especially if you have a ready supply of popcorn. (And if you missed "Calendar Girls," put that on your video rental list too.)

Oh, and don't forget the Kleenex.

A Home Town Architectural Catastrophe

In the early 1960s, Tyrone Guthrie, the great Irish theater director, arrived fresh from his great success in Stratford, Ontario, where he had created the energetic Stratford Shakespeare Festival. The Walker Art Center gave over some of its property, and local architect Ralph Rapson designed the space around the thrust stage which echoed the design of the outdoor Elizabethan theaters. It was a building whose public spaces were full of light and views of downtown Minneapolis. We were constantly reminded of the beauty of our town, and the transitions from life to drama and back again brought meaning to both experiences.

Five decades later, it was determined (note the evasive use of the passive) that this first space was no longer usable or desirable, and the board and management found a Swiss architect to build them a new trio of theatres. No doubt he and his minions arrived wearing handsome English suits and speaking with attractive foreign accents - it had to be that which helped bamboozle the locals. One hundred and twenty five million dollars or so later, we have three theaters in one building (thrust, proscenium, and black box) and around them is a building so unworkable for bipedal primates that the result is a building which only the spiders who relish the warm metal exterior surfaces in the summer heat can like.

But let me be specific. The exterior of the building is not too bad (well, except for the arachnids), but only the ground floor restaurant has a sign indicating its entrance. The main way to the theatre is not disguised, nor is it obvious. Nothing like a marquee which has traditionally marked the main entry to a theater.

The theatres are on the top floor, accessed by elevators or an escalator which is most reminiscent either of a journey from hell or from the station level at Piccadilly Circus in London. One ascends into what can only be described as gloom but in reality is an unlit lobby. Along the walls are what appear to be black marble benches ,so I guess I shouldn't have been very surprised when the elderly gent leaving the men's room just in front of me took a hard right and banged his leg hard into the nearly invisible marble edge of the bench.

I've been in two of the three theatres, and they're OK. For some reason, the architects provided hand rails along one side of the aisle only, so the aged looking for support will be helped for only half of their theatre going experience. As one who nurtured a deteriorating hip, this decision to ration the hand rails leads to the conclusions that old people are not welcome in the theatre, the architects are too young to be sympathetic to such realities of life. or the architects lacked intelligence beyond their antipathy to the varied conditions which life creates for ageing bodies.

In the winter, there is no skyway to help people from the parking garage across from the theater, but there is a skyway for sets and props. One can imagine what donors must think of this situation - having always to cross a street, often in the dark, and sometimes covered with snow and ice.

Some years ago, there was a play called "Art," about three middle age male friends, one of whom pays a lot of money for a plain white canvas. When his pals arrive to see this new thing, one of them studies it very carefully, then observes, "Well, it's sh*t." (The balance of the play has to do with the re-stitching of the friendship.)

Apparently, no one on the board or staff of the Guthrie stood up and declaimed a sentiment akin to the one in the previous paragraph, and God knows, they should have.

Since the opening, the theatre has added light boxes in the lobbies to dispel some of the gloom, and stainless steel stanchions (how veddy attractive they aren't) mark the corners of the hitherto invisible black marble benches.

There should be sense of occasion in going to the theatre. In our town, what one needs is a sense of a flashlight.

At the most recent performance we attended, we sat in the first row of the balcony in the proscenium theatre and had about as much space for our knees as you get flying economy to Europe.

The Guthrie Theatre is no more - I call the building the USS Poseidon after the film about the cruise ship which turns turtle. Now I look for Shelley Winters every time I walk in the place, expecting to see her face floating somewhere overhead in the gloom.

The moral is that nice suits and foreign accents do not necessarily mean success, nor does a leadership group which is seduced by such superficial amenities. Where, oh where, is Frank Gehry when you need him? About a mile away in one the best museum spaces we've ever had at the Weisman Museum on the campus of the University of Minnesota. Odd that the academics got it right, but the bankers and lawyers and corporate moguls appeared to be paying too much attention to their own bottom lines and got it wrong.

We've had two catastrophes on our river lately. One was the bridge that collapsed and will be rebuilt; the other is a theater which will be an albatross around our necks well past my lifetime - and quite possibly yours, too.

Oh, the horror of it all.

We Are The Common Good

If you've had your television set on lately, you have seen the mangled remains of the I35W bridge over the Mississippi River in Minneapolis, and those images are shocking - just plain shocking.

