Hobbling Through The Zeitgeist

Once Upon A Time, Hockey Was A Game....

2012-01-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

Growing up in Minnesota, I put on my first pair of skates when I was three or four. I was given a chair to lean on and started my life on a rink at my Uncle Fred's house. A few years later, I was skating on the nearby lake, and eventually took up the game of hockey.

The only teams in my youth were school teams - none of this getting up at 4:00 am for an hour's practice, no traveling team, no leagues, no endless tournaments. The season began when it got cold enough to flood the rink - generally after Thanksgiving - and was done in early March.

By the time I got to high school, I loved the game as a below average athlete, played occasionally, and couldn't wait for the school day to end to get out on the ice.

Our equipment was primitive - headgear, thigh pads, knee pads, groin protection, and that was about it. We didn't "lift" the puck, and the slap shot was still to be invented by Bobby Hull of the Chicago Blackhawks when I reached college. In fact at our games, the goal judges stood, unprotected, behind each net, and body checking was fairly primitive and tended not to result in injury.

In my years of competition, I had two hockey injuries: my collarbone fractured when I was checked by a teammate in a practice, and during a scrimmage with another school, one of the opposition held his stick like an axe and managed to hit me between the knee and shin pads, and pieces of cartilage floated in my knee, until age wore them away some years ago.

These days, I watch my favorite game with considerable dismay. Here in Minnesota in the last week, we've had two high school players who were checked from behind into the boards, and they've suffered spinal injuries. The boy will not walk again and may not have the use of his hands; the future of the injured high school girl remains to be determined.

Players have more protection and better equipment; in my view, this leads to increased aggressiveness and heightens the chance of injury. Checking is now central to the game from the early years when young bodies are still growing to the professional leagues, where hockey seems to have become some sort of martial art, and fighting is seen by the "hockey powers that be" as "essential to the game."

I remember when the Russians came to play in the USA back in the 1950s. They didn't check much, but my they could pass the puck and skate like the wind. It was like ballet on ice, and it took us a while to catch up.

Gary Bettman, the commissioner of the NHL, claims that the evidence linking concussion, brain injury, and early dementia has not been proven. The National Football League seems to be approaching the opposite conclusion with a certain studied reluctance.

No matter your views, what we can all agree on is that high school players should not spend their adulthoods in wheelchairs as the result of an unnecessary check. That goes for college and professional players, too.

Hockey is a worthy game without all the tangential violence. With it, it is almost unwatchable. It's time we took the nonsense out of the game and returned to a fuller appreciation of artistry and skill.

Or else....

Update as of 1/26/12
High school hockey officials in Minnesota have imposed several rules changes which will make the game safer for all players. Miscreants will receive far heavier punishment (major penalties, ejection, and suspension; no doubt this will increase the pressure on those who manage college hockey. That written, one wonders whether professional hockey will ever put its goons back in the cave and let us appreciate the beauty of the game without all the miscellaneous physical - forgive me - crap.
Nick

Christmastide 2011

2011-12-15T16:07:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I've written, mainly due to some teaching responsibilities which occupied me from last summer through late autumn and a quite busy stretch in my business - curious given the perceived state of the economy.

If you've read some of these entries over the years, you may remember that back in my radio days in the late 1970s, I began the live broadcast on Christmas Eve morning (9:00 am to be exact here in midwestern America) of "A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols" from the late medieval chapel of King's College at Cambridge University in Cambridge, England.

And, in fact the course I taught was about that Service...me and several dozen age mates exploring medieval history, kings, craftsmen, musicians, priests...and the service.

The class seemed to go down pretty well with the enrollees, and I had to put in two to three long days each week to manage the eight hour and a half sessions.

But oh, what I learned! And oh, what the members of the class taught me!

Over those months, I became interested in the young Dean of the Chapel who initiated this Christmas Eve event at King's. It was something outside the liturgical boundaries of the Church at that time, but the initial impetus had come from the Bishop of Truro some three decades earlier. He was named Archbishop of Canterbury shortly thereafter and so was in a position to push the idea of this new service forward.

Eventually, the idea fell into the hands of Eric Milner-White. He had attended King's College, taken holy orders, and after working in a school and a poor London parish, he returned to King's as Chaplain in 1912- the number two position with an important responsibility to connect and to serve the students, there being a Dean to oversee the administrative and liturgical aspects of the Chapel.

When World War I began in 1914, Milner-White joined the British Army as a chaplain, and in the next four years he served the men of the Seventh Division in Italy and France...or tried to. This was the era of trench warfare - wet, full of muck, attacks and retreats, blood, illness, and death everywhere. In the "Great War," Britain lost nearly 900,000 men, and an additional 1,666,000 were wounded - in a country of 45 million.

The chaplain general of the time was a very conservative cleric, and Milner-White became something of a trial for him: Milner, as many called him, insisted on climbing into "no man's land" with the troops to rescue the wounded.

As a non-combatant, chaplains were not to engage in such activities. Several times Milner-White was "mentioned in dispatches" and ultimately received the Distinguished Service Order (DSO)...very rare for a chaplain.

In addition, Milner-White prayed for the dead, something of which the chaplain-general did not approve although the men of his unit did.

Finally, in one battle, the officers of the unit were either killed or wounded, and the men asked Milner-White to take command. He did, and this must have been the final straw for Milner's superiors.

In January, 1918 he resigned from the Army and returned to King's resuming his position as Chaplain. In midsummer he was promoted to Dean.

Somewhere along the line, and no one knows where, the idea of holding a Christmas Eve service as a gift from his College to the city of Cambridge came to him. Maybe he knew about the service from Truro, maybe someone else did and put the idea in front of him. We don't know, and he destroyed most of his papers relating to those early post-war years, so we may never know.

What we do know is that in early November of 1918, he held a memorial service for the nearly 200 men of King's who had been killed in the war (two of them fought for Germany). Nine days later the Armistice was signed, and six weeks after that arrived the very first "Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols." It has been repeated every year since, and the dominant theme of the biblical readings is the fall and redemption of us all.

After what Milner had witnessed during his years in the War, the concept of redemption must have been at the front of his mind, what with "the War to End All Wars" just behind him but very much on his mind as it was and is for any veteran who has stared into the face of conflict.

The service has not changed very much since 1918, 'though the world has - and has not.

Strife abounds, thousands upon thousands have died. As I write this, American troops are coming home from Iraq; whatever they have experienced with be with us and our descendants for decades.
The situation in Afghanistan is murky, and its end-game not fully known.

Our country's military has a presence in over 100 countries nowadays; yet peace seems more elusive than ever. Economic distress depresses our mood, and many of us feel broadly drawn sense of insecurity, anxiety, anomie...whatever term you prefer.

Perhaps this Christmas, we might reflect yet again on the possibility of redemption and on what each of us might do in coming days to help us all find "peace on earth, goodwill toward men," and women, and children, and all innocent creatures with whom or which we share this world.

Find a public radio station carrying the live broadcast on Christmas Eve morning; gather your friends and neighbors to hear the lessons and to listen to the great choir of men and boys which has been a part of King's College since the mid 1440s (no typo there, believe me!)

The story of Christmas is a simple one; it may take some effort to open yourself to those ancient words, but give it a try, make a start. It will be worth your effort.

A blessed and happy Christmas to us all.

And Now For Something Completely Different....

2011-02-03T16:33:00.000-08:00

It was cold this morning, so I took a little extra time to have another caffeine energizer and happened upon the President speaking at the National Prayer Breakfast. Whenever I have thought about that event over the years - attended by most Presidents since its inception - I wonder things like...well, who goes, is the invocation so long that the eggs and coffee get cold, and who is networking with whom and in what sphere.

Anyway, I lingered long enough to hear the President's speech and was so impressed that I thought you should have a chance to read it. No matter what your political preference, there is a good deal to think about in his words.

President Barack Obama

I want to begin by just saying a word to Mark Kelly, who’s here. We have been praying for Mark’s wife, Gabby Giffords, for many days now. But I want Gabby and Mark and their entire family to know that we are with them for the long haul, and God is with them for the long haul. (Applause.)

And even as we pray for Gabby in the aftermath of a tragedy here at home, we're also mindful of the violence that we're now seeing in the Middle East, and we pray that the violence in Egypt will end and that the rights and aspirations of the Egyptian people will be realized and that a better day will dawn over Egypt and throughout the world.

For almost 60 years, going back to President Eisenhower, this gathering has been attended by our President. It’s a tradition that I'm proud to uphold not only as a fellow believer but as an elected leader whose entry into public service was actually through the church. This may come as a surprise, for as some of you know, I did not come from a particularly religious family. My father, who I barely knew -- I only met once for a month in my entire life -- was said to be a non-believer throughout his life.

My mother, whose parents were Baptist and Methodist, grew up with a certain skepticism about organized religion, and she usually only took me to church on Easter and Christmas -- sometimes. And yet my mother was also one of the most spiritual people that I ever knew. She was somebody who was instinctively guided by the Golden Rule and who nagged me constantly about the homespun values of her Kansas upbringing, values like honesty and hard work and kindness and fair play.

And it’s because of her that I came to understand the equal worth of all men and all women, and the imperatives of an ethical life and the necessity to act on your beliefs. And it’s because of her example and guidance that despite the absence of a formal religious upbringing my earliest inspirations for a life of service ended up being the faith leaders of the civil rights movement.

There was, of course, Martin Luther King and the Baptist leaders, the ways in which they helped those who had been subjugated to make a way out of no way, and transform a nation through the force of love. But there were also Catholic leaders like Father Theodore Heshburg, and Jewish leaders like Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Muslim leaders and Hindu leaders. Their call to fix what was broken in our world, a call rooted in faith, is what led me just a few years out of college to sign up as a community organizer for a group of churches on the Southside of Chicago. And it was through that experience working with pastors and laypeople trying to heal the wounds of hurting neighborhoods that I came to know Jesus Christ for myself and embrace Him as my lord and savior. (Applause.)

Now, that was over 20 years ago. And like all of us, my faith journey has had its twists and turns. It hasn’t always been a straight line. I have thanked God for the joys of parenthood and Michelle’s willingness to put up with me. (Laughter.) In the wake of failures and disappointments I've questioned what God had in store for me and been reminded that God’s plans for us may not always match our own short-sighted desires.

And let me tell you, these past two years, they have deepened my faith. (Laughter and applause.) The presidency has a funny way of making a person feel the need to pray. (Laughter.) Abe Lincoln said, as many of you know, “I have been driven to my knees many times by the overwhelming conviction that I had no place else to go.” (Laughter.)

Fortunately, I'm not alone in my prayers. Pastor friends like Joel Hunter and T.D. Jakes come over to the Oval Office every once in a while to pray with me and pray for the nation. The chapel at Camp David has provided consistent respite and fellowship. The director of our Faith-based and Neighborhood Partnership’s office, Joshua DuBois -- young minister himself -- he starts my morning off with meditations from Scripture.

Most of all, I've got friends around the country -- some who I know, some who I don’t know, but I know their friends who are out there praying for me. One of them is an old friend named Kaye Wilson. In our family we call her Momma Kaye. And she happens to be Malia and Sasha’s godmother. And she has organized prayer circles for me all around the country. She started small with her own Bible study group, but once I started running for President and she heard what they were saying about me on cable, she felt the need to pray harder. (Laughter.) By the time I was elected President, she says, “I just couldn’t keep up on my own.” (Laughter.) “I was having to pray eight, nine times a day just for you.” (Laughter.) So she enlisted help from around the country.

It’s also comforting to know that people are praying for you who don’t always agree with you. Tom Coburn, for example, is here. He is not only a dear friend but also a brother in Christ. We came into the Senate at the same time. Even though we are on opposite sides of a whole bunch of issues, part of what has bound us together is a shared faith, a recognition that we pray to and serve the same God. And I keep praying that God will show him the light and he will vote with me once in a while. (Laughter.) It’s going to happen, Tom. (Laughter.) A ray of light is going to beam down. (Laughter.)

My Christian faith then has been a sustaining force for me over these last few years. All the more so, when Michelle and I hear our faith questioned from time to time, we are reminded that ultimately what matters is not what other people say about us but whether we're being true to our conscience and true to our God. “Seek first His kingdom and His righteousness and all these things will be given to you as well.”

As I travel across the country folks often ask me what is it that I pray for. And like most of you, my prayers sometimes are general: Lord, give me the strength to meet the challenges of my office. Sometimes they’re specific: Lord, give me patience as I watch Malia go to her first dance -- (laughter) -- where there will be boys. (Laughter.) Lord, have that skirt get longer as she travels to that dance. (Laughter.)

But while I petition God for a whole range of things, there are a few common themes that do recur. The first category of prayer comes out of the urgency of the Old Testament prophets and the Gospel itself. I pray for my ability to help those who are struggling. Christian tradition teaches that one day the world will be turned right side up and everything will return as it should be. But until that day, we're called to work on behalf of a God that chose justice and mercy and compassion to the most vulnerable.

We've seen a lot of hardship these past two years. Not a day passes when I don't get a letter from somebody or meet someone who’s out of work or lost their home or without health care. The story Randall told about his father -- that's a story that a whole lot of Americans have gone through over these past couple of years.

Sometimes I can't help right away. Sometimes what I can do to try to improve the economy or to curb foreclosures or to help deal with the health care system -- sometimes it seems so distant and so remote, so profoundly inadequate to the enormity of the need. And it is my faith, then, that biblical injunction to serve the least of these, that keeps me going and that keeps me from being overwhelmed. It’s faith that reminds me that despite being just one very imperfect man, I can still help whoever I can, however I can, wherever I can, for as long as I can, and that somehow God will buttress these efforts.

It also helps to know that none of us are alone in answering this call. It’s being taken up each and every day by so many of you -- back home, your churches, your temples and synagogues, your fellow congregants -- so many faith groups across this great country of ours.

I came upon a group recently called “charity: water,” a group that supports clean water projects overseas. This is a project that was started by a former nightclub promoter named Scott Harrison who grew weary of living only for himself and feeling like he wasn’t following Christ as well as he should.
And because of Scott’s good work, “charity: water” has helped 1.7 million people get access to clean water. And in the next 10 years, he plans to make clean water accessible to a hundred million more. That’s the kind of promoting we need more of, and that’s the kind of faith that moves mountains. And there’s stories like that scattered across this room of people who’ve taken it upon themselves to make a difference.

Now, sometimes faith groups can do the work of caring for the least of these on their own; sometimes they need a partner, whether it’s in business or government. And that’s why my administration has taken a fresh look at the way we organize with faith groups, the way we work with faith groups through our Office of Faith-based and Neighborhood Partnerships.

And through that office, we’re expanding the way faith groups can partner with our government. We’re helping them feed more kids who otherwise would go hungry. We’re helping fatherhood groups get dads the support they need to be there for their children. We’re working with non-profits to improve the lives of people around the world. And we’re doing it in ways that are aligned with our constitutional principles. And in this work, we intend to expand it in the days ahead, rooted in the notions of partnership and justice and the imperatives to help the poor.

Of course there are some needs that require more resources than faith groups have at their disposal. There’s only so much a church can do to help all the families in need -- all those who need help making a mortgage payment, or avoiding foreclosure, or making sure their child can go to college. There’s only so much that a nonprofit can do to help a community rebuild in the wake of disaster. There’s only so much the private sector will do to help folks who are desperately sick get the care that they need.
And that's why I continue to believe that in a caring and in a just society, government must have a role to play; that our values, our love and our charity must find expression not just in our families, not just in our places of work and our places of worship, but also in our government and in our politics.

Over the past two years, the nature of these obligations, the proper role of government has obviously been the subject of enormous controversy. And the debates have been fierce as one side’s version of compassion and community may be interpreted by the other side as an oppressive and irresponsible expansion of the state or an unacceptable restriction on individual freedom.

That's why a second recurring theme in my prayers is a prayer for humility. Now, God answered this prayer for me early on by having me marry Michelle. (Laughter and applause.) Because whether it’s reminding me of a chore undone, or questioning the wisdom of watching my third football game in a row on Sunday, she keeps me humble. (Laughter.)

But in this life of politics when debates have become so bitterly polarized, and changes in the media lead so many of us just to listen to those who reinforce our existing biases, it’s useful to go back to Scripture to remind ourselves that none of has all the answers -- none of us, no matter what our political party or our station in life.

The full breadth of human knowledge is like a grain of sand in God’s hands. And there are some mysteries in this world we cannot fully comprehend. As it’s written in Job, “God’s voice thunders in marvelous ways. He does great things beyond our understandings.”

The challenge I find then is to balance this uncertainty, this humility, with the need to fight for deeply held convictions, to be open to other points of view but firm in our core principles. And I pray for this wisdom every day.

I pray that God will show me and all of us the limits of our understanding, and open our ears and our hearts to our brothers and sisters with different points of view; that such reminders of our shared hopes and our shared dreams and our shared limitations as children of God will reveal the way forward that we can travel together.

And the last recurring theme, one that binds all prayers together, is that I might walk closer with God and make that walk my first and most important task.

In our own lives it’s easy to be consumed by our daily worries and our daily concerns. And it is even easier at a time when everybody is busy, everybody is stressed, and everybody -- our culture is obsessed with wealth and power and celebrity. And often it takes a brush with hardship or tragedy to shake us out of that, to remind us of what matters most.

We see an aging parent wither under a long illness, or we lose a daughter or a husband in Afghanistan, we watch a gunman open fire in a supermarket -- and we remember how fleeting life can be. And we ask ourselves how have we treated others, whether we’ve told our family and friends how much we love them. And it’s in these moments, when we feel most intensely our mortality and our own flaws and the sins of the world, that we most desperately seek to touch the face of God.

So my prayer this morning is that we might seek His face not only in those moments, but each and every day; that every day as we go through the hustle and bustle of our lives, whether it’s in Washington or Hollywood or anywhere in between, that we might every so often rise above the here and now, and kneel before the Eternal; that we might remember, Kaye, the fact that those who wait on the Lord will soar on wings like eagles, and they will run and not be weary, and they will walk and not faint.

When I wake in the morning, I wait on the Lord, and I ask Him to give me the strength to do right by our country and its people. And when I go to bed at night I wait on the Lord, and I ask Him to forgive me my sins, and look after my family and the American people, and make me an instrument of His will.

I say these prayers hoping they will be answered, and I say these prayers knowing that I must work and must sacrifice and must serve to see them answered. But I also say these prayers knowing that the act of prayer itself is a source of strength. It’s a reminder that our time on Earth is not just about us; that when we open ourselves to the possibility that God might have a larger purpose for our lives, there’s a chance that somehow, in ways that we may never fully know, God will use us well.

May the Lord bless you and keep you, and may He bless this country that we love. (Applause.)

Christmastide 2010

2010-12-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

One hundred and thirty years ago this Christmas Eve, several hundred people gathered at 10 p.m. in a wooden church to welcome Christmas, as the new cathedral was not yet finished in Truro, Cornwall, England.

The idea for this service was put forward by the Reverend G H S Walpole, and the newish Bishop of Truro, the Reverend Edward White Benson, took up the idea and developed what he called "A Festal Service of Lessons and Carols." And that's exactly what it was - lessons from the Old and New Testaments and music, mainly from Handel's "Messiah."

Three years later, Benson was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury and during his thirteen year tenure spread the word about this service, and very slowly it began to find its way into other churches, even though it fell outside of the liturgical conventions of that time.

And as it does, time passed...quite a lot of time, it turned out.

In 1912, Eric Milner White, a graduate of King’s College, was appointed Chaplain of the college; when war broke out two years later, he joined the Army as a chaplain and served in France and Italy. Toward the end of the war, his unit was heavily engaged, and all the officers were either killed or wounded. The men asked Milner White to take command. He did, and by doing so, violated the role of non-combatant required of clergy in combat. He left the army - or perhaps it was the army which left him - and returned to his previous position at King’s College, and just a few months later was appointed Dean of the Chapel, a position of considerable importance.

In the autumn of the first year of his Deanship, he proposed a "new" service for Christmas Eve - its roots were in Truro, but under Milner White it was transformed; he saw it as part of a new approach to liturgy in the Church and brought three key elements from the service in Truro - a mixture of lessons read and carols sung, readers from a chorister (boy singer) to the Provost of the college (where at Truro the readers were members of the community and clergy), and the idea that the service was a gift from the college to the community. He changed some of the lessons, re-positioned some, and broadened the musical choices, with the somewhat reluctant help of the Director of Music, Dr A. H. Mann (who served at King's in that role for fifty-four years).

And then....and then, Milner White wrote the great bidding prayer; it comes early in the service and includeds these wonderful words: “Lastly, let us remember before God all those who rejoice with us, but upon another shore, and in a greater light, that multitude which no man can number, whose hope was in the Word made flesh, and with whom in the Lord Jesus we are for ever one.”

