It's been a pretty intense week, with a pretty heavy decision made (previous post) and plans for the future laid. That all just served to make it that much more enjoyable to spend part of the early evening at the Midtown Huey's. Grandmommie and I took Dancing Baby; MommaMomma and Auntie Em arrived shortly after. My old pal DiAnne Price was performing with 2/3 of her Boyfriends. We missed Jim Spake, but nobody's ever mistreated getting to hear DiAnne, Tim Goodwin and Tom Lonardo. DiAnne is Memphis music. She is at home in the Blues, Jazz, Standards, Rock 'n' Roll, and any other genre you can come up with. She can hammer out the barrelhouse, sing with the smoky authenticity of late nights and bad circumstances, turn on a dime, and bring more life to I'll Fly Away than I've ever heard in any church of any denomination. My girls have been listening to DiAnne and the Boyfriends play since Auntie Em was Dancing Baby's age, so I'm now indebted to her to the fourth generation (as my parents are fans, too!)
I don't know what to make of people who don't take music as a part of their lives. Such an absence betrays an emptiness of soul that I cannot account for. I can't begin to explain what relief I have found in seeing my granddaughter, since she was about six months old, literally moved by music. DiAnne was the first person DB heard play live, and she was wiggling and cooing from the first notes. Now, we've graduated to a need to stand on the floor, on her own two feet, to shake a tailfeather. My mother always conquered her low times at the keyboard of her piano. My daughters do the same. Saturday night, at our monthly family gathering, Miss 2-years-old handed out the instruments (woodblocks, cymbals, cow bells, triangle, etc.) as the whole family concentrated on her and followed her lead in Family Band Practice. She sang Itsy Bitsy Spider at the top of her lungs, as eleven or twelve hand-held percussion pieces thundered around her. Pretty much the way it should be.
I hope she will always find solace, diversion, direction, hope, joy and so much more through music. As I have come, this spring, to the realization that the work in which I have spent my life has no more use for me, it has been music that has comforted and mended my soul, something that the church doesn't seem interested in doing any more. But then again, there has always been more authenticity for me in the ministry of a musician performing for wandering souls than in the often absurdly rigid dictates of a faith that carries less and less relevance for humanity every year, with our endless, petty arguments over what kind of sinners God is willing to love and use, and our endless paperwork that reports on fewer and fewer people every time the reports are filed. Case in point: I preached to 12 people this morning. DiAnne played to a crowd of over 200 this evening. I'm glad she's doing the Lord's work.
And, fine, I'm sure those numbers are totally related to my incompetence.
But I know the truth. And so do you. And so does God.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
March 15, 2011
Dear Judy,
I retire, effective June 30, 2011.
I'm confident that the District Office will forward this note to anyone else who needs to see it.
Joe
I retire, effective June 30, 2011.
I'm confident that the District Office will forward this note to anyone else who needs to see it.
Joe
Monday, January 24, 2011
Dancing Baby Roundup
I haven't reported recently on the doings of our Dancing Baby, so, time to catch up.
We were out running errands one night. DB had a new book, brought it with her, and wanted it read. Only problem: Auntie Em was her seatmate, and Auntie Em has motion issues. Auntie Em tried to explain, "We can't read it right now." Dancing Baby responded, "Well we can look at it, can't we?" In just the intonation that sentence needs!
On another day at the bookstore, Granddaddy and DB were shopping. We found a couple of good candidates, and I asked, "Do you want the Dora book, or the fish book?" DB doesn't miss a trick, answering, "Yes!"
Grandmommie always checks the sale racks at Barnes and Noble, and one day she found a three or four dollar dvd that featured animations of several Scholastic Books titles, including the old animation of Where the Wild Things Are. DB immediately fell in love with it. If dvds can be played out, we're probably getting close. The constant request: "See the Wild Chings (adorable sic)"
Dancing Baby has, courtesy of the Pink Palace's entry-way sign, developed an interest in the planets. As we went into the Palace one day, she identified Jupiter and Saturn by their obvious features. One of their workers, duly impressed, said that he hadn't seen that small a child able to identify two planets. Which left Granddaddy in a mood to show off. So I asked DB, "Which planet is little and close to the Sun?" "Mercury." "Which one has ice?" "Mars." Which one is ours?" "Earth" "Which one is like Mars, but no ice?" "Venus" "Which one is far away and cold and blue?" "Neptune." The fellow was stunned. We are expecting calls from MIT any day now.