Attempts to remove the dead from the river continue; the injured are recovering from their wounds. The politicians are scurrying about trying to make sure the responsibility falls elsewhere, even as they contemplate raising the gas tax to begin to go to work on the long-deferred problems on our roads and bridges. It seems politicians cannot imagine the future and always like to forget the past.

As I have thought about this local tragedy, I find that I have two reactions: this was a real test of our emergency services, and they appear to have passed with flying colors. Personnel had been well trained; communications systems worked to plan, and the hospitals successfully met the demands imposed. I guess one could call that an operational/strategic reaction.

The second reaction is harder to write about because it is predominantly emotional. When I think of the young man who helped all those kiddoes off the school bus in a precarious position, I find the tears welling up...or when I hear about the passersby and neighbors who saw what had happened and got involved until the police and fire personnel arrived...or when I saw on television the female fire fighter who went into the water to do a complete check of all the automobiles she could reach and said, "We needed to be sure those vehicles were unoccuplied, and it was just part of the job,"...or when I read about the work colleagues of Sherry L. Engebretsen who died in the collapse and their response to her death and their strong continuing support of her family.

Some of us would say, "Well, that's just Minnesotans for you."

Not true, mostly...not any more.

Like a lot of places in this country, we are a diverse metropolitan area, but we share one thing in common: We have survived Minnesota winters, whether it's just the last one or all the ones since World War II. We understand what it's like to dress like the Pillsbury Doughboy (or Michelin Tire, for you across the pond), We know what it's like to fall on our rear-ends on an icy walk. We share a deep and abiding gratitude for a heating system that works, for a cup of coffee hot enough to throw off a curl of steam, for a sack of sand in the trunk of the car, and for a dog who comes promptly when you've whistled him in from an open door when its 30 below zero (f.).

These are our shared values, so when one of us gets in over our heads, we don't stop to do a lot of analysis, we just pitch in.

And we did. Now, this wasn't Hurricane Katrina or anything like that, but it was more than enough, and we stood up to it pretty well.

The investigation and the inevitable lawsuits will drag on for years, and the politicians will have skedaddled behind the nearest hay stack, but those of us who live here are grateful for the help offered with no conditions, for that was, in its own way, a gift to all of us who live here.

In this sad event we have been reminded that it is the common good which requires our service from time to time. And there was no bickering about differences of color or belief or anything else to impede the decision to act, as there might have been in other parts of the world.

In our sadness for what happened, we are simultaneously reminded of why we live here. Not just the challenges and joys of our winters, but the realization that it's one boat we're all in, and when the time comes, each of us has to be prepared to pull on the oar.

Millimeters & Minutes

Today I cannot get what I think is a quote from Shakespeare out of my mind - something to the effect that we all hang on this globe by not much more than a "fragile thread."

Last Friday, the daughter of an old friend was walking along a street in South Africa with her six month old daughter who was in one of those multi purpose baby carriers. An adolescent boy, somewhere in his early teens, on the pretense of wanting mom's backpack, shot the mother in the chest.

The bullet missed the heart by a millimeter and grazed the lung, partially collapsing it, but the mother is now on her way to what we all believe, hope, and pray will be a full recovery physically. Dealing with the emotional trauma will be a great challenge, but this young woman is quite remarkable, and - over time - I have no doubt she will manage this experience effectively.

A millimeter in another direction, and her thread would have broken, but we go on with the expectation that this thread may become stronger because of this experience. The police said the shooting was probably part of a gang initiation and do not expect to be able to find the shooter. But God knows.

Last night I was heading for the concert hall in Minneapolis, and somewhat surprisingly I was late because plans had changed, and I had not been able to be found. I was about to get on the freeway towards the main bridge into the city from my part of the world when I heard on the radio that the bridge had collapsed. You've probably seen this on your tv, newspaper, or heard it on the radio by now.

There were deaths and injuries, but the "first responders" were wonderful, as were nearby bystanders and survivors who rescued others and helped evacuate a school bus full of children.

Had I heard the phone ringing elsewhere in the house and received word of the change of plans, I might have been approaching that bridge about the time it fell into the Mississippi River. I didn't sleep very well last night, and I doubt very much you need an explanation for that.

This morning, I received a number of calls from various parts of the world, and I was grateful beyond words for them.

We are stronger when our threads intermingle - it's easier to move forward, to do what we can, and to help keep all the threads full of vibrant color. Not knowing just when one's thread will break should encourage each us to treat every day as though it might be our last and to leave nothing important unsaid to those about whom we care.

