Walk the Walk, Shout The Talk

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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.