So on Christmas Eve, 1918, six weeks after the Armistice was declared on November 11th, ending World War I, a congregation gathered in King’s College Chapel, that amazing gothic stone structure begun by Henry VI and completed by Henry VIII, for the first “Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols."

One can only speculate on the feelings of those in attendance as they heard the words of the bidding prayer, mindful as they were of the great sacrifices made by all who took part in the "war to end all wars" but especially by friends - students, staff and professors at King's and all the other Cambridge colleges. Even today, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh month, the memory of all those lost in World War I is honored throughout the United Kingdom.

Nine decades later, we can participate in that same service by listening to public radio... and nine decades later, we should take time to appreciate the poignancy and meaning of that first service and perhaps find relevant links to events in our own time.

The lineage of this service from Truro to listeners around the world is a reminder that small ideas, well, thoughtfully, and sometimes accidentally nurtured, often find their way into our lives - if we lower our defenses and permit them entry. Some of them will survive and become recurring elements in the lives of a few; a smaller number will grow, change, and be meaningful to untold numbers of people in many different parts of our world.

You, faithful reader, have your own ideas about the greater good. To grow them, all one need to is, well, to begin....

In spite of the turmoil which surrounds us these days, the blessings of the season upon you....

Nick Nash

Looking Towards Our Silent Night

2010-11-25T18:32:00.000-08:00

We need silence now more than ever before. Surrounded as we are by the persistent and loud beating of the drums of politics and commerce, as well as the beeps and tones from the electronic devices which live in our kitchens, game rooms, pockets, purses, and briefcases, we need a break, and this is the perfect time of year to permit yourself to do just that.

Just before I sat down to write this, I went out to shovel the snow off the front steps. It was cold, probably about 12 degrees Fahrenheit; the sun was bright, and no wind...a perfect winter day. (The calendar may suggest late autumn, but it's winter, no doubt about it.

The shovel scraped under the snow on each step, and once in a while, I would have to punch the blade into the packed stuff to break it up so that I could clear it away.

From time to time, I would pause to look around to check on Islay, the beloved Scotty. She seemed to be enjoying the silence as she moved around studying the yard.

After a week involving the loss of heat and hot water in the house when the boiler committed hari-kiri - I found my bit of shoveling in the silence quite restorative.

These few minutes were an excellent reminder that for my own good, I need to time to be outside in the quiet and refreshing (cold better outside than in, I've learned yet again), especially when Islay and go out for the last time before bed and frequently view the array of stars in the black sky, our own silent night, in anticipation of the season of joy to come.

Islay, Beloved Dog

2010-11-02T09:52:00.001-07:00

Today I celebrate Islay the beloved Scottish terrier's birthday and calling it her sixth. Because she came from the Humane Society, we're not sure of the details, so I decided to make them up.

When she arrived in my life, I hadn't had a dog in the house for several years - the last one died just as a hip started its decline, and I felt it would be unfair to have a dog I couldn't exercise properly. After the hip replacement adventure, I began to think about another dog. About that time I got a call about a scotty at the humane society and made the delicious mistake of following up promptly (somewhat unlike me), and Islay arrived in my life.

And nothing has been the same since. After a rambunctious, even wild start, she began to calm, to develop confidence, and - as one would expect from a terrier - manage me from morning 'til night.

This began with a studied shake of her head which caused her id tags and dog license to jingle brightly, and shortly that signal became the sign that it was

time to get up
time to go out
time for breakfast
time to go out again
time for a walk
time for a snack
time to go out
time to go out again
time for another walk,
time for dinner
time to go out
time to go out again
time for a bed time snack.

If the head shake doesn't do the trick, then she leaps up and puts her paws on a knee, and she will do this recurrently until there is an appropriate response. And once I start moving toward the front door, for example, she pushes her cold wet nose into the backs of my ankles. With bare feet in the morning, that strategem still comes as a surprise.

On our walks together, Islay sets the pace, and it is I who tries to catch up. Fortunately we frequent nearby trails used by other dogs and their owners, so Islay has to stop regularly to receive and respond to p-mail. Turns out there is quite a lot of that, but I try not to notice.

When Islay is joyful, generally just before the food bowl is put down for her, she leaps into the air and manages to get several feet of air underneath her, a sort of canine geländesprung, with no intervening obstacle. She amazes me every time she does it.

There was a point when I wasn't too thrilled about the level of skill Islay had achieved in managing me, but I've "moved on," as we say nowadays, and I rather enjoy it. She gets more done, and I have a happy dog.

Some dogs are companions, and that's well and good. Terriers don't put up with that kind of limitation, and they are relentless in being part of the family. Islay sits on the furniture (the better to see what's going on outside), she checks out the neighbor's big dog to make sure that he's OK, and if she comes in wet from the rain, she rolls on her back, stretches out, and does everything but advertise in full color that a towel plus a drying session had damn well better be close at hand. And yes, the dinner plates end up on the floor for Islay to clean up.

She comes to my office in order to greet visitors, observe the local fauna, and water the local flora at every opportunity, and when K and I drive up to the North Shore of Lake Superior, Islay comes with us, sitting on K's knees, her head resting on the top of the glove compartment, or she chooses to sit on the console, sometimes facing forward, sometimes facing backwards.

Islay is the most recent scot in a long line of them stretching back over four decades. I enjoyed them all for their enthusiasm, energy, and sense of humor.

But she is different, and each day I am grateful for her presence in my life, for the laughter she creates, the crankiness she jollies me out of, and the love she shows continuously.

And I hope she feels the same way about me.

A Thought About Concussions

2010-10-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

As a society with what I think is an excessive interest in "violent sports," we are finally getting around to confronting the issue of the effects of violence on the brains of the participants...not just at the professional levels but all the way down to school boy football and hockey (among others).

Evidence continues to accumulate that there is more damage to brains than we might ever have thought, and just this week the NFL emerged from its dark cave to assess fines and suspensions against some perfectly terrifying hits in the weekend's games.

The long term impact of the mayhem emerges in depression, forgetfulness, and early onset dementia, among other problems. Lives are shortened, families impacted, and at the pro level, insurance does not apparently support the darkling end of live's journey.

There are those who contend that violence is "part of the game," "why people go to the games," and that mayhem has a long and noble history in our country. Cynically, one might say that those who take that point of view probably played too much football, baseball, rugby, soccer, and hockey themselves.

On the constructive side, we're seeing some improvements in the technology of protection, a more generous view towards those who have been hurt and who are very slowly returning to normal (Justin Morneau of the Minnesota Twins is one recent and local example), and stricter rules governing what is acceptable contact.

A sportswriter recently observed that the way to reduce violence in football is to take away the helmets (think rugby here, friends, with some ear protection and nothing else). Think about it...perhaps we have provided too much protection for athletes and so they take too many risks thinking that it's the other athlete who will be injured.

I have a simpler idea. Let's stop using the word "concussion" and start using the phrase "brain injury." Concussion sounds too benign, but "brain injury" tends to get one's attention.

About a decade ago, I slipped on winter ice and fell backwards on my head. I was probably out for a few seconds, but when I came to I couldn't get up, so I crawled into the building and made it down the hall to the tea room where I found some help - but only after they realized that I was not trying to be amusing on a Friday morning

I called my doctor who asked me lots of questions, then told me to go home and to take the weekend off and - especially - not to make any important decisions until the following Monday. I was a bit surprised by that, but he explained that I would be "goofy," to use his word, for several days.

He was absolutely correct about the goofy part, and I resolved to make every effort to avoid a similar event in future and now try to fall on my butt and not my head.

When I imagine athletes getting smacked in the head a couple of hundred times a season (at any level of competition), I wonder why the hell it's taken us so long to get a grip on the problem of voluntary brain injury. And please don't get me started on those who suffer similar difficulties in places like, oh, Afghanistan and Iraq.

This dreadful harvest of brain injury will be with us for decades unless we work quickly to find better solutions.

All Blogged Down

2010-09-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

Since the beginning of this blog, its title has been "Hobbling Through The Zeitgeist," but I'm beginning to think that was a bit too optimistic.

It's not about me you understand - I'm still hobbling around reasonably well, thanks to regular doses of ibuprofen and scotch. What it is about is the feeling I have that for the last little while in our country, we're barely able to crawl through the zeitgeist, much less hobble.

No doubt the weight of financial distress and of its multitudinous ramifications has slowed all of us down as we try to manage our lives, lives which have not proceeded along the pathways about which we had hoped and dreamed.

On top of it all, we have a bunch of prancing politicians for whom truth is no longer a virtue and who demonstrate few of the characteristics of being adults. Assertion is the new substitute for fact, and fact - you may recall - is one of the essential building blocks of knowledge. Knowledge, as well as informed and thoughtful speculation, is what adults use. Knowledge is not much in fashion these days, and so we are slouching toward a new "dark age," where the loudest voices will shut out the informed and knowledgeable ones.

You would do well to read Richard Hofstadters "Anti-Intellectualism in American Life," his Pulitzer Prize winning attempt to understand why so many of us believe that ignorance really is bliss, most notably in the fields of politics, religion, and education. His ideas continue to resonate today.

Our infrastructure decays, our schools struggle, local, state and federal governments rob Peter to pay Paul, and the media pushes assertions and not necessarily facts, we believe that we can pay off the national debt by standing on the sidelines and bitching.

Some of us are old enough to remember the words of Walt Kelly's cartoon character Pogo. "We has met the enemy," he said, "and they is us."

That will still be true until the day arrives when we can agree on the facts and find a bunch of grown-ups who will go to Washington and worry a bit less about their own skins and a hell of a lot more about the future of the country. If we're lucky, we may be able to avoid the darkness, out there, waiting. Like me, I think you can sense it.

An Easy Way To Improve Your Driving

2010-07-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

During our recent trip to the UK, we rented a car for our time in Scotland, about three weeks, in other words. The most significant challenge for me in driving in the UK is not the shift to driving on the left but in getting out of the "Roundabout Hell" at Glasgow Airport and across the Erskine Bridge.

Last year I took my GPS, and there was not one curse word heard in the car that first day. So I used the same strategy, and in general the GPS worked well, once we had departed the rental car parking lot. "Jane" as we call her wanted us to exit the lot against the one way traffic; Karen was right, but after that Jane was close to perfect.

So while the GPS took a lot of the pressure off and improved our daily stints in the car, the best thing we did was to leave the radio off...even with the delights of BBC Radios 2 and 3 so easily at hand.

Conversation was easier, of course, but what I discovered was that I could concentrate more easily on the driving - and I could sneak a few more looks at the gorgeous landscapes through which we were passing. I began to enjoy a new sense of calm, so I slowed down a bit and found myself enjoying the sometimes collaborative process of being part of the vehicle flow.

Back home, I've been a bit surprised to find that I was using the radio considerably less, mainly to keep up with the Minnesota Twins baseball game of the day and to find out the weather forecast.

Public radio continues to be something of a distraction, but thus far I'm still more or less in control of sound in the car, except for Islay the Scottish Terrier, the observations and opinions of whom are regularly and forcefully expressed under any circumstance she deems appropriate.

A Prayer For Our Times

2010-06-30T07:41:00.000-07:00

Last May found us in the islands and highlands of Scotland, and it was in the highlands that we had one of those unexpected and unforgettable experiences - in a small church near the River Dee, not far from the front gates of the Queen's Estate at Balmoral. The Church of Scotland is Presbyterian and is proud of its independence, and when we're in the area, we like to attend the Sunday service.

That particular morning, I was surprised to find a "Prayer Of Confession" which I had never come across before, and at the end of the service, I made sure I departed with a copy of the program. I don't know who wrote it or how long it's been around, but I thought it might be of interest to others who may not have read it.

So from "The Parish of Braemar and Crathie," here is that prayer:

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have created a world filled with wonder and abundance, while we make do with dull monotony and self-inflicted shortages.
Forgive us.

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have entered into our world with grace and truth, but we have created a culture of judgement and deception.
Have mercy upon is.

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, you have touched our world with power and presence, and yet we live in the midst of despair and loneliness.
Grant us your peace.

AMEN

After saying that in unison - even after reading it silently - I felt and continue to feel its cool truth sink in. Its essence comes to mind regularly and motivates me....

Verily

The iPad, uh, My iPad

2010-04-08T13:34:00.000-07:00

There seemed to be an awful lot of sturm und drang over the birth of the iPad. I read most of the articles which guessed that it would be an incredibly well designed brick and good for not very much; I also read most of the ones which predicted that it would make and deliver a hot breakfast and that it would be expensive.

Taking the middle way, I reflected on all this and decided to order one partly, I must confess, I am intrigued by new gadgets, especially anything that Apple creates, and at my age you want to learn about this new stuff before the large hand comes out of the blue and takes you off to the happy hunting ground (call it what you will).

I thought that the iPad would be very good for reading books, magazines, and some newspapers. I also felt that it would be more than adequate to deal with television, via the web, via Sling Mobile, or via Netflix. and finally, I thought that for the under 40s, the prospect of games on the iPad would be of interest. And I figured it would be excellent for showing photos. To that end, I acquired the Wi-Fi only version in the belief that enriching AT&T with yet another data plan wasn't a high priority in my world.

That you could wander the web relatively easily and deal with email on a larger screen seemed a great improvement over the limitations of the iPhone (but it does have a place). Finally, no matter how many apps that the 12 year old geniuses come up with, the iPad will not replace a laptop...well, not yet.

The book on the bookshelf when you start up the iPad is "Winnie The Pooh," and the colorful Ernest Shepard drawings are so much more lively than they would be in black and white. A friend whose vision isn't as good as it once was looked at the large type available on iPad books and pronounced it of greater interest to him the Amazon's Kindle. My sister has a Kindle and has enjoyed it immensely, especially when she travels.

But the point is that digitization of print materials like a tsunami. I now subscribe to four newspapers online, and the paper recycling bags at the end of the driveway on Monday morning are now but one.

And yes, I get that there's nothing like the feel of turning the page of the New York Times or of a book whether old or new. Having thought about it some, I've decided that I'll hold out for the printed editions of The New Yorker and Cook's Illustrated, but that's about it.

I think about getting on a plane to London next month with an iPad which will replace the usual four or five books I usually squeeze into the carry-on, and I smile.

My conclusion is that you'd better get on the stagecoach before you find yourself under it. But now I have to return to the most recent episode of Spartacus, on my iPad courtesy of Netflix, and then find some time to leave the electronic world to admire the daffodils at the end of the drive. Nothing compares, even a nice high density image of them on a small screen, and nothing ever will.

Olympic Afterglow

2010-03-02T19:00:00.000-08:00

During the last couple of weeks I found myself in a number of long meetings, and not just Monday through Friday, but on the weekends as well. I'm not complaining, mind you, just describing this last chunk of time.

Yessir, those winter Olympics can eat up a lot of time, what with NBC using a fistful of channels to bring all the delayed action to us. Oh, there were a few things live, but you had to be on the ball to figure that out. But I digress.

Every four years, there is an opportunity to see young athletes at the top of their particular game, and accompanying those performances are stories which are so good, so touching, that i just plop a large box of Kleenex next to my chair and get ready to weep.

This year, a luger from the Republic of Georgie died on the track at Whistler Mountain. It was a terrible tragedy - casting a deep shadow on the judgement and competence of the Canadian engineering. Kleenex.

Joannie Rochette's mother died of a heart attack days before her figure skating competition, but her daughter decided to compete, and was she a wonder, earning the bronze medal with performances of great beauty, skill, and emotion. More Kleenex.

In that same competition, the young Korean skater Yu-Na-KIm took our collective breath away with an incomparable perforance in the long program. She had wonderful lines, enormous grace, and she swept away all her ebullient, enthusiastic, and far less graceful competitiors. It was a night to remember. Kleenex again, just for the beauty of it all.

On the men's side, Evan Lysacek defeated his Russian competition by his careful competence, clear understanding of the judging rules, and a sense of caring which put him ahead of Evgeny Plushenko. Fists in the air but no Kleenex.

The story of the American bobsled driver whose vision had been so poor, he was legally blind and drove by instinct soon came to the fore. Recent daring eye surgery had given him near perfect sight, and in three runs, he took home the gold. The art and science of medicine, plus a patient's courage, made for a very happy ending. Kleenex during the playing of the national anthem at the award ceremony.

But the hockey, both men's and women's games, was a source of considerable delight. Both USA teams ultimately lost to Canada in championship matches, but the games were as intense, competitive, creative, and exhausting as any I've ever seen. Too involved for Kleenex until the end of two men's games against Canada and the women's final contest.

I'm learning about the half-pipe and am amazed by the athleticism of the competitors, and curling is beginning to intrigue me more than ever before, but now I have four years to wait before I can re-evaluate my interest. But speaking of curling, if there is a better play-by-play person for a sport than John Duguid, I don't know who it would be. He treats the audience with respect and understands the game thoroughly so that you feel that you understand what the participants are thinking before making every strategic decision. And Mike Emrick did a terrific job with the hockey play-by-play, but often I felt as though as was sitting under an enthusiastic and endless cascade of words, words, words.

So now Vancouver and Canada begin to recover from what must be the greatest national hangover in decades. I'll bet they don't regret the celebration one damn bit.

Intersections Of A Different Sort

2009-12-30T14:20:00.000-08:00

The fun in travel is discovering new intersections – not so much of roads – but of relationships. On our recent Christmas in England, we had several examples of the role serendipity plays in making travel interesting and often amusing.

On the flight to London, I happened to have brief exchange with one of the flight attendants, a jolly middle-aged blonde named Susan. It was about the fact that “cream” in airline lingo does not mean cream at all, but half-and- half. That was all they had on the flight, but then she asked when we were coming back. Upon hearing the date, she said she was assigned to that flight and would sneak some proper cream from the first class cabin so that my coffee would be as I liked it. Uh-huh, thought I.

At the cabin door ten days later, she greeted me as the “cream man,” and before take-off, we had a fine chat. Turns out she hadn’t been home much at Christmas, home being Salt Lake City, but she and her husband were coming to London early in the new year for a few days “without the kids.”

We did not know that our first intersection would be in the air enroute to England, but we shall treasure it, because she made us feel like good acquaintances and not like sheep in a pen heading for the abbatoir.

In fact her generosity of spirit was the first of several presents we received along the way.

Oh, and the cream was deeeeeeelish! Many thanks, Susan. Happy New Year to you and yours, and many smooth flights in the years ahead. You were delightful.

One day, we were coming out of the tube and near the top of the stairs we saw a young woman struggling to get her bright yellow suitcase up that last step. “Old guy ready to help,” I shouted and manged to assist her in getting her case to the top and level ground. She was quite young and smiled in relief. “I have taken the train all the way from Switzerland today,” she exclaimed, “and I live just over there,” she added with a pointed finger in exclamation.” She thanked us and added “Happy New Year” with a great big smile and crossed the street on the way to her 2010.

The last morning, we were finishing breakfast at Carluccio’s just across from the South Kensington tube station (both highly recommended). In getting up, I inadvertently knocked over my chair which hit the floor with a tremendous crack and thus frightening the woman at the table behind. I apologized and noticed her son had an iPhone. So do I, so I asked him how many apps he had. “Too many,” interrupted his father.

I asked the lad if he had “Lumosity,” and when he said he did not, I encouraged him to get it so that he could beat his father and so get even more apps. Turns out the father attended the choir school at King’s College, Cambridge, an institution with which I have had a long relationship. More Happy New Years wishes and several variations of “Have a safe trip.”

Getting off the tube at Heathrow, we took a lift with a young woman who seemed very concerned. Once off the elevator, she started looking around for her flight. Karen sensed her concern and stopped to help. Her flight for home in Athens left several hours later and - like the rest of us - a new language and new airline procedures left her anxious and fearful. So Karen went to work, calmed her down, and as we had a flight to catch shortly, we headed off, but the young woman we left was now calmer, and the last thing she said to us was, "God bless you." Another gift happily received.

We have several friends in London, Cambridge, and Norfolk, and every one we saw during our adventure made a special effort to help us celebrate Christmas – not always an easy task so far from home. From leaving home in the suburbs to join us for a meal and events in London, to adding us to a Christmas celebration and preparing meals which were memorable. One of these included the following libations – sparkling white wine, aquavit, red wine, and whisky. That no one suffered a hangover after this was something of a minor miracle.

And the friends we travelled with were positive, supporting, curious, independent, kind, generous, and tolerant. While this Christmas had few of what most would describe as presents, we were surrounded by gifts from friends and strangers, and the result was a Christmas which will live in our memories forever.

Riding on waves of kindness from friends and strangers -there could be no better to slip into January.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

2009-12-17T08:20:00.001-08:00

When I began blogging some years ago, I was always surprised and delighted when a reaction to something I'd written arrived on the electronic doorstep. Seven years ago, I received a response from Terry Riley, this year's guest Christmas screedist. Terry remained hard to find, but each year he would send along his reaction to what I'd written, and I've always liked what he thought and his way of expressing his ideas.