The Palace incident was kind of like the day at the Zoo when a guy was standing in front of the elephant exhibit with his five or six year old little girl. He asked her, "How many elephants." She looked, pointed, and answered, "Two." "Look again," her Dad instructed. "Two," she insisted. About ten feet down the rail, the devil got hold of me (thanks, Flip Wilson!) I asked DB, "How many elephants?" The then-not yet two year old looked up, said "Three" and turned to go see the Martys (that would be the Zebras for those who do not know the cinematic classic, Madagascar), proud Granddaddy smirking quietly.
We like to go to Wolfchase Galleria to ride the Merry-Go-Round. On that back entrance to the Mall, there is an interpretation of a giant horse, announcing the location of the ride. As we approached the doors last week, DB looked up at the neon-lit figure, and breathlessly gushed, "Granddaddy, it's the most beautiful thing in the world." I didn't say it, but I sure thought it: No, sweetheart. It's not even close!
We were out running errands one night. DB had a new book, brought it with her, and wanted it read. Only problem: Auntie Em was her seatmate, and Auntie Em has motion issues. Auntie Em tried to explain, "We can't read it right now." Dancing Baby responded, "Well we can look at it, can't we?" In just the intonation that sentence needs!
On another day at the bookstore, Granddaddy and DB were shopping. We found a couple of good candidates, and I asked, "Do you want the Dora book, or the fish book?" DB doesn't miss a trick, answering, "Yes!"
Grandmommie always checks the sale racks at Barnes and Noble, and one day she found a three or four dollar dvd that featured animations of several Scholastic Books titles, including the old animation of Where the Wild Things Are. DB immediately fell in love with it. If dvds can be played out, we're probably getting close. The constant request: "See the Wild Chings (adorable sic)"
Dancing Baby has, courtesy of the Pink Palace's entry-way sign, developed an interest in the planets. As we went into the Palace one day, she identified Jupiter and Saturn by their obvious features. One of their workers, duly impressed, said that he hadn't seen that small a child able to identify two planets. Which left Granddaddy in a mood to show off. So I asked DB, "Which planet is little and close to the Sun?" "Mercury." "Which one has ice?" "Mars." Which one is ours?" "Earth" "Which one is like Mars, but no ice?" "Venus" "Which one is far away and cold and blue?" "Neptune." The fellow was stunned. We are expecting calls from MIT any day now.
The Palace incident was kind of like the day at the Zoo when a guy was standing in front of the elephant exhibit with his five or six year old little girl. He asked her, "How many elephants." She looked, pointed, and answered, "Two." "Look again," her Dad instructed. "Two," she insisted. About ten feet down the rail, the devil got hold of me (thanks, Flip Wilson!) I asked DB, "How many elephants?" The then-not yet two year old looked up, said "Three" and turned to go see the Martys (that would be the Zebras for those who do not know the cinematic classic, Madagascar), proud Granddaddy smirking quietly.
We like to go to Wolfchase Galleria to ride the Merry-Go-Round. On that back entrance to the Mall, there is an interpretation of a giant horse, announcing the location of the ride. As we approached the doors last week, DB looked up at the neon-lit figure, and breathlessly gushed, "Granddaddy, it's the most beautiful thing in the world." I didn't say it, but I sure thought it: No, sweetheart. It's not even close!
Friday, January 14, 2011
50
There is a story that has been told in my family as long as I can remember. As a small boy, I was riding in the car with my grandfather. I asked him how old he was. He answered, "50." (He was certainly older than that at the time, as he was 52 when I was born.) "Granddaddy! You're old enough to die!" was the kid's response.
In fewer than 20 minutes, I will join the list of those, from my little-boy-opinion, old enough to die.
50.
I never thought I'd be this old. And I'm having trouble caring.
I find the non-caring interesting. I think that 50 is a symbol to a lot of people. I am in the business of interpreting symbols. It just seems like it should be a big deal. I should be let in on the secrets of life. That whole wisdom thing should just boil up from...somewhere.
Something! Anything? Nothing.