A young woman who survived being shot and those who escaped the falling bridge know this to the marrow of their bones today. The best thing we can do today to understand and to accept in our hearts - as much as we able - what they have learned.

In other words, keep the faith.

Catching A Break

About midday, Islay the Scottish terrier and I went out to get in the car to go to the office. About to put her on lead, I suddenly forgot I had left something on the front hall table, so I turned round, went back into the house, grabbed whatever it was, and went back down the steps....

...where there was no sign of the little black terrier.

This is not the first time in my life such an event has happened because of my own carelesness, and -it's true- I should have known better: A Scot can disappear quicker than you can imagine.

The first thing you do is a collection of stupid things - you check the house knowing full well the dog is not there. Next you wander around the outside of the house baying the dog's name, knowing full well that she's done a runner and is sniffing all sorts of new things, enjoying the sun, looking for birds, vermin, future pals, and a snack or three.

Next I got in the car and drove around with an alleged purpose, in spite of the fact that a small black creature darting about would probably not be trapsing down the bikeway/walkway adjacent to my property.

In the meantime, I was giving myself another in series of angry lectures and at the very same time a trying to will my heart down from my throat into its accustomed position. You know you are not succeeding when the position of your heart interferes with your voice which has suddently become high pitched and very strained.

Finally, I called the local gendarmes and was able to say that the dog had tags galore (she even has a microchip, but that wouldn't help much in these circumstances). The officer who took the call was understanding.

I drove around a bit more, came back to the house for as short period of ritual yelling, then decided to visit "Condo Land" just south of my house. I walked briskly down the path, keeping my braying to what I thought would meet the "good taste requirement" which these communities seem to relish, but again no luck. By now I was seriously vexed with me for my stupidity.

So the trudge back to the house was with a heavy heart, full of fear that some speeding car had taken out my little dog or that she had been captured by someone whom she could never love as much as she loves me (I think. No, I hope.)

About sixty yards from my house, I spied a small black creature sitting and looking at me with moderate interest. "Islay," I called with restrained enthusiasm.

She looked at me with an expression which said, "Bloody hell, now I suppose he'll make a speech, shake a finger, and there won't be any dinner tonight."

We walked together separately back to the front door, and into the house she went. And then I picked her up and gave her a big hug, the first of several, actually.

Some people believe that a dog is a living piece of furniture, something to decorate the place. Some believe that a dog is a member of the family and enjoys all Constitutional rights except the right to vote.

I have always been in the second camp and not always pleased about it, but the companionship of terriers over the years has always been a great solace against the sturm und drang outside my home. Tonight, Islay will lie down next to me with her derriere against my right leg. I shall turn out the light and will slide my hand so that it rests lightly next to the top of her head, and the feeling of gratitude for her safe return will be overwhelming.

No doubt we both caught a break today - lucky just begins to describe it.

Her Majesty The Queen

Last month, I spent part of my vacation in a cottage near Balmoral Castle in the highlands of Scotland. As you probably know, Balmoral is the Scottish home of Britain's Royal Family, and after surveying the hills and rivers and lochs, you know that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert made a great choice something over a century and a half ago.

During my few days in the area, I was lucky enough to attend church with The Queen, sitting about thirty feet away from her, with perhaps sixty of us in the congregation that morning.

She and Prince Philip often spend time in Scotland outside of the annual Court Visit from August through early October, and in the Spring, she comes for a week and stays in another house on the Estate (opening up the castle is too complex for a short stay).

When I'm in the area, I often attend the service at Crathie Church, a short walk from the front gates of the Queen's Estate; I'd heard that she was "in the village," and I guessed she might be going to church. So on the Sunday morning, I turned up early in the neighborhood, and sure enough there were lots of police constables about, so I knew that The Queen would be attending.

The first constable who stopped me asked what my plan was. I told him to attend the service. He opined that the church would be overflowing with people, and I probably wouldn't get in. This contradicted what I had learned from a previous reconnaissance to Crathie and had chatted up the volunteer on duty.

I walked up the hill and met a second police constable, a youngish woman, who stopped me, and we went through the drill again. Finally, I was able to ask, "Where is the queue for those of us not church elders and not church members?"

She pointed behind me. I looked back and saw no one. She smiled and said, "Right now, you are the queue."

We chatted for several minutes, and a few others - maybe ten arrived with the same goal I had; a quarter hour before the proceedings were to begin, we were admitted. I had been in the church enough to know to head to the far left side as far up as I could get, and I achieved my goal (sometimes it's good to be first in line, but not always). Members of the royal family sit on the right side of the church in a pew perpendicular to the ones we ordinary folk occupy.