My schedule this year made it difficult for me to think about writing something, but - for the first time - Terry beat me to it. I asked his permission to reproduce his message, and he generously gave it. I look forward to providing him with my reaction when I come up for air. All good wishes of the season to you and yours.

Nick Nash

16th December 2009

Dear Nick,

As you are closing early for Christmas this year I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to squeeze in a 2009 Christmas Screed. And as it is my tradition to read and offer a (hopefully) thoughtful response I figured I better fire off a pre-emptive Christmas Screed note.

You may be wondering why I write once a year. To be honest I’ve always had intentions of writing more frequently. But I guess you know what they say about good intentions. But I think my motivation for writing comes from my interest in and desire to talk about Christmas and its meanings. Add to that the phenomena of changing attitudes to how we embrace (or not) the holiday season as we get older. I guess it’s a time for reflection, not just on Christmas itself but on our lives, relationships and ways in which we interact with the world.

I also write because I met you once. I actually interviewed for a job with your company back in the early 90s. I’ve since gone on to work at a variety of companies in the Twin Cities, and am currently doing market research-related work in White Bear Lake. I found you to be an interesting, thoughtful person, in addition to being brave enough to launch your own business.

At any rate, the first time I read one of your essays -- Christmas of 2002 I believe – I had a strong emotional reaction. You seemed to hit the nail on the head in terms of how I approach Christmas conceptually, but for which I am usually not articulate enough to express. I just had to say, in the form of a response, how much I appreciated your thoughtful words.

To me Christmas is a many-splendored, bittersweet, lovely and melancholy time, incorporating a variety of elements and emotions. Although I was raised as a Catholic, I’m by no means devout in the practice of that particular flavor. I’m in the believer camp, however, and certainly the Nativity and all its glories comprise a rather large chunk of my personal holiday hodge-podge. There are other elements as well, many of which date back to pagan times and which we still incorporate in our celebrating. And of course the feelings of warmth, generosity and general good will that seem to bubble up at this time of year. There seems to be a strong need to reconnect with friends and family at Christmastide that is not as strong at other times of the year.

And I usually have no trouble conjuring up a decent dose of Christmas spirit and pride myself on being able to cut through the commercialism and extraneous clutter to keep Christmas in a personal way. This year, however, I’m experiencing extreme CSD – Christmas Spirit Dysfunction. I just can’t seem to get it going. I need to, however, as I have two small children who are still in the wonderment stages of their lives with respect to Christmas. But maybe my age (50) is working against me. Mid-life angst could be a drag on the whole thing I suppose.

I’m sorry if I’m telling you things you may have already experienced in your own life, like I’m the first one to experience them. I will say, however, that I’m not giving up yet, and will do my best to keep Christmas, if any man alive possesses the knowledge (to borrow from Dickens).

I'd like to close with a few of the words from what has recently become one of my favorite English carols -- "See Amid the Winter Snow."

Teach o teach us holy Child,
By thy face so meek and mild,
Teach us to resemble thee,
In thy sweet humility

I think we all would do well to consider these words this Christmastide and in the coming new year.

Terry Riley

Remembering Elisabeth Söderström

2009-11-21T15:00:00.000-08:00

I first fell in love with the Swedish soprano Elisabeth Söderström as a teenager listening to a long playing record which my father played frequently. She sounded convincing and exquisite, but at that age, I was unable to learn much about her.

Decades later, I was working in public radio and on a trip to London discovered the BBC had made some spoken word programs with her, and I asked to listen to a couple of them. I did and fell in love with several quite different aspects of her voice - her intelligence, her sensitivity, her sense of humor, and her commitment to the art of singing.

In an instant, I decided that I needed to make a radio program with her...something to help people better understand both the art of song and the art song. Because I knew nothing about music, who better to open my eyes and ears than Elisabeth?

In her recitals, she often spoke about the next song to give the audience a perspective on it and to help deepen their understanding; I believe that she thought very carefully about what she was going to say, and the words were essential to the full appreciation of the performance. Her way of doing this helped the audience appreciate not just the voice and the performance but also the warm, funny, and intelligent person behind the notes.

About the same time, I met the Swedish baritone Håkan Hagegård; he was intrigued with the idea of working with Elisabeth, and then the American accompanist Warren Jones joined our group. I had developed some contacts with Swedish Radio, and they were intrigued and agreed to participate as the lead producer.

And so I fell in love with Elisabeth yet again. We made the programs in western Sweden, in Håkan's local church, and our time together was one of the highlights of my life - to work with highly talented performers, producers, and technicians was such a great privilege. Three one hour programs in both English and Swedish, culminating in a recital at Berwald Hall in Stockholm. I wanted to call the programs "Take Me To Your Lieder," but the Swedes preferred "Sing Me A Song," and they prevailed. (I still prefer my idea [naturally].

Our lunch break was not in the church but in a hostel across the road. The wife cooked, and the husband served, and at the end of the meal every day, Elisabeth would head into the kitchen. After a couple of days, I asked her why she did that. "To thank the cook," she said, adding, "It takes so little, and it seems to mean something."

Elisabeth was a consummate artist who could handle the great gestures of grand opera, but she provided all the little gestures, too. Her eyes were on the stars, but her feet were solidly on the ground. Always.

Hard to believe it was twenty two years ago because the memories are still so fresh. After the series was broadcast, I saw Elisabeth in Stockholm, London, and New York. Eventually she retired after a turn at running the Drottiningholm Court Theatre where she made her debut, and I heard that she had been having some major health problems.

She slipped off life's stage earlier this week, leaving many of us deeply saddened. If you saw her in performance you never forgot her; if you heard her tell a story, it remained indelibly told. No one's eyes sparkled like hers, no one had a laugh like hers. Just being around her made the day special.

She was one of a kind, and I feel triply blessed to have known her a little bit and to have been one of the multitudes of people who loved her for her art, heart, and, more importantly, for her humanity.

Something Old, Something New

2009-11-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

Having reached my three score and seven, I have pretty much given up on contemporary music. Hell, with the exception of Carly Simon, I gave up on contemporary music something over four decades ago. I have always thought that decision to have been a good one...until last week.

I was listening to Wake Up With Wogan on BBC's Radio Two. He's probably the best I've ever heard in morning radio (and I've heard and know some great ones), but next month he's retiring, even though he is clearly still at the top of his game. The Beeb is giving him some sort of weekly show, so that the next young bucko can come into the morning and try to hold onto Wogan's very large audience.

But I digress.

Last week, I was in my office working on some orders while I listened to Wogan, and he played a song called "Story." I couldn't quite figure out the lyrics, but the performance and arrangement knocked me over. I couldn't quite get the name of the artist, so I checked the play list on the BBC's web-site (thank you, thank you), and I found that the artist is Leddra Chapman (aka Anna Leddra-Chapman in some places), and she writes her own material. Based on what I've heard, she's off to a great start.

Her first album comes out later this month in the UK, and so, after all these years, I've succumbed - again - to the blandishments of the music of the young and talented and happily so.

Have a look-see and a listen....

Postscript: I downloaded a couple of tracks from her MySpace web-site, burned them to a CD, and I have found great pleasure in listening to them over and over as I drive around. Either some element of my own youth has been reawakened, or I am losing it sooner than I thought I would. But I'm reasonably certain it's the former.

I said reasonably.

Bottom line is that her CD will be out in the states next month, and when I'm across the pond for Christmas, guess what CD I'll be looking for....and hoping for printed copies of her lyrics to be included?

I'd be interested in hearing your reactions....

And if you think I've slipped my moorings, I'd like to hear that, too.

Persistence Is All

2009-11-05T14:13:00.000-08:00

You don't know Roberta Scherf, but you should.

I came to know Roberta when she worked for me in a large non-profit in Saint Paul...this was back in the Dark Ages. Anyway, I decided to hire her after I blabbered about the job description and asked her what she knew about the organization. She told me what she had learned about from her visits to the public library, so she was the only logical choice for the job. A decision I have never regretted.

Well, decades have gone by, and for the last few years she's been developing a product to help kids. As it turns out it helps kids and oldsters, and seems especially well-suited for those with ADD, autism, and related problems.

The product, called "MeMoves" came out of Roberta's experience with a daughter who appeared to be headed for a special education program. Roberta was convinced that this would be a mistake, so she began working with her child doing physical and musical games and such. One day, not long after she began this work, her daughter began to put letters into words, and shortly thereafter she was reading books. (The daughter has grown into the kind of child any parent would want - bright, funny, with dimensions to her thinking and creativity that entrance all who know her.)

With this success Roberta began to teach herself about the relationships between the kind of thing she was doing with her daughter and the results of research into this area of learning and doing. She has gotten to know many of the researchers in the field, and the program she has developed derives from scholarship going on in schools, school systems, treatment centers, geriatric programs, colleges, and universities.

What does this program do? Decreases stress, improves mood, and enhances cognitive focus.

But here's the thing - we live in a world where everything has to be fast, loud, and colorful for adults to be convinced that kids will like it. Yeah, well look at how a cardboard box engages a nine year old.

This program is not fast, not loud, and is thoughtfully colorful. What matters is that it just works - this combination of hand movements and music (great music by the way).

Let me repeat that - it just works. One of my friends described it as a moving meditation, and I think that's about right.

MeMoves is not very expensive and can be used by nearly everyone who needs a break from the breakneck pace of life.

So if you know someone like that, whether they're nine, nineteen, or ninety, please go visit and have a look.

Talk about a present that could last a lifetime...even extend it.

To have a look at MeMoves, click here. If you're intrigued with what you see and hear (and do), then think of a friend with a child who might be having some difficulty in school or a parent who could use an easy-to-do mental "boost," and pass along the web address.

You won't be sorry, and they might well be grateful.

Economic Rage

2009-10-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

I was driving back to the office from my monthly Investment Club meeting on one of our freeways. A black sedan entered in the usual way, and I glanced over to confirm that the driver's intentions did not include crashing into the right side of my vehicle.

And for an instant, just an instant, I looked into the eyes of a youngish women with black hair, who gave me a look I have never seen in my life. Honestly. I felt that she wished me not to frying in Hell, or dead, at the very least.

A few seconds later, she dropped back, slid two lanes to get by me, and then she took off, driving like a NASCAR racer, using all four lanes of the free way as her playground. Soon she had disappeared from view.

I said my silent request for a highway patrol person to be around to observe her and to slap her with a very expensive ticket, and I continue to hope.

Her behavior got me wondering about why there seems to be so much aggressive driving these days - people sitting on your bumper at 65 miles per hour, unsignalled lane shifts and turns, headlights off in deep twilight, gestures using single digits, all that.

In the context of the climate of fear, anger, distress, frustration, and loss surrounding us for the last year (with no clear end in sight), perhaps it's easy to understand why so many of us are "acting out," on the highways.

But not excusable.

On other hand, I tend to drive the speed limit, slow down in the rain, and leave my turn signal on accidentally, so I need to understand that I am a rolling obstacle for others. That might also explain why if someone behind me seems to be in such a rush, I just pull over and stop to let them go by.

Over the years, I've tried to understand that driving is a cooperative activity, not a competitive one, and that realization may be one of the benefits of accumulated years....

Walk the Walk, Shout The Talk

2009-09-21T15:07:00.000-07:00

Islay, the beloved Scotty and I were taking our morning constitutional...or more accurately put, Islay was dragging me down to the lake near my office before trotting happily and gently back. It was a quiet summer morning, and we we happened upon Clark Avenue, a street divided by a wide grassy park with our Civil War Memorial sculpture and recently planted trees, when we heard screeching.

Turns out two of the younger ambassadors of the opposite gender were on a moderately vigorous walk, and as they made their less than stately progress shoulder to shoulder, they were shouting at each other. A friendly sort of shouting with smiles during the brief hiatus before the shouting started again.

Islay took it in and turned back to her perpetual search for that one squirrel with a really bad hip who can't get to the nearest tree and might become the first quadrupedal mammal to satisfy that ancient lusting after varmints which is her first right as a full- and hot-blooded terrier.

Being a guy, I couldn't understand what the hell the shouting was about. It was a perfectly decent morning - not much traffic about, birds twittering, the occasional boat on the lake buzzing along - and then two Wagnerian sopranos determined to include the world in their observations about the challenges in their lives.

I got that same feeling of primitive hostility which overwhelms me when some adolescent of whatever age turns up the damn boombox he's driving (it's always a he); the thump-thump-thump overwhelms my autonomic nervous system, and I understand why crimes of passion occur. I close all the car windows and turn up the volume to public radio to maintain what equilibrium I have left.

This experience was another in a continuing set of examples which explain why males persons of a certain vintage find the adjective "grumpy" somewhere in the avocational descriptors which an ignorant world uses to put them in an all-too- convenient category.

If the world knew what we know to be true....

Bumps and Such

2009-08-26T10:58:00.001-07:00

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything, and even I have been wondering just exactly why that is, but yesterday I came upon, literally, the perfect explanation.

K and I had driven from Saint Paul up to her cabin on the shore of Lake Superior - a fine old place, simple enough to make you reconsider that hyper-electronic life you and I are living with and through these days. We brought the three essentials for a short stay, namely whisky, Islay the scottish terrier, and grub.

We'd agree to meet some friends staying near Ely, Minnesota, the jumping off point for the hardy souls who install themselves in fully laden canoes and paddle to off to discover that what they thought they might discover would be overwhelmed by what they would, in fact, discover...like the three Princes of Serendip, from whose journeys, Horace Walpole coined the word "serendipity." You could look it up.

The road to Ely from the shore of Lake Superior takes off in nearly a straight line through magnificent woodlands, exposed timeless rock, and wonderful mysterious tracks into the woods, leading to what we'll never know. Some miles outside of Ely, the road narrows and begins to resemble a flat slalom course with twists and turns to beat the band.

After a good lunch and some meandering through shops in that interesting little town, we headed homewards, and just outside of town, we came upon a traffic sign - yellow, with black printing, reading -

SCATTERED BUMPS

We laughed and drove on, but that sign struck me as a wonderful metaphor for the lives which most of us live.

The bright and good times happen, and we are pleased when they do, but it's the scattered bumps and the way we manage them which may have more to do with the persons we ultimately become.

I don't want to beat this drum too hard, but in reflecting on some of the bumps in my life - I remember two in particular - it was the bumps which were far more significant in changing the course of my life than the various good times which befell me, almost by accident it seems.

This summer I hit that decade of life which begins with a "7," changed the composition of my business, moved offices, and it's been more than a stretch of scattered bumps. But after all these years, lucky fellow that I am, I know that things will smoothe out, and I can return to exploring the passions which have been part of my life for decades.

And I wish for us all, not much more than "scattered bumps" along the way.

Trying Our Souls

2009-04-28T13:45:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but I'd like a respite from this unending series of final exams called "life."

It's bad enough finding yourself on the cusp of your anecdotage, but when the banking system as we know it collapses, the economy tumbles into and nearly past a recession, one's pension takes a wallop, Arlen Specter becomes a Democrat, newspapers start to swoon all around us, the globe is warming with every passing day, most of our citizens don't have medical insurance, and now swine flu has begun to invade our lives...well where does it bloody well end?

Or is this perpetual state of angst the normal state of things for the next little while...like the rest of our time on this vale of tears? OK, my time, if you're really picky.

Maybe we should just find a good book, a wee dram of something to help us along, a comfortable chair, and just try to relax. No really.

K likes to listen to the gloom and doom guys on the radio through the night; each morning I hear about some new conspiracy designed to poison the food supply, to generate civil unrest and violence, to allow our country to be taken over by [fill in your own damn blank], and to ensure that American supremacy will come to an abrupt end.

Men don't handle these complexities very well - we want to know who won and who lost, no matter how meaningless the competition might be.

Women seem to have a knack for making sense of very complicated situations, and I think they deserve a shot. Even I am willing to learn how to manage the vacuum cleaner, and I'm already a pretty fair cook and bake a nasty good loaf of whole wheat bread. I could even catch up on Jerry Springer and Oprah and learn about new decorating ideas for the bathroom and talk to my friends about the NFL draft and the local team's prospects for the upcoming season.

And not have to worry about all this other stuff. Sounds like bliss to me.

Nearly Throwing In The Towel

2009-03-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm a native of Minnesota, and you would think that I would have figured out Mother Nature's insanely creative capacity...you know, the one where the snow begins to melt, you can feel the barest hint of Spring just there - over there - and you begin to think about putting away the caps, mittens, boots, heavy jackets and all the other impendimenta related to winter and WHAM!

Bloody WHAM!

The skies grayed and became foreboding yesterday with an overture of rain. Then the symphony of snow began with heavy accents of wind, and eventually the cold of January paid us another visit.

Spring is ten days away, and it might just as well be 2.5 light years. With the bad news swirling around our heads since last autumn, I'm surprised that more of us haven't found ourselves a cave.

Well, maybe we have - that is, if you believe that watching television has a cave equivalency value.

I do feel better now that I have all that off my chest. Time to take the scotty for her walk, and when that's done, I think a wee celebration with something Scottish to end the day....probably a single malt, my most favorite of all "lifesavers."

Slainte, Skol, or Prost. Here's to those of us still trying to fight the good fight!

Oh, sweet Spring, we all hope for your approach sooner than ever....

Something To Warm The Heart

2009-01-13T06:35:00.000-08:00

OK, so the economy is slipping down the chute, we are between administrations and have been for what seems like an eternity, and here in Minnesota the wind chill this morning was around -35 (F), and yet.

And yet.

In today's New York Times, there is one of those articles that will remind you, me, us, that sometimes the stars align, people respond without regard to their personal ideology, and we are reminded about how easy it is to do good if we just join together and do, well, not very much...but something.

After reading this artice, I think you'll agree. No, I know you will. Click here to read it.

2008-12-17T12:33:00.000-08:00

I fear that we are all heavy laden this Christmastide...and not with gifts. These last several years have been wearing and painful and depressing, with not much sunshine left in our hearts, and the stretch beginning in mid-summer and ending we-have-no-clue-when has been particularly difficult in so many ways.

In my three score and nearly ten on this planet, I cannot recollect anything like it, except in hearing the stories my parents told about the roaring twenties and the massive depression which followed...until the start of World War II.

And yet....and yet, we soldier on, keeping hid the pain and fear in our hearts, whilst we wonder what's next, as we wander.

Christmas, that's what. And it really isn't about the presents and the parties, nice though they may be. It's about an unmarried couple going home and having a baby in the most humble of circumstances - an event that changed the world, an event well worthy of a lifetime of reflection.

That's what I'm going to concentrate on this Christmastide - thinking about the simplest and most powerful story on which my faith is based and is the core belief for a world-wide community of faith, in its multitude of patterns. (You may celebrate another story, but no doubt we still have much in common in terms of the people we are trying to become as we trudge on down life's path.

On Christmas Eve, the choir of King's College at Cambridge University in Cambridge England will present their "Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols."** This year, they will premiere a new carol by D Muldowney, with words by Bertold Brecht. Here is the first verse, as translated by M. Hamburger:

The night when she first gave birth

Had been cold. But in later years

She quite forgot

The frost in the dingy beams and the smoking stove

And the spasms of the afterbirth at dawn.

But above all she forgot the bitter shame

Common among the poor

Of having no privacy.

That was why in later years it became a holiday for all.

Not quite the scene we celebrate in our songs and stories and perhaps a bit hard to accept, but worth full consideration.

This year, my presents are fewer and more modest, and most of my gift budget is going to two local charities which house and feed the homeless. In these days and times, that seems right - to participate in efforts in our community to help others.

It's not bad to go back to the basics; it's positively invigorating. We won't get through these troubles alone, so keep your various communities close, and we'll get through them together, somehow.

In spite of all, a happy Christmas to you and yours...and a productive 2009.

Cheers!

**You can probably find it on a public radio station near you or on the BBC's Radio 4 web-site, beginning at 10:00 am, Eastern Standard Time or 3:00 pm in London.

Thanksgiving 2008

2008-11-12T09:21:00.000-08:00

This year, I expect that many of us look down the road to Thanksgiving with a somewhat baleful expression. It has been a year unlike any other I can remember, and to concentrate on this seasonal event takes a good deal of concentration: the election, the state of our country's financial system, the widely varying price of oil, the inflation which we see in the daily costs of our lives, and the fear that our very personal fiscal underpinnings are far weaker than we ever would have thought - well, it really is enough to drive a person crazy.

I thought that getting myself into a thankful attitude might be a little tricky, until I saw Islay the black scotty jump up on the sofa, find her way next to K's lap, lie down, and put her head on top of K's thigh. It was an off-pawed gesture, perfectly natural, but the result was that Thanksgiving took on new meaning in an instant.