I don't feel any different. I don't know any more. I certainly hope I don't know any less, at least not yet. It's sort of like becoming a grandfather. Maybe there's just a bit more enjoying of the moment, at home, anyway. Perhaps in a different circumstance there would be a little more "be here now" rather than the constant "where will I be shortly." That one really doesn't apply to my life at the moment. (Where I'll be shortly is probably the largest single issue in my life at the moment.)
Most of the change comes from the outside.
When in Washington last spring, I let my utter joy at visiting the Jefferson Memorial get the best of me, and in my rush to get to old Tom's statue, I threw a shoe and took a header. Right in front of about a dozen teachers with their thousands of eighth graders. So a couple of the 30-ish teachers come rushing over with their heartfelt, "Sir, are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Is there anyone we can call?" I was so grateful that my wonderful friend, Mike Gilliam, had stayed with the car so that I could endure my humiliation and remarkably skinned legs in anonymity. You haven't lived until you've stood in the Jefferson Memorial with blood streaming down both your legs! People just kind of back away...
I used to go over to poor unfortunates like me, with those solicitous words that I found so unpleasant when they were spoken to me.
Bishop Roy Clark came back to preach at Annual Conference some years after his retirement. Dad had served as his Associate Pastor at St. John's, and the old friends made a date for lunch one day of the session. I got to tag along. Early in the visit, Dad asked the Bishop how things were with him since retiring. Bishop Clark told a story about becoming distracted while stopped at a red light, missing the light's turning to green, and getting honked at and waved at in those special ways that people do when they've been delayed for 10 seconds in traffic. He said that none of that really mattered. What got him riled up was the fellow who rolled down his window and hollered at him, "Get out of the way, old man!" Oh, those last two words! The scary ones. The ones nobody ever wanted to hear.
Maybe the deal with 50 is that "old man" suddenly doesn't seem impossible any more. In fact, "old man" seems pretty likely. Unless...well, you know.
Because that's another thing about 50-something: we may say "too soon" when it happens, but a death in one's 50's? Just not the same as in the 30's or 40's. We're told all kinds of things by today's actuarial tables, that if you make this age, then you can expect to make it to that age...and then comes 50. Not old. But no longer young. And young is farther away than old is. Brutal reality: no man in my family bloodline (at least four generations) has celebrated an 81st birthday. That's sobering for multiple reasons.
Just to be clear, I like being this age, reaching this point of life. (None of this seems morbid to me, just a little bit of honesty and reality) I like being Granddaddy. No, I LOVE being Granddaddy! There is no sweeter sound on this earth than my Dancing Baby laughing at my approximation of the Wild Thing's growl and responding with her laughing "Granddaddy!" It is amazing watching my daughters as grown women. Sara is a good mother, putting all that she's learned from Nana, her psycho aunts, and, for the last nine years, Shannon, to good use caring for her child (who is so much like MommaMomma that I sometimes get transported in time, back about 22 or 23 years!). To her credit, she's also learned a lot about what to discard in mothering. Emmy is getting ready to teach. She adores children more than anyone I know, alongside my mother, and will be the teacher that every parent wants for their child when she gets finished at the U of M and into the schools. The only frustration with my girls is that I know my time with them in our home will run out at some point. Totally selfishly, I'd keep them here with me forever. But that's my wants rather than their needs. At least that's what the therapist says.
I also like being married at 50. Sure, we drive each other crazy at times, but that just goes with the territory. It's fun having a playmate. It's fun not having to worry about what she's going to think when I'm being me. It's great fun grandparenting in tandem. She's awesome with our granddaughter. And our daughters.
If you know me, you're not surprised that this is mostly about family. Family is big with us. We take it very, very seriously. It's why we know who we are.
When it comes to work, I will currently invoke the Thumper Rule. (If you don't remember, watch Bambi) But check back with me in five or six months, and we'll see what's what.
I'm 50 now. Nothing's fallen off. Nothing's dawned. Life goes on. James Albert, I apologize for my ignorance all those years ago. Maybe you told me that being
50 wasn't bad. I'm pretty sure that you thought it, even if you knew I wouldn't understand. If, after 50, I can mean half to my grandkid(s), of what you mean to us, still, then I'll have accomplished something.
50, but there's a long way to go...
In fewer than 20 minutes, I will join the list of those, from my little-boy-opinion, old enough to die.
50.
I never thought I'd be this old. And I'm having trouble caring.