We all sat quietly, not trying to be too obvious about checking the Royal pew every minute or so - well, every ten seconds or so. And suddenly, there she was in a long coral colored coat with a matching round-brimmed hat. We in the congregation became focussed instantly.

Reading glasses on, the queen participated fully in the service and occasionally glanced at the congregation, while we glanced at her often, trying not to be too terribly obvious. It was a service of two homilies, one for children, the other for the rest of us, lots of hymns, and a good sprinkling of prayers.

As I looked around the church, I was intrigued that there were more people outside the church waiting for a glimpse as she had arrived and would depart than there were in it.

Just before the benediction, we stood and sang what the program leaflet described as the "national anthem," although it has never been proclaimed as that in law. We call it "God Save The Queen," and to sing it with a handful of others in a small church with the Queen in attendance was an amazing experience.

God save our gracious Queen
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen:
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us:
God save the Queen.


I didn't know all the words, although I probably should have, given the number of times I'd heard it sung. We all sang lustily, to impress ourselves, each other, and her, and I expect we all shared at least a portion of the emotion floating in the sounds echoing in the sanctuary. It might have been just another service for The Queen, but it was very special for those few of us in Her Presence.

I saw her again a half hour later at a concert on the lawn in front of her castle. She is very small, and as I am sure someone in the crowd must have observed - she looks just like her picture. Approaching her car after the concert, she looked around at all of us, from the very young to the very old, from many countries, and gave us all a wonderful warm smile. It was a simple thing, but I think we all accepted it as a great gift on an otherwise gray Scottish day.

After lunch, I repaired to my rented cottage and thought about Her Majesty and all that she has seen, experienced, and survived. My conclusion was to have a wee dram of Scotland's own spirit in her honor, so I did, and instead of the traditional toast "Slainte," I substituted, "God Save The Queen."

Under the circumstances, it seemed like the right thing to do.

Crop Or Seed Art

Lillian Colton died last week. You probably don’t recognize her name, but if you are an admirer of the Minnesota State Fair, you would never forget her and the work she created. No obituary was published in the New York Times, but her passing was marked by the two large city papers in the Twin Cities.

Lillian produced crop art – specifically, portraits made out of seeds, painstakingly, one seed at a time. The first time I saw her work – in the Horticulture building, naturally – I was bemused. Well, not really bemused, but not appalled either.

I think I thought something like, “Who would spend his or her time doing this stuff?” In succeeding years, as the portraits multiplied, I began to appreciate the commitment which this woman brought to her work.

Don’t get me wrong, the Metropolitan Museum or the Museum of Modern Art never beat a path to Lillian’s door, but one sensed that didn’t matter to her. She was in the exhibit space one year, answering questions, and she looked like everybody’s "with it" grandmother.

One year, there was an enlarged exhibit, and somewhere in the middle of looking at portraits of Garrison Keillor and Richard Nixon, I finally figured it out:

Like any true artist, what drove Lillian was her passion for it, the kind of commitment that kept her glueing seeds of various hues one by one through the dark Minnesota winters.

You may not like the art, but you must admire the passion.

Passion and playfulness are two essential traits for navigating the lengthening shadow world of old age. Lose the first, and your grip begins to weaken; lose the latter, and there is one less reason for friends and acquaintances to treasure their time with you.

So when you visit your next county or state fair and meander past the jams, jellies, breads, photographs, paintings, woodwork, ironwork, knitting, and crocheting. Remember the passion which underlies the creation of all of them.

I’m sure that there will be a memorial exhibit to Lillian at the Minnesota State Fair – they call it our great state get-together, and I plan on attending, in hopes that just around the corner or down the road, there is someone like Lillian Colton, waiting for his or her chance to illuminate our world with crop art or something very much like it.

To enjoy some of Lillian’s work, click here.

August, 2007 Update From The Minnesota State Fair

K. and I went to the opening day of our great state get-together. Not the grandest of days, it was rainy but cool, and we managed to traipse around for just under seven hours when our legs turned into immovable stumps. One of the highlights was the seed art exhibit. In celebration of Lillian's life, there were photographs of her home in southern Minnesota, her jars of various seeds, and a very congenial picture of her. At the other end of the exhibition were several pieces of her crop art from her career.

And in between, oh my, does the legacy endure you may wonder ? Surely so, with some lovely work done by the young and the not so young. So the foremost practitioner of the art has left us, but her legacy is there for all to see.