For the last couple of years, both these creatures have, in their own ways, been sanding down my rough spots after nearly half-a-century of living by myself. Other scotties in previous years were wonderful companions but were less effective as teachers.

K has always had a clear idea of what matters in life, and while I am (and probably always will be) a work in progress, she has helped open my eyes in a number of important ways, even though I have refused to hand over the tv remote and will continue to do so.

This morning we drank coffee in the living room and watched the last great gathering of the Canada geese swimming in the last remnant of open water on the lake. Most of them will be off to their southern migration soon, and we shall miss their honking enthusiasm. Then a pileated woodpecker - one of the big ones - climbed up an oak tree no more than fifty feet away. Winter is but a step away, yet there is still much to savor.

The larger issues remain, of course, but good people are going to do their best to resolve them, and I hope we shall be asked to participate in that process. Notwithstanding those troubles, there is much for us to appreciate-that is, if we can be "thinkful" about being thankful.

My Goodness....

2008-11-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

My mother was always very proud of the first presidential ballot she cast in 1932 - for Norman Thomas, the Socialist candidate for President. The first election in which I participated was in 1960, and I cast my first vote for John F. Kennedy. As one result, one of my uncles stopped talking to me for several years, and given his political views, I did not consider that much of a loss.

A great many young people cast their first ballot yesterday, and it had an impact; they will never forget the experience and the result. Their children will grow appreciatively tired of the story but will remember it.

We woke up this morning, a little groggy, but with something of a sunrise streaming in through the windows. And we knew in our brains and in our hearts that something important happened in and to America yesterday.

It doesn't matter which side we were on - it really doesn't. What does matter is that we try to slip past the post-mortem clichés of election analysis and understand that a great many Americans stepped into the voting booth and voted for an African-American for the highest political office in our land.

There seemed to be few problems with the process of voting and counting; local governments were better prepared than they had been last time, and the only significant demonstrations were celebrations of joy in Chicago, New York, and in front of the White House in Washington. Joy and lots of tears because another glass ceiling had been broken.

America grew up yesterday. In the face of economic chaos, two unpopular wars, foreign relationships in tatters, civil rights diminished, and an increasing gulf between rich and poor, voters made a decision to vote for the man who happened not to be "white." For a great many of us, that choice could not have been easy, but the choice was made.

Politicians who routinely consider the the citizenry as "ill-informed," "stupid," or "inattentive" must now do a recalculation, as must countries which look at the United States as a monochrome monolith.

We are different today, perhaps better, but certainly different.

It's a start, and that's good enough for me.

The Old and The New

2008-10-22T09:27:00.000-07:00

Last night K and I went to a piano recital by Marc-André Hamelin. I go to a number of concerts and lug my large sack of musical ignorance to every one. Last night's music began with Alban Berg, stopped for a time to visit Chopin, and ended with an astounding performance of the music of Charles-Valentin Alkan.

We had never heard the Alkan before - a piece which requires virtuosity in the extremely, and Mr Hamelin conquered it with none of the flamboyant gestures of some concert pianists and made it the highlight of all the recent musical performances I've attended over the last year or so.

Where had I been with regard to Alkan. And then I thought about Alfred Sisley, the English impressionist painter.

Years ago, I had attended a Sisley exhibit at the Royal Academy in London. Until that day, I had no idea of Sisley's role in that 19th century movement, and - frankly - I was startled by the experience. One purpose of the exhibit was to put Sisley back into the middle of Impressionism, and it succeeded, at least for me.

Think of Alkan (1813-1888), Sisley (1839-1899), and toss in a long-term favorite of mine, Georges Seurat (1859-1891).

There they were at about the same time, working away, not well known, not selling much of their output, but deeply committed to their cause.

Here we are, a century and a half later, listening, seeing, and admiring what they produced. I learned two things (at least) from all this - firstly, you have to make sure you continue to find the new, even if it's only new to you, and secondly, you should be willing to discover our own contemporary artists and composers with enough oomph so that whether their time comes now or not for another century and a half, they might believe that their commitment to their art will always have value.

Be open and show support. Always helpful, no matter what the situation.

To Share Or Not To Share

2008-10-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

Last week, Islay the Scotty and I were out on our ride-walk (I ride my geezer trike, and she trots alongside), and we ran into our neighbor out walking her beasties in the more traditional way.

She had just run into a couple of neighbors who, in the course of their conversation, discovered that their neighbor, once a Republican and morphed into a non-Republican. The neighbors were surprised and chose to pursue the matter - an unwise decision knowing my neighbor.

In summarizing this encounter nearly three weeks before the election, with heaven-knows-how-much-mud-yet-to-sling, my neighbor said,"You know, a lot of Republicans just don't like to share."

Now I know a great many extraordinarily generous Republicans, regardless of whatever other faults they might have, but I don't believe that she was necessarily talking about the sharing of money; instead, I think that she might have meant that they lack a generosity of spirit or of participating or collaborating.

But whatever she meant and whatever you might think of her observation, I was rather startled by it and will continue to think about for a long time after this particular election is over because the times in which we now find ourselves will require a much broader definition of generosity, and we shall all need to participate in helping each other through the difficulties which lie ahead for all of us, but more for some than for others.

What A Rotten Development This Is

2008-10-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

For most of our lives, we've managed to ignore the fact that we live on a globe spinning in the infinity of space. The ground is what we care about...the firm, sometimes rocky, icy, muddy ground outside, along with the house to which we are tethered, our investments and retirement plans.

With the fiscal distress now travelling that globe of ours, nothing seems solid any more, and we shouldn't be surprised that neither candidate for President seems able to escape the bump and codswallop of politicalspeak to undertake an attempt at truth.

So what do we fall back on?

Well, we might start with each other and talk about how frightened we feel, how powerless we seem, how many there are occupying this boat heading for we know not what through very choppy waters. (I'm almost through with this metaphorical stuff, and I'm as glad as you are.)

I find nature consoling, and these days Islay the Scotty and I seem to be outside walking a bit more. Our new office location is close to White Bear Lake, and it's a pleasant stroll to the shore, past older homes and then back, pausing briefly at the Civil War Monument with its Union Soldier standing on top looking North.

On today's walk, we came upon a young maple, ablaze with color, and we stopped to admire Mother Nature's handiwork. This weekend, weather permitting, we shall be trying to reclaim a garden gone astray during the time when a bad hip kept my from doing much to maintain it.

This is a time for basics - contemplation, reflection, walks, working in the soil, admiring the journey through autumn, and a wee dram of decent whisky at the end of the day.

Like my parents and grandparents who survived the depression, we, too, will survive, and the best strategy seems to begin by getting a grip one one's self. Do that, and you can cope with the rest of it.

Mud, Mud, Inglorious Mud.....

2008-09-11T12:37:00.000-07:00

Seven weeks to go in the Presidential campaign which resembles what some call "reality tv" far more than a campaign about differences in philosophy, values, goals, and that "vision" thing.

The first election I voted in was the Kennedy/Nixon battle in 1960. I read position papers, watched debates, talked extensively with my college mates, and voted for Kennedy. My mother was sympathetic - she'd voted for the socialist Norman Thomas in her first election in 1932; but I had an uncle who avoided me for a decade because of my vote.

In those days, we disagreed about matters of substance, not style. Oh, there was some concern about the flop sweat on Nixon's face during the first debate, but the black and white picture was so lousy, I expect a number of people never took note of it.

Jump forward to the present: Our discussion is about lipstick, bulldogs, pigs, and not much more profound than that. It's just a lot of mud-slinging, and it besmirches us all.

It appears we have become what we feared most - a people believing that life should be like a television program and note like the complicated, often subtle, screwed up mess it is most of the time around this globe of ours. Gray and grayer, not black and white.

Thrust, counter-thrust, throw the facts overboard, say anything to get the "edge,"win at all costs of truth, honesty, and what used to be the American way.

Thanks to the current administration, our constitution has been weakened, our faith in ourselves impaired, our trust diminished, our legislators incapable of working for the public good and finding ways to work together.

I've written this before, and damn, it fits again. Walt Kelly's Pogo once said, "We have met the enemy, and he is us."

Still true and oh, so sad. Seven weeks to pay attention, to read, to learn, and to discuss before casting the most important ballot of our lives.

This is a serious business, and we need to stop thinking and acting like twelve year olds and grow up - and that includes several of the candidates.

Or else....

Recycling

2008-07-01T15:35:00.000-07:00

I'll confess that I just recent became a convert to recycling those damned plastic bags...don't know why it took me so long to get to it because I'd gotten pretty good with paper, cardboard, the right categories of plasticky things, and glass. I've never much liked plastic bags anyway, but the drudgery of collecting the newspaper bags and the shopping bags seemed more than I wanted to do.

And yes I have collected recyclable bags for the grocery stores, and they are quite useful when I remember to put them in the car. On the other hand, the carry bag I got from the Co-Op in Scotland which holds and keeps safe six wine bottles.

When I fall off my perch, I'd like my ashes to add to the earth in various locations in Minnesota, Scotland, and England. (Yes, I hear you thinking, "Well, finally he'll be of some use....")

Lee Hayes who sang with a wonderful folk group called "The Weavers" asked that his ashes be added to his compost heap, and I think that sounds appropriate and not very expensive.

But not for a while, I hope.

Out Of Gas

2008-05-02T09:30:00.000-07:00

I just don't get it - gas prices in the mid-three dollar range, and people driving pick-ups and SUVs are still driving like bats out of hell. Maybe you can help me understand how the people who complain the most about the price of fuel seem to be the same ones burning it up at the fastest rate.

When I ordered my Prius hybrid four years ago, I got some kidding about waiting forty-nine weeks for it to arrive in my life. Then I got more kidding about deviating from the great American commitment to burning petroleum and about the unlikelihood of my saving the planet with my environmentally friendly automobile.

And then the price of gas started to go up....and up.....and up. The observations diminished, and at $3.50 or so a gallon for gas in these parts, I haven't heard anything for quite some time.

Now I wouldn't want you to think that I'm not proud of my 45-49 miles a gallon; I am, to the point that when I drive out of the gas station have expended twenty-five bucks or so, I can't bear to look at what that black Toyota Tundra truck or the Lincoln Navigator or the Cadillac Escalade might be paying to fill up a tank. If I were to look, I might smirk as I drove by, and Heaven knows what the result of that might be.

The other day I read that some auto dealers were refusing trade-ins of SUVs, because they seem to believe they won't be able to sell them. Probably going to happen with other of the giant gas guzzlers with which we share the road.

I got a hybrid because it seemed to me that the price of fuel could only go up. The weakening dollar, pressure from other industrializing countries, the sense that the supply of petroleum is finite, and the dissatisfaction with our profligate attitude about life in general were also much in my thoughts.

In our area, we have been reluctant to invest in mass transit, but we expand our roadways at the drop of the proverbial chapeau. We buy big vehicles for security, in spite of accumulating evidence that they are less safe than normal size autos, and we buy them because, at heart, we love playing the game of displaying our success in our home(s), auto(s), fashionable attire, and such.

In our current economic swoon, we could do worse than remember how our our parents and grandparents fought their way through the Great Depression. We do have an opportunity to return to the basics now, and we probably should. The invoice for the five year war is in the mail, and when it shows up, we had better have own priorities clearly understood.

I've Never Been In This Situation Before

2008-04-16T06:47:00.000-07:00

Since August of 1993, my business has been located on the second floor of what used to be a movie theatre - Richard Arliss's and Ken Murray's autographs still can be seen on concrete pavers near the front door. It's been a good building for us....nice neighbors, in the center of town (meaning near coffee and cookies), and a great landlord. Even Islay the Scotty who works as our Director of Security knows the way from the parking lot to the office door without thinking.

On Monday night, everything changed. I got a call from the landlord's daughter (he being out of the country just now); she said that one corner of the building had begun to collapse, probably because of some earth moving in the adjacent lot as part of building a new restaurant. In addition, cracks had appeared in the west wall.

The city had evacuated the building, padlocked all the doors, and put barricades everywhere possible, awaiting the recommendations of an engineer. He started Tuesday morning, and the plan was agreed to yesterday, so as I write this, the company shoring up the building is at work. Later today, perhaps, we'll be told whether we shall be granted "access," which means get your stuff out of the building and find another location, or we'll be entitled to "occupancy,' which means we can resume business as we had been doing it.

No matter what the outcome, I have learned a lot these last two days. The good news is that we have backed up our accounting files off-site, and they are current. Because much of our work is of the custom variety, that is done by the baton maker with whom we work from his shop, so that part of the business is OK.

The bad news is that we can't get to our computers, the checkbook, and the credit card processing machine. When I saw the building I implemented a back-up plan that I probably should have developed years ago. I have our name on some nearby space, I've figured out what we need to do with our phone calls, incoming orders,and I've stopped the mail.

A decision I am still unsure of is that I described our situation at the top of the web-site's home page. I'm not sure customers need to know all this, but since we're hamstrung for a few days, I thought they were entitled to know that. We're still receiving orders, so maybe my decision has been OK.

What I do appreciate, more than I might ever have known is that as an internet business, I have always operated from multiple locations - my home, internet cafés in the United Kingdom, my iPhone, and so on.

So the business has always had some redundancy...but for the moment not quite as much as I might like.

So keep a couple of company checks at home, make sure you have back-ups somewhere other than your office, and - if you have a moment - wish us luck. Right now, we could use a little.

The Annual Report

2008-04-03T16:40:00.000-07:00

Along with taxes and Spring, this is also the season for those dreaded annual reports for corporations in which we happen to own some stock. They seem to arrive in bunches, and when a half a dozen are in the pile, I take my morning cup of coffee and work my way through them.

And every damn one of them makes me mad as hell.

I spend a few minutes looking at the corporate accomplishments and the concomitant back slapping that goes on and then move directly to the proxy statement where I study the corporate and board compensation. That's where and when my early morning blood pressure readings jump up. How can Marvin/Marvella R. Leader get by on the half million in salary and the seventeen million dollar annual bonus? Similarly, how can members of board who are employed at vast expense by other big companies manage on the quarter of a million they get in cash and stock options for attending board and committee meetings?

But my favorite part of the proxy statement is the resolutions submitted by the company and by a small cadre of angry and frustrated shareholders. I have no problem enabling the board types to fly and eat first class for another term, but I have a special and growing sympathy for those who want board members to be elected every year, who yearn for an advisory vote to be taken on executive compensation, who believe that the chair of the board should be a non-executive of the enterprise, and similar ideas which will not be supported by the huge pension and investment funds who seem to own most of the stock.

The most recent trick is to persuade you that to save the environment, you should get your annual report and proxy statement online, and I say to hell with that!

The only day of the year a company is "mine" is the day of the annual meeting, and the rest of the year it belongs to all its corporate leaders struggling check to check, dividend to dividend, and option to option. I want that information printed and mailed to me so that I can write exclamatory comments in the margins and eventually use the report to start a fire in the fireplace next autumn, so I can make my big black x in the boxes next to the shareholder proposals that will never succeed but serve as the only way to send a message, however modest, to management.

And while I'm at it, do you think corporations will ever issue a press release with quotes from the senior Poobah which sound as though they came from a living, breathing member of our species? Here's a sample based on my experience: "Acme Widget is pleased to welcome Hartley Farquhar as our new chief executive officer. He is uniquely qualified by his training and experience, and his broad perspective will enable Acme to negotiate these troubled times successfully."

Wouldn't you love reading something like, "Acme Widget is amazed and delighted that it was able to snag Hartley Farquhar from its bitter rival to replace its hard-living former chief executive officer who wanted to spend more time with his family, but the treatment center to which he has been committed does not allow that for at least six weeks. Maybe Hartley will get us back on an even keel so that we can achieve the earnings we should have had every year since 2004."

Just once I'd like to read something like that...just once.

Wouldn't you?

A Departure in the Family

2008-02-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

A member of the family departed yesterday - not of my own family but of our office family.

I had been present at the moment of death, in the company of an expert named Susan. When it was over, I looked around and realized that life had not paused, not even for a moment, at The Apple Store.

After years of faithful service, the heart of my iMac G5, the logic board, gave up the ghost, and as it was only marginally more expensive to buy a newer model, with sadness, I bought one and drove home with the new one in a box on the back seat and the old one, screen up, in the trunk, the remains covered with a blanket.

I really liked that computer...big screen with all the hardware located behind the screen so there was lots of space on the desk for my horizontal filing, and every morning when I walked into the office, I found just looking at that machine gave me pleasure. And then there was the work we did together - managing the web-site, improving product images before uploading them, thousands of emails in and out, screeds by the dozen, telephone calls via Skype, all the great desktop widgets keeping track of the weather in various places, the number of days before the next trip to Scotland, the ups and downs of the market...so many happy memories, even when it had to be adjusted to cope with some visual problems of mine before and after retinal surgery last summer....until the machine refused to boot up. The spinning wheel of the Mac would never stop spinning. Off to the Apple store and the terminal diagnosis (literally).

Last night I took the new one upstairs with some reluctance, unpacked it, set it up, and used Apple's Time Machine to make it exactly like the one standing forlornly in the front hall, waiting to be recycled or sold for parts. I was glad when the screen showed up, and everything looked familiar.

But in my heart of hearts, I knew that although the new one was faster, could leap tall mountains of data with ease, and might replace its predecessor in my heart, it would take time for the memories of the G5 to fade away.

There are those who believe that technology dominates our lives too much and erodes the importance of personal relationships, and I suppose that that view is more widely shared than you and I might think. So it's essential that we put the computer into sleep mode and engage the world directly and not via some sort of screen.

Take a walk, invite somebody over for tea, call up an old friend, argue with a relative about politics, watch the sun rise or set or the light of the moon on the new fallen snow.

While I have never fallen in love with an object (as one of the characters in "Boston Legal" has this season), I really enjoyed my late, great computer; it made me feel as I did decades ago when I owned an Austin Healey sports car. I had hair then, and tooling around in that machine was as much fun as exploring the world of the internet. I still miss that car, along with my first shortwave radio, my first KLH stereo, my first TV, and that Mac Classic with 64k of RAM (all I'd ever need).

Guess I'd better get in touch with the people at "Boston Legal," after I pay a proper farewell to the G5.

But then, maybe I just have. Goodbye, friend. Thanks for all you did.

Christmas 2007

2007-12-17T12:27:00.000-08:00

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"

2007-11-15T13:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-05T08:50:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-09T14:48:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-02T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-19T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-16T10:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-07-10T19:52:00.001-07:00

Crop Or Seed Art

2007-03-22T11:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Blogger's Block

2006-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

I haven't written one of these things for over two months, and I've begun to worry about the reasons for that. I don't know what writer's block is, but I do know that I don't live there. To be sure, this summer has not been full of many pleasures and delights - the weather was beastly hot and humid for a few days - nothing that residents of the American South would be derailed by, but up here in what we call the "northland," we just melted into puddles of goo.

After what seemed like forever, the heat subsided, but the humidity has remained, so the towels hanging on the rail are forever damp, paper curls, the spirit weakens until one senses that

Yes, two of my rooms at home are air-conditioned (it's over a hundred years old - pretty old by our standards - and is heated by radiators, and to the best of my knowledge, it can't be cooled by radiators, so we all suffer and survive.

Islay the Scotty has had a rambunctious summer chasing squirrels, birds, and the occasional cyclist, but the head and humidity knocked her for six, too.

Come to think of it, when it turns really hot, I don't consume alcohol - no beer, none of my whisky drams, none of the dreadfully sounding popular forms of pushing alcohol down the gullets of the young.

Maybe it's that I've been paying too much attention to daily events - the cable channels must be grateful during the slow season when reporters tend to be on holiday for sundry wars, airline industry problems, and confessions from decade old murderers, each of which allows them to terrorize those of us sitting slack-mouthed in front of our television sets.

The rich are doing great, thank you very much; the poor, who will always be with us, increase. We can't figure out an equitable immigration policy or how to provide our citizens with medical insurance, what constitutes appropriate end-of-life care when all hope is gone, or how to invent a car which does not make us dependent on people, none of whom seems to like us at all. And while the globe heats up, it's our country which contributes much to the problem which actively chooses to avoid even thinking about the problem. Even public radio and television now have what they call "enhanced underwriting," or what the rest of us would call commercials

Meanwhile, our politicians diddle while the voters burn, and any list of their accomplishments during this Congress would be appallingly brief. Those in the administration play the terror card at every opportunity, vaguely aware that they are weakening the Constitution but apparently not caring.

William Butler Yeats wrote "The Second Coming" just after World War I. It was taught to me in secondary school, and I have yet to shake it out of my ears, probably because through the decades of my life it has increased in meaning. So here it is:

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W.B. Yeats, 1920

Normally, summer ends, and we start bunching our muscles because we know that darkness, snow, and ice are just ahead. This time, at least for me, I'm hoping things won't get a hell of a lot worse than they are - they're already bad, and that a few months of cold and dark might offer some kind of perverse respite, enough anyway, to help us slough off this national depressive state, so that we can look to the future with some sense of hope, however moderate.

Humidity & Hot Air

2006-08-19T13:20:00.000-07:00

There's Customer Service & Then There's Customer Service

2006-07-18T14:58:00.000-07:00

As a predominantly internet business, my company rarely deals with customers in person. Occasionally, some hardy soul will find his or her way to our office/warehouse on the second floor of what used to be a movie theatre in suburban Saint Paul, Minnesota - that happens so infrequently that we are always surprised - and given the general state of things, not always delighted.

A decade ago, most of our business came in by fax, mail, or phone. When we decided to stop pulverizing trees by publishing catalogs and to head to the internet, we did so with some trepidation.

Yet in spite of all those electrons dancing from hither to yon and all over the globe, we've gotten to know some of our customers from phone conversations and the comments they write about the business in on-line evaluations or letters.

About a year ago [Ed. Note: May, 2005], on the day I was flying to Glasgow, Scotland, on holiday, I checked my email just before heading to the airport. One new order had come in, and it turned out the customers lived in Scotland and not more than twenty miles away from the bed & breakfast I had booked near Loch Lomond for the next night.

This was too good to be true, so I threw caution out of my carry-on, tore back to the office, did the paperwork and put a baton and carrying case in the space left by caution's departure, and then headed to the airport.

When I fly through the night across the Atlantic, my goal is to get in the rental car and drive no more than thirty minutes to my first night's lodging and then collapse. So after a brief nap, I rang up the customer - let's call her Ellen G - and after telling her my name, I said that I had good news and bad news about her baton order.

"The good news is that the baton has shipped. The bad news is that I'm here to deliver it in person."

Ellen tooks this news onboard very evenly. "My hustand and I are leaving in the morning for Lancashire where our daughter has a school performance. Is there any chance you could come up tonight?"

And so I got in the car, remembering to keep to the left, and headed north along the western shore of Loch Lomond in that period the Scos call the gloaming, with a crescent moon eventually lighting the night sky.

I turned away from Loch Lomond and found my way to the village of Arrochar on Loch Long, and shortly thereafter was knocking on the door of a stone cottage, and Ellen herself answered the door. No doubt she was surprised, and I was delighted. I gave her the parcel, and she invited me in for coffee.

Her husband Stuart came along, and we sat down and chatted for a few minutes. At one point she said that while I was enroute to the cottage, she and Stuart checked the picture of me on the company's web-site to make sure the guy at the door was the same person. I guess I couldn't blame them - stranger arrives after dark from the USA with something you've ordered online the day before.

As it turned out, the baton and case were to be a birthday present for Ellen's brother, and she would see him the next day. She told me that she would say to him that she had a remarkable story to tell him - but not until his birthday.

We talked about the internet, its advantages for people living in small villages, how she had come to order from us, what she and her husband did , and about the renovation of their cottage.

And then it was time for me to go. On the drive back, I thought about what a rare experienced this had been - to get an order from over four thousand miles from our office and to be able to deliver it the very next day. That has never happened before, although once or twice orders from London have arrived the day after I've flown there - I've always regretted the missed opportunity.

I don't expect this will ever happen again, and until Ellen and Stuart read this, they'll not know what a treat it was for me to be driving down from the Highlands later in the trip, and as we went past their cottage, I said to Karen, "I have a customer who lives in the stone cottage, just there. Nice people, she and her husband...she's the one who bought a baton for her brother. Hope he'll like it."

It was a great trip to Scotland, one of my favorite places ever, and after swimming in all those electrons all these years at The Nash Company, meeting one of our Scottish customers was one of the highlights of the trip. Maybe, just maybe, lightning - or pixels might strike twice and soon, because I'm heading back to Scotland shortly, and I have this funny feeling....

Shades of Gray

2006-01-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

t a recent holiday event, one of this column's regular readers reminded me that now that the Christmas screed had gone past its sell-by date, perhaps it was time for a new one.

Maybe yes, maybe no.

Screeds come to me in a variety of places - in the car, the shower, during a meal, but rarely from someone else, and at least this friend was kind enough not to include several ideas along with his remonstrative observation. Having done this sort of thing on radio for several years in the distant past, I learned quickly that any idea from someone else was, for some reason, not usable - perhaps because it was not my idea or didn't fit whatever sensibility I have developed over the years.

I did think about the apparent drought in the arrival of a new idea, and while listening to the radio one day, I heard that the stretch of gray days - that is, days without sun, had set some sort of record for our teentsy part of the planet, a record untouched for years, and one of those records kept by people who should have gotten around to keeping track of more important things.

Gray days got me thinking about colors. Here in Minnesota the dominant winter color is white, with occasional blots of dark mud - the thing about gray is a recent phenomenon. White or gray or both make some people blue here, even people who describe themselves as red.

Most political red and blue people, just before they start talking loudly in black and white, seem to be suffering from a case of seething purple rage.

For me, I admire those citizens and politicians who appreciate gray, which probably means they are more interested in what politicians can accomplish than the green required to put them in a corporate or issue-oriented pocket.

I haven't brought this up because when politics enters the world of the screed, I turn a pale shade of yellow and try to avoid it...and while typing this, I've tried every way I can to move in another direction.

And haven't found one.

Let's appreciate gray - the calm tonality of compromise, concession, and progress, however, haltingly it may come when the school board, city council, legislature - or even Congress, convene to struggle with issues facing most of us. Too dull for the networks, especially Fox, but suitable for us in our ordinary tax-paying, bill-paying, just trying-to-get-along and keep-our-heads-above water lives.

It's the shouting from the red and blue people who view the world in black and white which has put me into a darkling funk these last several weeks. Nobody can think in the midst of all the yelling.

If you can ignore the cacophony, try to take time to enjoy the golden light of the sun, whenever it appears; whether it shines on your face or in your soul, enjoy it in the silence of your own thinking.

Now that's a good resolution!

(I promise to do better next time.

Bah, Humbug...

2005-12-20T11:21:00.000-08:00

Some years ago, I careened off the Christmas track so lovingly created and maintained by manufacturers, marketers, retailers, and the media. When I came to, there was a bump on my head, and I discovered that I had landed in the dark part of Holiday Forest.

Shortly thereafter Scrooge-like tendencies began to appear, thoughts of “Bah Humbug” danced in my head with no sugar plum fairies to carry them away, and the word Grinch entered the vocabulary of my self-concept.

While these symptoms have not worsened, neither have they shown any signs of diminution.

This autumn while I was flying across the Atlantic, I took some time to think about what had gone wrong. My conclusion was that I had not gone wrong at all; it was the world which became deranged.

What does Black Friday, Black Monday, getting up at 5:00 am the day after Thanksgiving, the need to find “the perfect present,” the compusion to acquire the really “hot” item have to do with Christmas.

Not much.

At the Christmas Concert I attended last weekend, the choir sang Harold Darke’s setting of Christina Rossetti’s poem “In the Bleak Mid-Winter. “ It is one of the carols performed almost every year in “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” in the chapel of King’s College, Cambridge University, in Cambridge, England**,

Here’s the text of this great and solemn carol:

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, Whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, Whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

Love, simply, is the message of Christmas. Nothing more, but nothing less.

The rest of it is cacophony, joyous cacophony perhaps, but in today’s zeitgeist, the noise drowns out nearly everything else.

It’s a good time to stick to the basics.

Cheers to you and yours,

**The service is broadcast live on Christmas Eve Morning at 10 am Eastern Time on hundreds of public radio stations across the United States, many of which repeat the broadcast on Christmas Day. That’s radio, not television, and it is also available on the BBC World Service.

Getting Hip The Hard Way

2005-02-25T17:01:00.000-08:00

Having just navigated through the replacement of a hip and the first stage of recovery, I am now able to reflect on the last couple of years…the decline of function, the increase of pain, and my continuing impression of Treasure Island's Long John Silver, with his peg-legged gait, before I was wheeled into Surgery and put in the hands of a doctor whose work gives every indication of allowing me to live in a world with a much wider orbit than previously.

There is nothing on earth which can appropriately measure my gratitude for his and his colleagues’ skills in helping me get another shot at being able to walk comfortably. I even dream of a trip to Scotland and a hike around my favorite loch.

But here is what I don’t get and probably never will: Why did I get the best advice in dealing with my declining hip from a complete stranger in London, my stockbroker, and an old friend?

The people in the white coats were helpful, interested, and happy to prescribe physical therapy, the now rejected anti-inflammatories like VIOXX and Celebrex (and for a time these meds did help some), and home exercise.

Last year when the pain got to the point where I would do anything just to get through a day and a night without being driven bonkers by the pain, I felt I was hitting the wall. Then on a trip to London, my medical luck began to change. On a guided walk one Sunday morning, I was struggling to keep up with the group, when one of us came over to me and asked for my cane, and I was so surprised, I just handed it over, feeling like such a dumb cluck. The cane was adjustable, and she lengthened it some, and gave it back, saying, “Try this.” Recovering somewhat, I said something like, “Well, but..how…why.” I can be very good with words sometimes.

She responded, “Oh, well maybe it’s my thirty years as a physical therapist, maybe it’s because I got a new hip at Johns Hopkins seven months ago, or maybe I just recognized your walk.” For the rest of the morning, when the guide wasn’t talking, I was asking questions about hip replacement and getting good answers. She recommended some meditation tapes, and after I overcame my intuitive dislike of the prospect of some middle aged woman with new-agey flute music playing behind her telling me I should feel better about myself, I bought a couple and found the damn things actually helped.

Fast forward to last September and a phone conversation I was having with my broker. She asked about the hip, received a frank answer, and asked if I had ever tried water therapy. I described an attempt to do some of that in a YMCA pool, without much success.

She told me about a center with a therapy pool and recommended I get an evaluation. At that point, the pain told me I had little to lose, so off I went for my assessment, first on dry land and then in the 91 degree (F) therapy pool. The therapist said they could help me, and when I got back to the car, I did not know whether to laugh at the irony of finding this place so late in my struggle or cry.

So I signed up and began the long process of preparing for my surgery. Three to four mornings a week I was in the pool being trained by a therapist, and once my program was developed, I showed up and did it on my own. And this was the best thing I did. Period. Full stop. By the time the doors to the Operating Room swung open, I was ready, not just for the operation, but for the recovery from the surgery.

The old friend asked about my hip and recommended I see a masseuse she had discovered. I demurred, probably the usual guy thing. A few weeks later, the friend prodded, and I knew better than to resist. And so the masseuse helped get me and my hip ready to receive the titanium, polyethylene, and ceramic replacement.

I went straight home from the hospital to my home where my two sisters came over consecutive weeks and gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever received – their attention, support, and love. It was the first time we’d been alone together in half a century without spouses, children, pets, and so on, and my recuperative incapacities notwithstanding, it was a wonderful time.

I’m still using the meditation recordings; I’m back in the pool being trained to help me learn a normal gait; and I’m still getting massage. I have every hope that what I have learned and implemented in my daily life will help as I travel on.

In this day and age, we all have to be active, indeed aggressive, advocates for coping with our disabilities, whatever they may be. Books, web-sites, networking, asking questions of everyone who is or has dealt with a situation like yours can be incredibly useful in improving your coping skills, providing the resources for better questions when you do deal with the medical establishment, and improving your life and perhaps delaying surgery for a bit.

Yes, I have been very lucky, stimulated by pain and assisted by friends and strangers, accompanied by perseverance, something I learned from a paraplegic scotty who owned me years ago, but that's another story for another time.

Preparing For Winter

2004-12-18T18:20:00.000-08:00

We had a very dry summer, followed by a somewhat dry autumn; the leaves lacked their usual brilliant color, but under the circumstances, they did exactly what they were supposed to do – warn us that “it” was coming again.

“It” is the cold and the snow and all the little things which hurry along under their skirts, and these have to do mainly with warmth and safety. If you’ve lived here long enough, you don’t think that much about doing: A day arrives, there is the barely audible “click” in your brain, and everything changes.

The garage is organized so that an automobile will actually be able to fit inside it. This is made possible by moving herbicides to the warm basement of the house so that they will be “safe,” and useable again next Spring when you move them back to the garage so that you can find them again in the autumn to put back in the basement. Unless they have reached their “use by date,” in which case you ~~throw them out~~ recycle them appropriately.

Back in the corner of the garage, the snow tires have sat since the Spring. Now is the time to get them into the back of the car to take them to the tire place where a husky lad will put them on the car and place the “summer tires” in the back of the car. This gives you an early season opportunity to hurt your back or at least say that you hurt your back. What brings relief to your back is to find someone else to do the snow blowing or shoveling. Money is likely involved, but this is a good investment – in fact, among the best.

The same goes for removing the fallen leaves from the yard. Find somebody who will do it for you. Write the check. Complain for no more than three days about the cost, and give daily thanks for the fact that you have chosen to provide employment in our difficult economy and no longer choose to do it yourself.

I have some driveway markers, basically green poles on a spring which help keep people on the driveway. They are an attractive dark green color until you try to find the base in the grassy ground – also dark green. If you wait until the grass is no longer dark green, the ground may be too hard to dig the hole for any new markers. There will come a point when you leave the markers in the garage next to the tires and await perfect installation conditions which never seem to arrive.

The winter clothes which may have been properly stored in the basement (or may not have if summer cold weather arrived as the clothes were finding their own way down a couple of floors). If the latter situation applies, be sure to check the laundry and other nearby locations. Once the clothes are returned to their winter locations, check them for wear, newly observed design and styling flaws, and then put them in the place where they probably should be all the time anyway.

Shovels, ice chippers, bags of sand, and similar tools of the season need to be placed by the front door, and when this happens you are reminded to turn off the outside faucets. In order to do this, one frequently has to step over the winter clothes which were not put away, so one must be careful.

Winter requires an array of footwear for warmth and safety. When I was a kid, we had black galoshes with metal buckles. Ugly and cold, but at least they kept your feet dry. Nowadays you can choose between ugly insulated boots, boots with felt insulation, so big you have to walk like a giant in them, slip-on boots with hearty soles, thingies with sharp points that slip over boots for walking on ice. Beyond that, there are walking sleds (“Sparks, as they call them in Scandinavia), walking poles, cross country skiis, snow shoes.

Others who live here believe that engines are essential in the winter – snowmobiles and similar contrivances. Many of us believe that these provide too much pleasure in the winter and are creatures of the devil, environmentally wasteful, and so, in a word, purposeless. I’m sorry to report that these machines and their brethren seem to be a very popular way of dealing with early darkness and perennial cold and snow – there is almost always the so.

The furnace needs to be checked and tuned, supplies of cocoa and whisky to be aggregated (part of blizzard prevention), extra blankets put on or near the beds, the battery powered radio located in case of power failure), the safety supplies for the car (blankets, ice scrapers (several for different kinds of ice and as back-up), sleeping bag, small shovel, bag of sand, coffee can for individual relief. Inside the house those of us without a lot of hair look around the nightcap to be found, second only in importance to blankets and duvets. Hot water bottles are also a good investment. Not only are they warm, but if you are surprised by them, you can learn the difference between first and second degree burns.

Lastly, the winter vocabulary returns to active use. This is aided by a lot of preparatory discussion having to do changes in the weather – looks like snow, could be unpleasant tomorrow, have to change the oil in the car, better tell the cat, bring in the brass monkeys – all that discussion which is really the way we warn each other and assure each other that we are prepared and prepared to endure it together.

Our vocabularies change, too, so that windchill, black ice, turning into a skid, braking distance, blue wax, kitty litter (a sand substitute), and a whole host of curse words not required the rest of the year arrive as though freshly minted. Other words used during this time are Florida, Mexico, Vegas, California, the Caribbean, Hawaii, even Iowa.

But of course, we never are completely prepared for winter, not even for the gray day when the first white flakes descend from the sky, land, linger for just an instant before the last heat of the ground melts them. That experience is as old as we are, but new and simple and beautiful each autumn.

And then, alas, experience starts to accumulate and linger on our roads and sidewalks, and steps. Outwardly we continue to complain, but secretly we just look forward to crawling into our beds, snuggling under the covers with a good book, surrounded by the quiet of a winter’s night and being grateful just for being warm.

How I Found Courage

2004-12-10T17:02:00.000-08:00

A couple of days before Thanksgiving, I sat down and wrote a screed, and I am thankful I didn’t put it up on the site. It was off the mark, a bit sour, and not what I intended. What follows comes closer to the mark.

Each year I find I am thankful for yet another “something” which has come into my life, and this year what tops the list is a place called “Courage Center.”

For the last several years my right hip has started to deteriorate, and the discomfort has moved from sporadic to continual to continuous, and the situation finally got to the point where I’m scheduled for a replacement hip early in the New Year.

I tried everything I could think of to delay the surgery – glucosamine/chondroitin, riding a bike followed by riding a semi-recumbent bike, active stretching and strengthening, physical therapy, anti-inflammatories – including the now infamous VIOXX.

On the recommendation of a physical therapist from Baltimore whom I met by chance on a walk in London (a story for another time), I bought some meditation tapes and found them far more helpful than I ever would have imagined..new age music and all.

Then one day, I was talking to my stockbroker, and she listened to the hip update and then recommended I go out to a place called Courage Center for some work in their therapy pool. I figured it beat slaughtering a chicken and slathering the warm fat on my hip, so in a “what the hell” mood which failed to disguise the true level of my desperation, I made an appointment for an evaluation.

I met one of their physical therapists in the reception area, and on the hike down to the room where she was going to assess my state of hip, I felt like carrion being watched by a hungry eagle. By the time we arrived, she had it pretty well sorted out but confirmed it with the usual pushing and pulling and aches and pains.

Then we got in the pool, and I learned about the advantages of 91 degree (Fahrenheit) water, of working out in an environment of nearly zero gravity, and discovering exercises which would help my hip and prepare me for the day when I would have a new hip which would be an improvement over what I’ve got now.

Truth to tell, I got in my car after that first session, and I didn’t know whether to laugh - almost angrily - at my not having learned about the place far earlier than I did or to cry at my never having felt so good after a workout with the hip in its sad state.

I had always thought that the Courage Center was for people with disabilities, serious physical problems; yes, and, it turned out, I was one of them. My disability was pretty modest compared to some of the people helped by the staff at Courage Center, but that didn’t matter.

So for several weeks Kathy trained me to do a water program which would help me, and then I was allowed to come work out on my own. Every morning when I get up and head for the pool, I have exactly the same set of feelings I had when I was a hockey playing kid and it was time to go to the rink – anticipation bordering on excitement, and the urge to tear out of the house and go get in the pool.

As a result of our efforts, I shall probably be better prepared to cope with the surgery and the period immediately thereafter, and I know I’ll count the days until I can get back in the pool.

In the meantime, I’m getting to know some of the others working out in the pool, to appreciate what they’ve overcome with assistance and hard work, and to ease myself into the ad hoc community which ebbs and flows in the pool each workout.

I may be a latecomer to this remarkable place, but I shall always be deeply thankful for the facilities, services, and staff of Courage Center, yet another reason why I'm glad I live in Minnesota.

Thanksgiving....again

2004-11-20T18:23:00.000-08:00

Driving Through What & To Where

2004-08-19T18:19:00.000-07:00

Remembering Julia Child

2004-08-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

One of the first cookbooks I ever bought was “Mastering The Art of French Cooking,” by Julia Child and Simone Beck, and to this day, I am unable to explain why I did. As a bachelor in his first teaching position, my idea of cooking was cubed steak, chipped beef, hot dogs, and hamburgers. There was the occasional tuna salad, but rarely any fish, and nothing ever very complicated.

The core of my my bachelor cuisine was the hamburger, and it was clear that this apple had not rolled very far from the tree.

My parents’ idea of dinner was meat, potatoes, sometimes accompanied by soup or a salad, and dessert, and my mother was happiest if someone else would prepare it, and any bipedal mammal met her minimum qualifications. When she found herself desperate on Tuesday…nearly every Tuesday, she would prepare cheese soufflé, and in the summer this would be accompanied by petit pan squash. I learned early on to get on the phone Tuesday morning to see whether I could cadge a dinner in a non-cheese soufflé home, and to my good fortune, there were many such households.

About two years after I had been cooking for myself, I realized that I was in a rut which was beginning to resemble an abyss, so it was Julia Child who helped me climb out. Most of the recipes were far too complex for me, especially the one for making French bread which took more than a dozen pages, and I will confess that I didn’t prepare many of her dishes.

What Julia Child did for me was to show me that cooking could be serious and fun, and that the journey could be fascinating and very tasty, and the easiest way for me to learn was to read cookbooks. So I have for the last several decades, and they have led me in interesting directions, just not as far as I once might have hoped.

It’s taken me a long time to be comfortable in the kitchen, and over the years I’ve subjected lots of guests to some good food and some flaming failures, and invariably the failures are more interesting than the successes.

These days, I keep things simple – having a bad hip tends to limit my time standing at much of anything, but come the autumn, I’ll be back making bagels (I never have had the courage to return to that French bread recipe.)

With Julia Child’s passing, an era in cooking, cookbooks, and cooking on television has drawn to a close, but it was Julia who led us down the path of discovery. As she said once, if it hadn’t been she, it would have been someone else, but someone else might not have been as warm, as self-effacing, as natural as Julia was.

She was not only a cook; she was one of the great teachers in our lives, and we were oh so lucky to have been able to come along on part of her long and wonderful life.

Bon appetit!

Not A Headache But A "Conceptual Emergency"

2004-06-22T17:06:00.000-07:00

On my recent holiday, I was on staying on one of my favorite islands off the West coast of Scotland. Not many people live on the island, and the ones who do appear to breathe life in deeply, push their lives forward without much strain, and always say hello or make a friendly wave when one car passes by another on one of the island’s narrow roads. Over the years, I have returned again and again to the island to be reminded of how much more important mono-tasking is for the soul than multi-tasking ever will be.

In one of the towns on the island, there is a combined gift shop and book store, and we were meandering around, trying to look hard enough so that we could take in what we liked visually and thereby avoid buying it and lugging it home to have another "objet" to dust.

My habits took me into the book part of the shop, and one section – the one emphasizing Scotland, and especially its islands, is very small, U shaped, with one chair squeezed into it, so I sat down and had lots of books within arm’s reach.

My eyes fell on one, a little (they would say “wee”) paperback titled, “Ten Things To Do In A Conceptual Emergency,” and when the bells ringing in my head slowed down, I picked it up, read a few pages (of its fewer than forty), and decided that this was definitely worth taking home.

One thing about traveling to another country is that it allows more time for rumination about the country you’re from; one is not surrounded by the amazingly syncopated drumbeats from the mass media, the distance is not just geographical, it is emotional and psychological. Things…life…your own personality seem clearer or at least outlined in a way which never happens at home. ( Unless you’re in middle of a long, hot, contemplative shower, and that’s a topic for another time. )

I guess I reacted to the title because for a long time I have felt that we Americans are trying to deal with or are trying not to deal with some sort of continuing emergency in our lives. It might be governmental, attitudinal, diplomatic, societal, or all of them, if one has to start thinking about it, maybe conceptual is a good place to start.

Here are a couple of paragraphs from the book’s introduction so that you get a flavor of it:

This is a new world. It is raising fundamental questions about our competence in key areas of governance, economy, sustainability and consciousness. We are struggling as professionals and in our private lives to meet the demands it is placing on traditional models of organization, understanding and action. We are losing our bearings. This is a conceptual emergency.

One very human reaction is to give up the struggle to make sense of what is going on and to lapse into short term hedonism or longer term despair. Another is to strive mightily to regain the comfort of control by reasserting old truths with more conviction, stressing fundamentals, interpreting complexity in simple terms. [Page 5]

Issues we need to consider include...

Design For Transition To A New World
Give Up On The Myth of Control
Trust Subjective Experience
Take The Long View
Form And Nurture Integrities
Practise Social Acupuncture
Sutain Networks of Hope
Converge Ideas and Action

If you are tantalized by some of this, then you should visit the source for the book, The International Futures Forum by clicking here. (The Forum is located in St. Andrews, Scotland, and is associated with St Andrews University.)

This is the sort of book which can be read in a single sitting and would make for good discussion in homes, and schools, and other informal communities. And it might help. Us. Now.

Medicare Is Just Around The Corner

2004-06-07T18:26:00.000-07:00

When we turned into the driveway, there were all kinds of friends from the worlds I’ve inhabited, meandering about, a tent had been erected, a whole pig was being roasted, musicians were playing Swedish music, and I was embarrassed at how easily fooled I had been, angry at the same thing, and amazed that such a conspiracy had been cooked up by several friends months in advance, and I hadn’t gotten wind of it, not even a slight rustling of the leaves. In spite of all, to be cosseted in that way was, ulitimately, a delight.

And with that birthday, I declared an end to such celebrations – please. OK, send me the cards with really old guys in wheelchairs, with walking sticks, no teeth…even the one I got this year with a man in his hospital gown lying face down on a gurney in the company of a nurse and doctor who are looking at the patient’s fanny from which is…well, let me paraphrase the punch line by the nurse, “He says the instructions on the tube are to squeeze from the bottom.” I laughed and laughed, until I opened the next card which was identical to the first. Then I began to wonder, not about my friends and relations, but about me.

The Tale Of The Toto Toilet

2004-05-04T17:08:00.000-07:00

Last week my older sister sent me a column from the Washington Post…it was about a toilet, and after reading it, I thought, “Darn, that writer beat me to it!” So, here I am with the same topic but a different approach….

I have a new toilet, and I’m only slightly afraid to confess that I really like it, and I do mean really. You might think of a toilet as not much more than necessary (which is what I think they used to call it, a necessary), or a device to facilitate contemplation, meditation, retreat – or just a fine place to read. But some would say it’s just a toilet, and, speaking friend to friend, not a topic for social conversation.

But it is. And having just looked at the preceding sentences, part of me cannot believe that I am going to sail on and explain to you why this is so. I promise I shall do it as nicely and tidely as I can, and with respect.

When I remodeled the guest bathroom downstairs in my old farmhouse, the building code had changed, and I was required to put in one of the new 1.6 gallons per flush devices, rather than the previous “Controlled But Extremely Satisfying Maelstrom” model.

After construction and during a party, one of our guests who, no doubt, dines strictly on substantial quantities of whole grains, beans, rice, and extremely dense vegetables, reported that the then device had not been able to perform to a minimum acceptable standard, in spite of several successive flushes.

With my minimal plumbing skills, I was able to solve the problem and decided to equip the bathroom with heavy duty rubber gloves, a couple of plungers, very thin “bathroom tissue,” and the fervent hope that other guests would not find themselves in a situation which might require my intervention. This strategy, I thought would eliminate the middle man (me) and encourage the kind of self-reliance which Ralph Waldo Emerson admired.

When the unsolvable happened a second time at another party and Emerson didn’t appear, I joined the cadre of those who believe that 1.6 gallon per flush toilets are an invention of the devil, an unnecessary governmental requirement, and besides they just don’t work worth a, well, darn. Two of the 1.6 gallon flushes comes quite close to the 3.5 gallon flush versions of yore, so if your loo doesn’t work virtually all of the time, well that’s money down the drain and sometimes not much else.

Then I had the good luck to come down with a knee problem, such that sitting down on and getting up from the aforementioned device became quite painful, and I thought myself too young for the plastic lifter devices you see from time to time.

One day, in the midst of my wrestling with this quandary and trying to understand the advantages of the double roll of bathroom tissue, the one that doesn’t unroll without it and me fighting and cursing, I had a conversation with my older sister and explained my dilemma.

“Toto,” she said.

“Toto? What on earth are you talking about, and I know I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

“Toto toilets,” she said.They’re Japanese, come in a taller model, and will accept any offering without difficulty. I have a couple of them, and they are terrific.”

So, I began to do my research; I went to the company web-site, visited a local dealer and just spend some time “sitting around,” and decided that a Toto might just be the answer.

The plumber had never installed one, but he did a fine job, and the ten year old toilet went out to the garage (after pausing in the back yard for two days to create a little neighborly excitement at the sight of a substantial piece of white porcelain post-conceptual, post-industrial and altogether tasteless yard art.

Testing of the Toto has continued on a regular basis ever since. Not once has it failed to perform at a very high level with its friendly gurgle – not once has it required multiple flushes It uses the same 1.6 gallons as its predecessor, but there is something about the design which makes it work perfectly. And my knees don’t hurt the way they used to.

A month ago, the former tea room proprietress in the building where our offices are called to catch up on things. For some reason I decided to talk about my new Toto. When she started to giggle, I overlooked it. But she kept on giggling, until I asked, “Is it that funny?”

“You sound like my husband. We got a Toto a year or two ago, and he just can’t stop talking about it…we just love it.”

Then I knew I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just my sister and I who had affection for our Totos…there were others, quietly talking up their Totos and recommending them. One friend of mine dropped by just to “test sit the Toto,” and now he’s getting one. In the meantime, my sister has Totoed her place in Maine.

Now, I know, gentle reader, how silly you must think all this fuss is over a toilet…a device we all use and rarely think about.

But if you owned a Toto – well, first you would understand, and second, you would find yourself talking about it to a friend, a neighbor, or a relative, and talking about relief – that is, the relief of having all the confidence in the world that your toilet problems were behind you (sorry, I just can’t help myself….)

I must say that I didn’t know how satisfying it would be just to be able to talk about toilets without flushing.

But I’ve moved on, and I’m presently working on understanding how geometric patterns in loo paper allow the paper companies to use less cellulose which increases profits. And you probably thought it was just an attractive design…

We Could Learn A Little From The Baboons

2004-04-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

On April 13th, the New York Times published an article about some research into the behavior of a troop of savanna baboons in Kenya. Now, normally, baboons are not high in my reading priorities, no matter whether they’re overpaid corporate executivess, full-of-hot-air politicians, or celebrities enjoying their fifteen minutes, but the headline persuaded me to read on.

“No Time For Bullies: Baboons Retool Their Culture,” it said.

It seems that researchers have been studying one particular troop of baboons for a couple of decades. At the outset, this troop was dominated by a small group of truculent – no, downright aggressive – males. They were in a tussle with a neighboring troop of baboons over the rights to a the spoils – literary – at garbage dump not far from a nearby lodge.

Unfortunately, the meat in the dump was tainted, and the dominant males all died.

The males who survived were of the non-dominant kind, along with the females and the young. With the disappearance of the aggressive males there was, in the words of the Times’ article “a cultural swing toward pacificism, a relaxing of the usual baboon hierarchy, and a willingness to use affection and mutual grooming rather than threats, swipes, and bites to foster a patriotic spirit.” And there was less stress throughout the troop.

But here’s what’s really interesting: This change has lasted for twenty years – in spite of new males arriving to enliven the community (the males born in the troop leave the community and pursue their interests elsewhere).

Out of curiosity, I strolled through the report of the research, and amidst the usual tables graphs (you can too by searching online for the publication PLOS Biology and perusing the April issue).

(Other primates and some non-primates like birds and fish have elements of culture – they learn how to crack open nuts (chimpanzees) , how to get food (birds) , and how to communicate (whales and dolphins).)

But this example is different in that these baboons have maintained a kind of community which is markedly different from most baboon troops . The researchers observe in passing that “a number of investigators have emphasized how a tolerant and gregarious social setting facilitates social transmission….” Put much too simply, bullies create aggression, hierarchies, and stress, while collaborative communities create less stress and more peace.

Hmmm….maybe we should look around the world in which we primates forage to see how we’re fostering social transmission through tolerance and gregarious social settings.

Our families….well, maybe. Our schools….not nearly enough….Our government….are you kidding?

The troop of primates running our federal government has shown us very clearly that the creation of an intolerant and aggressive social setting is the way to go….to go to war, to damage our environment, to increase the national debt, to impair education, to maintain the increasing gulf between our rich and our poor, and - by the way - to run a presidential campaign.

Enough. We could use more humanity, less stress, more collaboration, less competition, less war and more concerted efforts at peace.

Ultimately we decide what kind of social milieu we want to have, and we get to make that decision – again - in November. Just be sure you vote for the baboon – sorry, fellow primate - who’s interested in helping construct the same kind of world you want.

Women's Basketball....Oh, and Men's, Too

2004-04-01T17:10:00.000-08:00

Something odd happened in these parts Tuesday night. In the middle of the evening, there was a long, low rumble. I could hear it coming, waited for the house to stop vibrating, and listened to it move off across the lake into the distance.

This event happened at almost the same time the women’s basketball team of The University of Minnesota (the “Golden Gophers”) defeated the much higher ranked Duke University team in the “elite eight” of the National Collegiate Athletic Association championship tournament.

I sat in my chair watching the Minnesota players celebrate this almost universally unpredicted victory and realized that the odd sound which had affected our region was the sound of scales falling from men’s eyes…men who had felt in their heart of hearts that women’s athletics was a sop to equal rights, Title IX, women who wanted to be like men, women who wanted to destroy men’s athletics, women who really didn’t care, or something in that thematic area.

Several years ago I, too, might have had some sympathy for those perspectives, but one night I stuck around after a Minnesota men’s hockey game to watch the Harvard women play a game. Because few lingered, I was able to find a spot behind of the Harvard bench. (As a Harvard alumnus, I have maintained a certain and delicate loyalty through the years….) It was then that I saw how much these athletes cared about playing and about playing well, and there was a ripple of little clinks as the scales from my eyes shattered when they hit the floor. Better late than never, I suppose.

The University’s women’s program began with an incompetent coach, followed by one who gave us one year before moving to what she thought was a better program, and she was succeeded by one Pam Borton, an assistant coach at Boston College. Under Borton, the struggling program found its feet, and as public attention bloomed, we discovered the following differences between our men’s and women’s intercollegiate basketball teams:

The women play like a disciplined team.
The women listen to their coaches.
The women seem to care about each other.
The women keep their egos under control.
The women go to class.
The women get their degrees.
The women convey a sense of joy about every aspect of their basketball lives.
The women seem to understand that basketball is not life - just one element of it.
The women seem to know that for the generations of younger women behind them, they carry a special responsibility.
The women make free throws.

No doubt we are in what will soon be referred to as the halcyon days of women’s college basketball; I shudder to consider the prospect of recruiting scandals, academic infractions – the same problems which have impaired men's programs for the last eon. But while the golden glow still is with us, I intend to enjoy what these young women are doing for themselves and what delight they are giving to the rest of us.

Sunday evening, they’re up against the long-successful team from the University of Connecticut, and no doubt more men around here than ever before will be in front of the television cheering our bunch on. Win or lose, tears will be shed, and gender differences will have not a damn thing to do with it.

On The Death of Alistair Cooke

2004-03-30T17:13:00.000-08:00

In American broacasting, one of the most interesting, elegant,and thoughtful voices was that of Alistair Cooke who died yesterday at the age of 95.

In America he was best remembered for his hosting of a program called “Omnibus,” which ran on Sunday afternoons. For a kid in the heartland, it was the chance to get to know the important things going on in the world, especially of the arts, and Cooke was a knowledgeable guide, and a remarkable example of what a liberal arts education might produce.

Subsequently, he became the host of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS and introduced us to the best realizations of English literature we'd ever seen. His words did more than just introduce the program - they gave us a context to help illuminate our viewing of it.

He was a graduate of Cambridge University but came to us early in life and decided to stay. He became an American citizen several decades ago, and settled in New York where he plied his trade as broadcast presenter, writer, aspiring jazz musician, and raconteur.

He was one of those guys who knew everybody but didn’t feel obliged to let you know that, he wore dark suits well, and his soft voice belied the intensity of his eyes.

When he came through my town after publishing a book on America, I stood in line to have my copy autographed. Because of the length of the line, he just signed, not looking up or even saying hello. Disappointing yes, but sometimes just being in the presence, however briefly, of someone you’ve admired from afar is enough.

Later on, when I was in radio and trying to start the Christmas Eve broadcast of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” from King’s College, Cambridge, I invited him to host the program. His reputation would help the broadcast, he was a graduate of Gonville and Caius College at Cambridge, and he could make sense of it for Americans. He demurred, according to his secretary, because of his many obligations, and I was sorry not to have had the opportunity to work with him.

For nearly six decades, Cooke's weekly “Letters From America ” for BBC Radio helped Britain understand something about us, and for those few of us who listened to them on shortwave, they helped us understand us, too, in spite of the fact that he would not allow them to be heard here. That did not change until evolving broadcasting technologies trumped his will.

With the arrival of BBC’s World Service on many public radio stations in the USA and on satellite radio, more of us were able to appreciate his detached involvement – or was it involved detachment – as he made sense of what seemed to be happening here.

What I shall never forget is the image of a lanky Brit on a fuzzy black and white screen introducing ideas and people and performances which I had heard about from my father after his return from a trip to New York or London. Seeing “it,” and not just talking about “it” made a difference to me, and Alistair Cooke, no matter what the medium, was a companionable guide who opened new realms for me.

It is not just his departure which is sad; what is sadder is that in looking around America, there appears to be no one to take his place…at a time when we desperately need considerable help understanding ourselves.

A Wedding In The Family...Like Most, But Different

2004-03-11T17:14:00.000-08:00

My niece Suzanne, got married last week.

She is one of my five nieces and nephews, and like the others, I have never gotten to know any of them very well. I like to think that it is mainly a question of geography - they all grew up in parts of the country far removed from where I was working; I would catch glimpses of them at weddings when they were younger, subsequently at family reunions, and more recently and regrettably at memorial services. We all lead busy and mobile lives, so our orbits do not always coincide.

Suzanne has always been her own person. Intelligent, knowledgeable, curious, and quick are adjectives which apply to her, and she has a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. After growing up mainly in Vermont, she went to college in Maine, and eventually moved to the West Coast and settled in northern California where she has lived for several years.

Her wedding was planned on quite short notice, aided and abetted by Suzanne's older sister, among others, and although not everyone in the families could be on hand for the ceremony and the festivities following, it was, by all reports, a memorable event. I expect that there were many tears of joy shed on scene and around the country by all who know and love the happy couple.

It's always good to have additions to the family - textures change, interactions encourage the exploration of new paths, and sometimes political discussions can rile the blood...much better than the same old same old at family gatherings. With families you always have to be
scraping away at the carapace of the same conversations too many times.

A lifetime commitment, solemnized formally, requires a significant kind of intellectual and emotional courage and so it is much to be both admired and appreciated; one can only hope this couple has as smooth a voyage as life's circumstances allow them.

And so I wish Suzanne and her mate Susannah all the joy and happiness and love of which humans are capable.

Some choices we make; some choices are made for us in other realms. What made us and what we have made of ourselves notwithstanding, love is love and love is blind -- characteristics for which we all should be grateful to the bottoms of our collective hearts, for reasons any spouse is happy to make clear to the other.

Bon voyage and my love to them both!

I'll String Along With Hilary Hahn...Anytime!

2004-02-23T17:16:00.000-08:00

I listen to a lot of classical music, but – like many people – I never took that music appreciation course in college. It’s one of the many modest errors of my life, but a nagging one in a minor key (don’t ask-I can’t tell you).

But I like to think that I have a reasonably competent ears after hundreds and hundreds of performances, but experienced ears, absent substantive knowledge, is – well – just another pair of ears.

I have felt the pangs of my learning avoidance deeply on two occasions in the last year or two, both times at recitals. The first was a performance by the German bass-baritone Thomas Quasthoff who sang with such intelligence and grace that one felt genuinely privileged to be in the presence of such artistry.

The second was a recital last week by the young American violinist Hilary Hahn. A while ago I had heard her interviewed on NPR’s “Weekend Edition," followed by an excerpt from one of her recordings. Something about her personality and quite a lot about her playing jumped out at me. For example, when asked about why she made an effort to meet the audience after a recital, she said that the audience was an important element in her performance, no concert without them, in fact, and she enjoyed meeting people. She's just a kid, I thought, but she gets it....

The excerpt of her performing showed an artist who brought, at the age of twenty-three, not only immense physical skills but an musical intelligence which seemed extremely well developed. I sat in my car, in the parking lot outside the supermarket, early on a Sunday morning, until the end of the segment.

As a result of this introduction, I bought several of her recordings, each of which I now treasure, but particularly her recording of partitas and sonatas of Johann Sebastian Bach, made when she was 17. I have always enjoyed listening to Bach, although I must say that I have never liked his music very much (I’ve already admitted my ignorance, you know.).

Hahn’s recording brought me to a standstill; it was as though the clouds had parted and this immense beam of light surrounded her performance – I sat in my chair without coffee, without magazine or newpaper in aid of my limited musical appreciation and listened with new ears.

To say that I was interested in hearing her play in person was an understatement, and I feared that I might not be as amazed by her playing in person. In truth, from the first notes of the opening Mozart sonata in her concert (with Natalie Zhu at the piano) I was a goner.

Unlike many violinists who get to the heart of a piece by boring in from the exterior, she seemed to start at the center and encouraged us to come along. It may have been one of the most interesting, if not amazing, experiences I've ever had in a concert hall. What I heard her saying in her performance was, “I have thought about this piece and responded to it, and this is where I am with it tonight, so let's explore it together." It was not the "I've played this three hundred times and frankly I'm a little bored with it" approach which I seem to have heard a bit too much of over the years.

The Bach partita she played was extraordinary, difficult runs seemed easy and in the cascade of notes, clarity was all. That performance really finished me off.

She didn’t showboat or add unnecessary flourishes. She stood there in an iridescent gown, shifting from foot to foot, and encouraged us to accept her offering. In rapt concentration for over two and a half hours, we followed, accepted, and celebrated our knowing that we were in the presence of the unassuming, almost shy, “real thing, “ a major artist.

Now at 24, she is in the midst of a burgeoning career, and it will be fascinating to hear how she develops her talent. In spite of my musical ignorance, I know this: Hilary Hahn is one of those artists who changes her world – the parameters of repertoire, the musical tastes of the audience, and unknowable aspects of classical music in the coming decades.

And if you read her online journals at http://www.hilaryhahn.com, you will no doubt find her a interesting diarist as well. As she explores her writing in the same way she explores the music she performs, somebody will eventually tumble to the idea of publishing them, and she will have "found" another career.

It’s good to get your internal carillon rung by someone like Hilary Hahn - young, bright, thoughtful, immensely talented - you tend to reconsider those easy shots about the deficiencies of the younger generation and, in the case of Hilary Hahn to appreciate the hope embedded in the music, in her performance, and in the artist herself.

Nick

P.S. Three of my faves from her recordings are Hilary Hahn Plays Bach (SONY), Brahms and Stravinsky Violin Concertos (SONY), and the Beethoven Violin Concerto, couples with Leonard Bernstein’s Serenade (SONY), all available from the usual sources.

Mother's Theory Of Entertaining

2004-01-26T17:17:00.000-08:00

From my earliest days, I have vivid memories of my parents leaving our house for a party, with a swoosh of perfume and aftershave in their wakes, as they put on their hats and coats (yes, they did), and closed the door, leaving us urchins behind while they had a really good time somewhere else. We were asleep when they returned, and, in retrospect, that was probably just as well.

I also remember the activity in the house when they entertained, and that was often. We children were discouraged from being underfoot, but invariably, when the party had begun and the first round of drinks served, we would be “invited” in to meet the guests…probably about as much fun for them as it was for us.

“Shake the other person’s hand firmly and look them in the eye,” was my mother’s eleventh commandment. My father’s advice was somewhat more self-serving. When we were about to attend an afternoon wedding and reception thereafter, he always said, “Get through the receiving line and then look for the shrimp – there won’t be any dinner here tonight.”

My mother loved to entertain, and my father loved to tell stories. It was a grand combination, and they had wonderful parties….sometimes cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, sometimes a small dinner party, and sometimes something a bit larger. Good food, good drink, and in those days, lots of tobacco smoke throughout. The chatter was fast and loud and never about the Hegelian dialectic or strategies to achieve world peace, and there were jokes, lots and lots of jokes.

Mother believed that one should never have a quantity of chairs equal to the number of guests, except at dinner when she admitted it was a convenience. More importantly, she believed that having the same group time after time became boring, so she was always on the lookout for a new person or couple to help change the rhythm of the evening.

My father insisted that there was always something playing on the phonograph – Bobby Short, Lotte Lenya, the latest Broadway or West End smash hit or anything by Cole Porter.

Having been around those parties – or to be somewhat more accurate – being in bed above those parties, whatever I learned about entertaining was by osmosis.

This holiday season I gave a few parties and attended several, and the cumulative result of those experiences, compressed into a few weeks, was that I thought it was time to reflect and to redefine my notion of a good social gathering. I have peaked out on the “hi how are ya – gee it’s nice to see ya – we gotta get together soon” events” and have recommitted myself to small groups not exceeding six total.

That way, you have a conversation which involves every one, so it’s a real conversation, not the string of party clichés you dig out of the closet regularly. And as host, I don’t have to tear around the kitchen in a rush – in fact, nothing is as intense as it seems to be when you have a real crowd on hand.

We’re starting this revisionist strategy slowly, with a small group on the occasional Sunday afternoon – tea at four, sherry about 5:30, and a bowl of soup and dessert a bit later on. The first attempt went very well – I learned new things from and about people I’d known for years and years – it was both relaxing and energizing. I had a great time, and I think others were pleased by the experience.

On the other hand, I’m not sure my parents would have liked it very much. No, I know they wouldn’t have.

Not their kind of conversation or the preferred kind of music, but more importantly... no shrimp!

Happy entertaining!

No Overtime On Worrying For Me

2003-12-05T14:24:00.000-08:00

Everybody is worried about everything just now. Worrying is more than a full time job these days, but I have decided not to go to overtime on worry.

Well, except for the “chicken little” behavior by our leaders in Washington…the ones who tell us something bad is about to happen, but they can’t or won’t tell us what it might be.

Haven’t they figured out that most of us assumed that another piece or two of the sky might fall down the road, that the attempts on our way of life weren’t going to cease and desist as from the 14th of September? I guess not, but the strategy of increasing our nervousness to the sticking point just isn’t working.

Then the news media try to whip us into a frenzy about the horror of the day, and there isn’t enough time left to worry about the bombs that keep falling on Red Cross buildings and civilians in a country far from our terrors.

I was thinking about all this today and getting close to a couple of serious conclusions which would distance me from the Zeitgeist, when I got a call from a company which wanted to replace the windshield auto glass on every car I own, all one of it. The female on the other end of the line was, I thought, ready to persuade me that hurling a rock through my own windshield would be a patriotic activity, so I volunteered immediately to drive to where her car was parked and to contribute my services for her good and the good of her company by hurling the rock through her windshield. Seemed only fair, but she thought I was kidding. At least the conversation brought my brain back into some sort of focus.

I did decide to devote a little time to worrying about the economy, because when I hear from the stock broker boiler rooms and the auto glass people, then I figure it’s time to switch to light beer, fluorescent light bulbs, and a lower temperature setting on the thermostat. (I’d already given up ground beef for soy burgers, so there was no relief in that quarter.)

It is good to see the sun rise each morning. Some days it’s enough, but the leaves have fallen, and winter is not far away. Just so it’s not winter in my heart, I guess.

Or yours.

A Festival Of Nine Lessons and Carols, Twenty Five Years On

2003-11-30T17:19:00.000-08:00

Most children, if asked, would say that their favorite day of the year, with the possible exception of their birthday, would be Christmas – or a day like it in other of the world’s religions, when families gather and gifts are exchanged.

If you asked me now, I would say that my favorite day is Christmas Eve, because that is the day of anticipation, a state which is always more tantalizingly enjoyable than the day of realization which is just around the corner. But there is another more important reason.

Twenty-five years ago, I was lucky enough to be part of beginning what appears – now - to be an American holiday tradition, with the first live broadcast in the United States of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols” from the chapel of King’s College at Cambridge University, in the old and very beautiful town of Cambridge, about an hour’s train ride North of London.

On Christmas Eve afternoon at 3:00 pm in England (10:00 a.m. in New York), in the chapel commissioned by its founder, King Henry VI and finished by King Henry VIII, the choir of fourteen men and sixteen boys sing carols, interspersed by lessons from the Old and New Testaments read by members of the community and by prayers offered by the Dean of the Chapel.

In 1979, it was not clear that such a presentation would find an audience…a live broadcast from another country and a service not widely known in our country, at a somewhat difficult hour, by a choir of men and boys which produces a sound somewhat alien to American ears, and lessons read in strange accents.

Moreover, we had to surmount technical challenges from AT&T, difficulties in funding the broadcast, and the challenge of our first international live relay.

But we were blessed (and I mean blessed) with assistance from a variety of sources. Charles Watson of AT&T pushed his staff to solve their technical problems; Joe Gwathmey, then of National Public Radio and now of Texas Public Radio, arranged NPR’s fiscal support; an old friend , Walter McCarthy made another significant contribution, and NPR’s technical staff solved all the international linkage problems. (Minnesota Public Radio’s staff took over the following year and have overseen the broadcast since…from the days of transatlantic cable, then satellite, and now ISDN lines.) John Haslam was the BBC producer with whom I laiased (that loverly Brit term) who could not have been more helpful and has become a very good friend.

That first broadcast ran long, but as there was nothing scheduled on NPR’s single line distribution system after the presumed end of our program, we managed to present the whole service. As I remember, 78 stations took that first broadcast; most of them liked it, but there were a few doubters.

From the letters which poured in after Christmas, I was able to develop a sense of hope that the broadcast might have attracted enough interest and support to continue. One woman in Minnesota wrote that “I turned on the radio while doing meal preparations for Christmas Day. I was so enthralled I burned the sweet potatoes. I didn’t care.” Another wrote about listening to the service as she drove from her family to her parents’ home. Her mother had died the night before, and she was going to be with her father for a very sad Christmas. The broadcast was her Christmas service that year. (A year later she wrote to say that her father had come to her home, and they had all listened to the broadcast.) A Californian wrote to say that he listened to the broadcast while he meditated on world peace on a beach in Malibu. Over the years I was involved with the broadcast, there were many letters like that, and they, along with the response from radio stations, made it clear that for a large group of people, Christmas with the broadcast had become not just a tradition, but an important, nearly essential, tradition.

There are have been other more subtle results of the broadcast from King’s. One can find many more local versions of the King’s College service offered throughout our land, some of the English carol tunes have wormed their way into our voices, and - in Cambridge – the number of attendees from the USA at Evensong and Sunday services seems to have increased enormously in the last several decades.

A broadcast tradition, however long lived, is never a guarantee that it will continue. So enjoy the broadcast and then support your public radio station by way of appreciation.

Each Christmas Eve, I am grateful for having been part of the American beginnings of “A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols “ broadcast in the USA, thrilled that so many people have taken the service into their hearts, and deeply appreciative of the friendships which have been a great indirect benefit of my involvement with the broadcast.

Whether you listen to the service, celebrate another kind of holiday, or just remain undecided about it all, I hope your participation in the festivities of the season bring you great joy.

President Kennedy, Four Decades Removed

2003-11-24T18:14:00.000-08:00

It doesn’t seem forty years on since the day that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Time passes more quickly with each decade of life, and the distance of years brings with it a certain residue and altered light which affect one’s perception of those events, and under no circumstances is it easy to feel the same awful feelings in the gut and and head and heart after hearing the news and watching the sequence of events through that weekend, the funeral and the aftermath of it all.

That late autumn day, I was teaching at a school in northwestern Ohio, and it was during sixth period that “the news” began to race around the building. The reactions were those of numbness, tears, a few people laughing – almost hysterically (we hoped) for reasons we never understood . surfaced.

The head of school called for a special assembly. I don’t remember what he said, and I don’t remember the rest of that day. Like everyone else, I was in shock, but we knew it was our job to keep things on an even keel for the students. We did, but only barely.

I had only seen John Kennedy once. He came to a meeting at Harvard shortly after his election. He had been on holiday in Florida and arrived in a black Cadillac limousine with a few Secret Service people. He announced that he was there to get our grades raised, laughed with us, and disappeared into University Hall. He was young, tanned, the picture of good health, and he was our hope for the future. The campaign had been long, grueling, and was not decided until the middle of the next day.

As one of the few admitted liberals in my family, I had supported Kennedy and could not imagine anyone voting for Richard Nixon. My mother reminded me that she cast her first vote for the Socialist Norman Thomas, and my father, wisely, said nothing it all. I considered both responses some sort of forgiveness.

But now Kennedy’s short tenure had come to a tragic end, and Lyndon Johnson was – almost unimaginably – our President….from Texas, rough and ready, with a complex, if not devious, political history of his own.

Most of us in America spent the weekend stuck to our television sets watching events unfold in Dallas, Washington, and Virginia. It was horrific, depressing, and yet there was something noble in act, fact, and restrained grace in the transition from one administration to another under such difficult circumstances, thanks in large measure to the quiet leadership of Jacqueline Kennedy.

One memory haunts me from that weekend. I am convinced it is true, but it is so unbelievable that I wonder about it still. Richard Nixon, by then back in the legal profession in New York, was interviewed at an airport on his way to Washington for the funeral. Lee Harvey Oswald, the alleged assassin, had just been shot by a then unidentified person, and the reporter gave Mr Nixon this shocking news and sought his reaction.

Nixon looked into the camera with a serious expression and said, “Two rights do not make a wrong….I mean, two wrongs don’t make a right.” I turned to the neighbor watching with me in my apartment and asked him whether we had both heard the same thing. He agreed that we had, and we fell into a long silence.

Something broke in America with the death of President Kennedy, and it has never been fixed. In truth, I doubt it can never be fixed, and after all these years, I cannot say for certain what that something was. Perhaps a sense of hope that with hard work and by working together, we could construct a just and fair society for all Americans.

One should be grateful for the clarity of youth; it is far different from the clarity one finds decades and decades later.

2003-11-24T18:12:00.000-08:00

Good Therapists Can Be Found In Surprising Places

My mother loved dogs, and when she would take “the challenge of this decade” to the veterinarian for a check-up or shots, upon her return she would be positively ebullient.
“Trig got a shot, and I had a chance to visit my therapist.”

She was not referring to a local mental health practitioner but to her dog’s veterinarian. It seemed that a visit to old Dr Palmer provided Mother with an attitudinal boost of some sort, something beyond what the companionship of her four-footeds brought to her soul.

Old Dr Palmer, as he was universally known, was in practice with his son, from whom he was quite different. The father was a Scot – no, not a Scottish descendant, but a Scot – and he abhorred scientific language and any show of pretense. I remember once taking a dog to be seen, and Old Dr Palmer examined him carefully and then said in his deep brogue, “ Aye lad, he’s stook.”

“What?” I said.
“He’s shtook.”
“Shtook, what’s shtook” I asked.
Stook..con--sti--pated,” responded Dr Palmer, making me feel like the village idiot – something I was then when it came to the dialects of the Scots.

But to get back to my story. In my late teens I was quite amused by my mother’s view of her veterinarian as therapist.

Decades passed, and then one fine day, a friend gave me a gift certificate for a hair cut and related activities at a local beauty salon. Full of trepidation, I darkened the door of this place and was placed into the hands of another Karen, a young woman from North Dakota.

If you’ve looked at the picture of me on the home page of my company’s web-site, you’ll see in a nanosecond that I have no hair to cut. I might as well take on the career of “Friar Tuck” in any production of “Robin Hood.”

Undaunted, Karen gave me a shampoo and cut my hair, all with a straight face, and finished up with a facial. I looked into a mirror and notice that many of the gray hairs had disappeared and that I appeared energized, and I felt terrific.

On the drive home, I thought of my mother and her therapist old Dr Palmer and realized that I had found my equivalent. Karen cut my hair for a number of years and then moved with her husband to the West, and I returned to the inexpensive old-time barber shop across the street from my office with its aged copies of Popular Science and such. It was OK, but not OK, if you know what I mean.

Last year, "Karen of My Scalp" moved back to the Twin Cities, and even though there’s less hair to cut and it’s still expensive, the benefits far outweigh the costs.

And if the day comes when there is no hair on my head, I’ll still make my appointments with Karen for a dome facial and polish, because the therapy she provides will still be worth it.

Mother was right, as usual – there’s nothing like a good therapist, especially when they’re not in those “helping professions.”

On Computer Glitches

2003-11-24T18:10:00.000-08:00

Most of us who’ve been around computers for a long time – let’s say 10+ years – are familiar with the following: Your computer has been behaving like a champ, and one morning, you sit down in front of the keyboard and discover that everything has turned to a combination of suet and cheese.

Nothing makes any sense, so you start down the familiar trails of detecting what might have gone wrong. In many cases, this takes hours upon hours, and when the glitch comes to light, you are embarrassed to confess to yourself that

a. you hit the wrong key or
b. you dumped the wrong software or
c. you should never have let Uncle Charlie check his email on your machine or
d. you operated the machine while under the influence and should have arrested yourself or
e. you might just have taken a second or two to read the damn manual (or download it

and read it, the more common situation nowadays.

What’s far worse, far far worse, is the realization that the solution was right there, fourteen inches from the end of your nose, and you didn’t see it until you had raced around all the well-trod “paths of fruitlessness.”

When you report this problem and its solution, you never, repeat never, talk about the amount of time expended in the search for the solution. Rather, one talks about the elegance of the solution, the incredible (and nearly instantaneous) detective work required.

One never admits that one was like Miss Marple lost in her own village, Poirot on a bender, or Lovejoy unable to identify an east Anglian antique. As the probable villain in the cause, one chooses to be the hero in the solution…easy when one works alone.

Or am I the only one who suffers from this occasional affliction?

Something similar happened yesterday. I had a new satellite dish installed last week. Because it’s still winter here, the crew used a dish in a bucket of concrete as a stop-gap until the ground thaws, and a permanent installation can be made. Worked like a champ, it did…until yesterday morning.

I made sure the dish hadn’t blown over and then began blaming myself, pretty much working through a through e above, just in a slightly different context. After hours of looking at satellite azimuths and transponder assignments, I was getting absolutely nowhere, and frustration was mounting rapidly.

Time for a break, I thought, and I walked out to the end of the drive for the mail. It was a pleasant day, and I noted that much of the winter’s snow had melted as I came back to the house.

Ba-dum- bum!

The snow had melted, changing the position of the dish, and throwing it out of alignment. Ten minutes and some compass work later, the problem was solved. (OK, so it was thirty minutes – give me a break, would you?)

Fifty years ago, I had a math teacher who thrummed the following into our heads: “RTP,” he said. “Read The Problem.” We generally got this when we couldn’t figure out how to structure one of those algebra problems involving freight trains going from Atown to Bville at certain rates of speed. “RTP” was good advice then, and now, and thought I haven’t forgotten it, I occasionally believe that it can be ignored on occasion. At my peril.

The teacher is gone, but the good advice remains. I had let what I thought the problem was define my possible solutions. I hadn’t read it with sufficient clarity to understand all of it.

“RTP. Read The Problem.” Pass it on.

Remembering Paul Wellstone

2003-11-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

A year ago this week, the senior Senator from Minnesota, Paul Wellstone was killed in a plane crash, along with his wife, daughter, several campaign workers, and the flight crew. He was approaching the end of his re-election campaign and decided to attend the funeral of a friend in northern Minnesota.

It seemed that people either loved or hated Wellstone, reminiscent of the feelings many of my parent’s generation had about Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I realize that hate is a strong word, but I thought about it and decided it was the right word.

The reasons for hating Senator Wellstone were (and very sad to say, are):

He was a politician.

He was a liberal.

He was an inveterate optimist.

He was Jewish.

He was balding.

He was short.

He was a former amateur wrestler.

He was a former college professor.

He was enthusiastic about damn near everything.

He enjoyed being with people.

He liked the give and take of the debate.

He stood up for what he believed in.

He never gave up.

Like Roosevelt, he was “a happy warrior,” and like it or not, we are the better for having had both of them pass through and affect our lives.

It appears that we live in a country where debate has two colors – black and white. No room for gray, for complexity, for subtlety. Maybe one day we’ll realize that our lives are not thirty second tv commercials, that we need to think about the issues facing our families and our country, and that we need more than another “suit” to pour the clichés of the day into our ears in the perpetual search for our vote.

Wellstone was an original, and we are still searching for his successor. Sad to say, it looks like it’ll be a while.

Preparing For Winter

2003-11-01T18:19:00.000-08:00

We had a very dry summer, followed by a somewhat dry autumn; the leaves lacked their usual brilliant color, but under the circumstances, they did exactly what they were supposed to do – warn us that “it” was coming again.

“It” is the cold and the snow and all the little things which hurry along under their skirts, and these have to do mainly with warmth and safety. If you’ve lived here long enough, you don’t think that much about doing: A day arrives, there is the barely audible “click” in your brain, and everything changes.

The garage is organized so that an automobile will actually be able to fit inside it. This is made possible by moving herbicides to the warm basement of the house so that they will be “safe,” and useable again next Spring when you move them back to the garage so that you can find them again in the autumn to put back in the basement. Unless they have reached their “use by date,” in which case you ~~throw them out~~ recycle them appropriately.

Back in the corner of the garage, the snow tires have sat since the Spring. Now is the time to get them into the back of the car to take them to the tire place where a husky lad will put them on the car and place the “summer tires” in the back of the car. This gives you an early season opportunity to hurt your back or at least say that you hurt your back. What brings relief to your back is to find someone else to do the snow blowing or shoveling. Money is likely involved, but this is a good investment – in fact, among the best.

The same goes for removing the fallen leaves from the yard. Find somebody who will do it for you. Write the check. Complain for no more than three days about the cost, and give daily thanks for the fact that you have chosen to provide employment in our difficult economy and no longer choose to do it yourself.

I have some driveway markers, basically green poles on a spring which help keep people on the driveway. They are an attractive dark green color until you try to find the base in the grassy ground – also dark green. If you wait until the grass is no longer dark green, the ground may be too hard to dig the hole for any new markers. There will come a point when you leave the markers in the garage next to the tires and await perfect installation conditions which never seem to arrive.

The winter clothes which may have been properly stored in the basement (or may not have if summer cold weather arrived as the clothes were finding their own way down a couple of floors). If the latter situation applies, be sure to check the laundry and other nearby locations. Once the clothes are returned to their winter locations, check them for wear, newly observed design and styling flaws, and then put them in the place where they probably should be all the time anyway.

Shovels, ice chippers, bags of sand, and similar tools of the season need to be placed by the front door, and when this happens you are reminded to turn off the outside faucets. In order to do this, one frequently has to step over the winter clothes which were not put away, so one must be careful.

Winter requires an array of footwear for warmth and safety. When I was a kid, we had black galoshes with metal buckles. Ugly and cold, but at least they kept your feet dry. Nowadays you can choose between ugly insulated boots, boots with felt insulation, so big you have to walk like a giant in them, slip-on boots with hearty soles, thingies with sharp points that slip over boots for walking on ice. Beyond that, there are walking sleds (“Sparks, as they call them in Scandinavia), walking poles, cross country skiis, snow shoes.

Others who live here believe that engines are essential in the winter – snowmobiles and similar contrivances. Many of us believe that these provide too much pleasure in the winter and are creatures of the devil, environmentally wasteful, and so, in a word, purposeless. I’m sorry to report that these machines and their brethren seem to be a very popular way of dealing with early darkness and perennial cold and snow – there is almost always the so.

The furnace needs to be checked and tuned, supplies of cocoa and whisky to be aggregated (part of blizzard prevention), extra blankets put on or near the beds, the battery powered radio located in case of power failure), the safety supplies for the car (blankets, ice scrapers (several for different kinds of ice and as back-up), sleeping bag, small shovel, bag of sand, coffee can for individual relief. Inside the house those of us without a lot of hair look around the nightcap to be found, second only in importance to blankets and duvets. Hot water bottles are also a good investment. Not only are they warm, but if you are surprised by them, you can learn the difference between first and second degree burns.

Lastly, the winter vocabulary returns to active use. This is aided by a lot of preparatory discussion having to do changes in the weather – looks like snow, could be unpleasant tomorrow, have to change the oil in the car, better tell the cat, bring in the brass monkeys – all that discussion which is really the way we warn each other and assure each other that we are prepared and prepared to endure it together.

Our vocabularies change, too, so that windchill, black ice, turning into a skid, braking distance, blue wax, kitty litter (a sand substitute), and a whole host of curse words not required the rest of the year arrive as though freshly minted. Other words used during this time are Florida, Mexico, Vegas, California, the Caribbean, Hawaii, even Iowa.

But of course, we never are completely prepared for winter, not even for the gray day when the first white flakes descend from the sky, land, linger for just an instant before the last heat of the ground melts them. That experience is as old as we are, but new and simple and beautiful each autumn.

And then, alas, experience starts to accumulate and linger on our roads and sidewalks, and steps. Outwardly we continue to complain, but secretly we just look forward to crawling into our beds, snuggling under the covers with a good book, surrounded by the quiet of a winter’s night and being grateful just for being warm.

Categories Shmategories....

2003-10-05T14:21:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday morning, I was struggling to combine drinking coffee and reading the newspaper after a night that was too short. Because of my condition – fatigue and nothing more, I can assure you – it was easy to ignore stories about war, politics, the economy, so decided to focus on the sports section.

Unfortunately the sports section doesn’t take long to read, and so as the level of coffee descended in my mug, I looked for something else.

Sure enough, there was a perfect Saturday morning column about a young man who had been elected “Homecoming King” at his high school. For those of you not from these parts, “Homecoming,” at least in my youth was an excuse to throw off normal strategies of dress and attire, go to a football game which was followed by a dance. Normally, this sequence of events took place after the team had played an “away” game, but now Homecoming occurs when it occurs, very much the way national holidays now occur on Mondays when a holiday is more convenient, but that’s another topic for another time.

Anyway, the young man in question attends most athletic events, has taken time to learn the names of hundreds of his fellow students, and enjoys attending school.

The point of the column was that he was described as “developmentally delayed,” and so his being chosen by a vote of his peers was seen as an acknowledgement of the contributions of someone who is classified as different in some ways from most other students. And so our hearts are warmed, and we turn the page and life goes on.

But wait a minute.

Every day we allow categories to simplify our lives too much. In the first paragraph, I said I was tired, but you might have thought I was dealing with a hangover. Big difference, and in my book two glasses of wine and four and a half hours of sleep makes you tired, not hungover.

We’ve all heard the terms - dummy, retard, handicapped, challenged. Or how about spic, dago, fag, faggot, queer? Or the derogatory racial terms? Or perhaps liberal, conservative, communist, fascist, socialist? Or terms that describe learning disorders along a nearly endless continuum…

We are all more subtle than the words others might use to describe us and that we might use to describe ourselves to others. The late John Gardner was once asked in what pigeonhole he might fit. His reply was that he didn’t really know, just one with his name above it.

Returning to our young man, the homecoming king, I wonder just who might be “developmentally delayed” – It seems he and we both lack certain talents and skills we might like to have, and the only difference is that some of us have may more of a choice in the matter.

Time to rethink that pigeonhole thing we do.

How's Your Grammar? Fine, How's Yours?

2003-09-10T18:27:00.000-07:00

While I’m aware that our language is constantly changing and understand that intellectually, I have a great deal of trouble with it emotionally. As a whippersnapper I was put through the paces of English grammar and usage by a teacher of the old school…no, that’s not right…he was of the older school, and I am of the old school.

If you’re younger than I am – and I’m not saying – then perhaps your heart might twitch upon hearing any of the following:

Between you and I…
You going out with me makes me angry…
Like, we were studying, you know, and, like, his father really got….
If I was you, I wouldn’t do that.

These errors are all grammatical, and the type of error is described at the bottom of this brief homily.

What’s got my blood moving today is the rather curious way we become lemmings of usage and by doing so separate a word or a phrase from actual thought. Here are some examples.

You go, girl.
Don’t go there.
She has issues.
Aw, go (blank) yourself.

The first appears to have been assimilated into our language from a subculture, and it appears to be a statement of approval for having done something wondrous, unlikely, or contrary to character.

The second constrains discussion so that a sensitive area is declared to be out of bounds by the speaker.

The third appears to have the same effect as its predecessor, except that now another person’s situation is almost, but not quite, out of bounds.

The fourth phrase and its innumerable variations can be heard almost anywhere these days and reminds us how any word can lose shock value unless you hear it/them in the company of a child or a sweet old lady, in which event you are…well, don’t go there, because even thinking what I’m thinking gives me more issues than I can handle just now.

Don’t be diffident…try out new words and phrases, vary your vocabulary, create new words.

Last year I came up with sphinctitude and its adjectival and adverbial forms, sphinctitudinous and sphinctitudinously. The noun is a combination of sphincter and attitude, and I’ll leave it to you to define it. I also came up with drivelous and drivelousness, but I can’t find my copy of the Oxford Universal to see if it’s a new word. No matter, I’ve had fun just playing with the language.

As we all should. If you come up with anything new

The grammatical errors above are:

1. Pronoun object of preposition should be in objective case, therefore “me.”
2. “Going” is a gerund (verbal noun) so you should be in the possessive form “your.”
3. This is an excellent example of a simple sentence with interruptions for both continuation and emphasis.
4. Condition contrary to fact takes the subjunctive. In this case, “were.” But compare to “If the train was late – and it was – you would have been late.”

The Stone Philips Effect

2003-08-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

The dog days are here. I can tell, because I want to scratch myself in odd places, and I circle the sofa before collapsing on it for a wasted hour or two watching bad television.

August is the best month for bad television. You can see the junk that you missed during the rest of the year, and your mind is in precisely the right kind of condition for it.

Why is that so?

A number of reasons – it’s the time when you begin to accept the fact that the yard work you’d promised yourself to do since April won’t be done, the winter clothes at the bottom of the basement stairs to be put away have contributed to the well-being of the resident moths, and anything that does survive does not have to be unpacked…just dragged back upstairs for the long stretch of darkness and cold here in Minnesota, holes and all. You can write letters to yourself in the dust on any table in the house, the kitchen looks like a Crime Scene Investigation team has just ransacked the place, and Labor Day is fewer than three weeks away.

Much better with a cold beer on the sofa, and you can learn stuff. The other night on public tv I learned about the Spartans, and Queer Eye For the Straight Guy has me thinking “neatness really does count.” Baseball is always good for a nap or two during the nine innings, but then I’ve known that for years.

But the Big News for this August is that I have both discovered and named a new television phenomenon which I call “The Philips Effect,” names after Stone Philips, of NBC’s Dateline program. Every time the camera opens on Philips, he does this quirky little up and down nod, like a little kid….looks like his chin is just falling down the last three stairs.

It conveys a sense of involvement, commitment, agreement with whatever random thought might be firing up your neural synapses – did I leave the stereo on, what was the name of that woman I met at last night’s art opening, boy, how about that navel lint.

The Philips Effect became particularly noticeable during the early stages of the present conflict in the Middle East when correspondence waited to hear and to comprehend the questions being thrown at them from Washington or New York. Now it’s leaked to local news anchors, weather and sports people.

By golly, you can sit right in front of the tv in your underwear and have a handsome or pretty television person agreeing with you and encouraging you to agree with them by nodding a lot at you.

Another tv discovery in their constant drive to replace content with style. Maybe Robert Siegel and Bob Edwards do it in front of their microphones at NPR, but I doubt it, what with their relentless interest in content.

The Philips Effect…another reason to watch television. Yeah, right.

Uncertainty And Belief

2003-06-12T14:24:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I was completing my morning ablutions when there was a knock on the front door. I put on some clothes and went to the front door to find that it was my neighbor Betsy who suggested in no uncertain terms that I go down to the lake…something about a goose she said.

My old farmhouse is on a small lake, so I headed out the door to the deck and was amazed to see about fifteen kids from the near- by exercise club and their leader, a guy with a kennel crate covered by a towel, a woman taking pictures of it all, and Betsy.

It seems that in early May, a Canada goose had been hit by a car along our road as s/he was trying to shepherd the goslings across the road to the lake. The driver had not stopped, and when Betsy came upon the scene, she got the goose to the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center at the University of Minnesota.

The goose had mended successfully and was now ready to be liberated. The door to the kennel cage was opened, and after a short wait, the goose walked out, and slid into the lake.

We all waited to see what would happen next, and we didn’t have to wait long. The goose swam out about twenty feet and then flapped its wings and once airborne flew just above the water off to the East.

The group lingered, chattering away about this rare success – most creatures wouldn’t survive an injury like this without someone like Betsy – about the insensitive lout who had struck a living creature and driven on, and about whether the goose would find its mate and their goslings again.

It was one of those cool, quiet, and sunny summer mornings, like the ones you treasure from childhood, a morning suddenly filled with optimism and hope. A few minutes later, silence had returned to the shore.

Later on in the day, I was busy repainting the front door; I declared a coffee break and poured myself a cup in the kitchen and was taking my first sip when I looked out over the deck toward the shore.

And there at the edge of the lawn was a pair of Canada geese and eight goslings, all foraging for food.

Now I don’t know whether this was our injured goose with his newly found mate and their flock. I’ll never know.

But what, exactly, do I need to know? After all, does not uncertainty help create belief?

On Mother's Day Phobia

2003-05-01T18:31:00.000-07:00

Me: My Name is Nick and I’m a Mother’s Dayphobe.

You: Hi, Nick.

Me again: I don’t know when these negative feelings started….decades ago, and I adored my Mother. Maybe it was the day I realized that McDonalds’s, Disney, and Hallmark had decided to take over our psycho-emotiono-culturo-familio world.

Now you can add to that Walmart, Target, Home Depot, Starbucks,….well, you probably have your own list, but you get the idea.

We are whipped into a frenzy of brunches, and little bouquets, and very expensive cards with somebody else’s poetry instead of our own words, and so when Father’s Day rolls around we’re ready, and by Halloween, we’re really ready, so that by Thanksgiving we are in a positive frenzy, to be sure that by Christmas the rate of neural transfer in our brains cannot be measure by any machine on this earth. There is a brief respite until Valentine’s Day, and St. Patrick’s Day seems like just a bump in the road of life. And then, there’s Mother’s Day.

In parts of my family, the definition of conflict can be measured when Mother’s Day is on the same weekend as “the Opener,” which, in these parts refers only to the first day of legal fishing for the serious game fish, and that conflict will erupt again next weekend. In another part of the family, that particular Sunday reminds us, uh, them that outdoor drinking has resumed , and that never, repeat never, and especially never, stands in the way of Mother’s Day. In fact, it probably helps some of us deal with it.

My mother and I had this unwritten agreement. I called her the day before Mother’s Day to remind her that yet again, I was not celebrating with the rest of America. We would have a nice chat (so much better than a card with poetry by a stranger), and she would thank me and head off to think about what she would be wearing the next morning at brunch.

So on Mother’s Day, I think of my Mother and all the others who’ve helped us paddle through our lives – parents, teachers, step-parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, social workers, doctors and nurses, therapists, ministers and rabbis, social workers, and all those who take it upon themselves to care about and for others formally and informally (including four footed creatures and other pets, and I celebrate them, too).

In spite of my trying to be inclusive, I thought about putting politicians on my list, but upon reflection decided to take the Fifth….and on Mother’s Day maybe drink some of it. (Well, we can each celebrate in our own way, no?)

There isn’t a day that I don’t think about my parents, both gone now, but our conversations continue in their own way, and one day a year will never be enough to honor what they – and others - have done for me.

Thank you.

Some Of The Loons Are On The Lake

2003-04-25T18:35:00.000-07:00

I was taking my regular constitutional around Birch Lake last week, mulling over the state of my world: The winter was long and gloomy, punctuated by stretches of genuine blackness involve war, famine, pestilence, corporate greed which more and more resembles the behavior of the mob but without the barber shop “rub outs,” venal and small-minded politicians, misbehaving members of the clergy, a press dependent on governmental and military hand-outs, increasing intrusion on our private lives by government bureaucrats, and stupidity creeping across the land to the point where one wonders if anybody is thinking anywhere.

At about this point, I begin fantasizing about moving to a cottage on an island off the coast of Scotland, but without The New York Times at my door each day and Diet-Rite in the fridge, I’d say the chances are slim. I have always admired Huck Finn but can no more light out for the West than ply a raft down the Mississippi River.

As I came to the Northwest corner of the lake, I had achieved a state of darkness which was making me angry – angry at the world and angry at me for being angry during a perfectly decent walk around a smallish but attractive lake.

Then I saw them. A pair of loons diving just off the shore. Loons, our state bird here in Minnesota, plumage of black and white in varied patterns, incredibly adept in the water, clumsy on land, and linear in the air. Birds with an air of mystery because of their diving abilities, but most of all, their strange and haunting calls which come echoing across the eons and the water into your core, unrelentingly unforgettable.

He was alert and protective while she continued to dive around him. Gradually, they moved off toward the center of the lake.

We’ve had a nesting pair of loons on the lake since I moved here twenty-five years ago. Most years, there is a baby loon, and once in while, two. Sometimes in my kayak I can drift quietly within fifty feet of them before they disappear under the waves, and every once in a while a loon will come up from a dive within a few feet of me – we are both equally surprised, and the loon disappears back under the water and pops up some distance away in a few seconds.

The fact that the loons were back on the lake was the best news bulletin I’d gotten in weeks. I doubt any of the inhabitants of the cars speeding by me took note of the loons – too busy on the cell phone, eating breakfast on the move, chatting with a passenger, thinking about work to see that the loons had returned to the lake.

But the arrival of our loons was the best news I’d gotten in months, and I was grateful. So I went home poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, sat down at the dining room table, looked out at the loons as they moved off to the East, and felt some of the accumulated tension of the recent past begin to ease its way out of my body.

Walked By A Dog

2003-04-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

On a balmy Spring day, there is nothing better than taking a stroll with a small child or a dog. In those few minutes, you might learn more about the natural world than you would if you were on your own for an hour.

In my case, I walk with Gus the thirteen year old Scotty; we head down the drive, take a right at the street and wander for a couple of hundred yards down the bikeway/walkway next to the lake.

We do this twice a day, and during the cold, dark winter months we get up a head of steam: Get out, do your stuff, and head back (being environmentally responsible to bring any, uh, debris home with you). Speed and performance are our criteria.

Now, the walks have become more like a royal progress. Because dogs can perceive something like 70,000 different smells, Gus takes the considered view that each smell must be absorbed, analyzed, categorized, and – sometimes – marked in that wonderful way which dogs do.

He also observes the ducks, loons, and geese on the lake. Each Spring when we go through this transition, I suffer from a short stretch of impatience. It dissipates as Gus meanders from smell to smell because I have time to observe the buds on the trees changing each day, to see the loons and listen closely to their tremolo call, to speak to the geese, all of whom are interested in talking right back. In the morning especially, the sunlight strikes the skin and the soul with equal force.

Meandering is good, but you can’t be listening to the Walkman or ordering your day on your PDA or chattering on your cell phone. I can’t smell the smells which intrigue Gus, but there is enough to remind me that most of what I do is not nearly as important as this all-to-brief contact with the natural world.

Having said that, I am delighted to report that unlike every dog I’ve known, I still have not developed the urge to roll in something revolting as part of my “rite of Spring.” Next year,
perhaps.

Walked By A Dog

2003-04-02T14:31:00.000-08:00

Near Year's Resolutions

2002-12-27T10:27:00.000-08:00

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!

Holiday Shopping

2002-12-01T10:29:00.000-08:00

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!

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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.

The Breath Of Life

2002-11-14T10:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Thanksgiving Remembered...

2002-11-14T10:35:00.000-08:00

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.

We're High On Speed

2002-10-14T10:34:00.000-07:00

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?

The Maul, er, Mall of America

2002-10-01T10:24:00.000-07:00

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).

The Remote

2002-09-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

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....

Drums Along The Mohawk

2002-08-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

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.

My Friend Sigvard

2002-07-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

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.
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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.

Schadenfreude

2002-07-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

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.

The Queen Mother

2002-05-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2002-04-16T10:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2001-12-15T09:54:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went off to a lunch sponsored by one of our oldest cultural organizations. As part of the event, several performers from an organization I had only heard of, sang a few holiday selections from a cultural tradition I knew nothing about. (When it comes to music, I don’t know very much at all to begin with, and I seem happiest when I’m wandering through English choral music, Mozart, Broadway, and contemporry Celtic music – pretty ordinary stuff, I suppose, by today’s global standards.

This group was so intriguing, I made certain to attend one of their holiday concerts – it was beyond enjoyable – it was terrific. A dozen young singers singing a program of Czech and Polish Christmas music from centuries ago, and the scholarship which undergirded the evening’s presentations was, in a hyphenated word, first-rate.

Why am I rambling on like this? For two reasons. The first is that there is beauty everywhere waiting to reveal itself if only you can get out of your own encrusted habits and to be open to it, but you knew that, didn’t you?

These days, we’re reading about charitable organizations which are having a hard time finding support after the autumn horrors in our country, and that’s probably especially true for the arts.

So here’s the second reason: Go out and explore, find a young arts organization with excellent leadership and lots of possibilities, and “adopt” it: Attend events, write a check or two of support, enjoy the beauty of what they present, take and talk to friends, advertise in their program or newsletter.

In my case, it’s a group called The Rose Ensemble in Saint Paul, MN. You can visit their website by clicking here. There will be something worthy like it in your neck of the woods, so in 2002, resolve to find that organization and give it a hand.

There is something exhilarating about the shock of the new, and it’s a great stimulus for the heart and mind. Oh, go ahead!

For Thanksgiving, 2001

2001-11-20T10:08:00.000-08:00

In a difficult time, full of shared anxiety and concern, Thanksgiving seems almost a day of irony this year. Families and friends will gather to honor their connections to one another, and it is important that they do so, as they have for years and years.

I wish you a happy time, and I hope you are able to take time to reflect – to reflect on those who gather together in deep sorrow to remember family and friends lost, on those who work tirelessly to retrieve remains and clear the wreckage so that the process of renewal can begin, on those volunteers and others who support them, and on those who, both known and unknown to us, fight to stop terrorism in all its forms.

Be well, and carry on.

Nick Nash

Thanksgiving, 2001

Rethinking Thanksgiving

2001-11-15T18:25:00.000-08:00

It’s time, I think, to have a long look at Thanksgiving and improve it. I don’t believe that there’s convincing evidence that the Pilgrims were deeply committed to turkey as a main dish. I know this offends the turkey growers, so I’ll add hastily that I doubt very much that roast beef was high on their list either. My conclusion – let’s get past the Pilgrim stuff and build a meal which, in its very construction, makes us thankful. In my case it would be roast beef, yorkshire pudding, to hell with the fiber-filled vegetables, some form of green salad, and a hot fudge sundae for dessert, with a couple of very thin, crisp ginger snaps.