I find the non-caring interesting. I think that 50 is a symbol to a lot of people. I am in the business of interpreting symbols. It just seems like it should be a big deal. I should be let in on the secrets of life. That whole wisdom thing should just boil up from...somewhere.
Something! Anything? Nothing.
I don't feel any different. I don't know any more. I certainly hope I don't know any less, at least not yet. It's sort of like becoming a grandfather. Maybe there's just a bit more enjoying of the moment, at home, anyway. Perhaps in a different circumstance there would be a little more "be here now" rather than the constant "where will I be shortly." That one really doesn't apply to my life at the moment. (Where I'll be shortly is probably the largest single issue in my life at the moment.)
Most of the change comes from the outside.
When in Washington last spring, I let my utter joy at visiting the Jefferson Memorial get the best of me, and in my rush to get to old Tom's statue, I threw a shoe and took a header. Right in front of about a dozen teachers with their thousands of eighth graders. So a couple of the 30-ish teachers come rushing over with their heartfelt, "Sir, are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Is there anyone we can call?" I was so grateful that my wonderful friend, Mike Gilliam, had stayed with the car so that I could endure my humiliation and remarkably skinned legs in anonymity. You haven't lived until you've stood in the Jefferson Memorial with blood streaming down both your legs! People just kind of back away...
I used to go over to poor unfortunates like me, with those solicitous words that I found so unpleasant when they were spoken to me.
Bishop Roy Clark came back to preach at Annual Conference some years after his retirement. Dad had served as his Associate Pastor at St. John's, and the old friends made a date for lunch one day of the session. I got to tag along. Early in the visit, Dad asked the Bishop how things were with him since retiring. Bishop Clark told a story about becoming distracted while stopped at a red light, missing the light's turning to green, and getting honked at and waved at in those special ways that people do when they've been delayed for 10 seconds in traffic. He said that none of that really mattered. What got him riled up was the fellow who rolled down his window and hollered at him, "Get out of the way, old man!" Oh, those last two words! The scary ones. The ones nobody ever wanted to hear.
Maybe the deal with 50 is that "old man" suddenly doesn't seem impossible any more. In fact, "old man" seems pretty likely. Unless...well, you know.
Because that's another thing about 50-something: we may say "too soon" when it happens, but a death in one's 50's? Just not the same as in the 30's or 40's. We're told all kinds of things by today's actuarial tables, that if you make this age, then you can expect to make it to that age...and then comes 50. Not old. But no longer young. And young is farther away than old is. Brutal reality: no man in my family bloodline (at least four generations) has celebrated an 81st birthday. That's sobering for multiple reasons.
Just to be clear, I like being this age, reaching this point of life. (None of this seems morbid to me, just a little bit of honesty and reality) I like being Granddaddy. No, I LOVE being Granddaddy! There is no sweeter sound on this earth than my Dancing Baby laughing at my approximation of the Wild Thing's growl and responding with her laughing "Granddaddy!" It is amazing watching my daughters as grown women. Sara is a good mother, putting all that she's learned from Nana, her psycho aunts, and, for the last nine years, Shannon, to good use caring for her child (who is so much like MommaMomma that I sometimes get transported in time, back about 22 or 23 years!). To her credit, she's also learned a lot about what to discard in mothering. Emmy is getting ready to teach. She adores children more than anyone I know, alongside my mother, and will be the teacher that every parent wants for their child when she gets finished at the U of M and into the schools. The only frustration with my girls is that I know my time with them in our home will run out at some point. Totally selfishly, I'd keep them here with me forever. But that's my wants rather than their needs. At least that's what the therapist says.
I also like being married at 50. Sure, we drive each other crazy at times, but that just goes with the territory. It's fun having a playmate. It's fun not having to worry about what she's going to think when I'm being me. It's great fun grandparenting in tandem. She's awesome with our granddaughter. And our daughters.
If you know me, you're not surprised that this is mostly about family. Family is big with us. We take it very, very seriously. It's why we know who we are.
When it comes to work, I will currently invoke the Thumper Rule. (If you don't remember, watch Bambi) But check back with me in five or six months, and we'll see what's what.
I'm 50 now. Nothing's fallen off. Nothing's dawned. Life goes on. James Albert, I apologize for my ignorance all those years ago. Maybe you told me that being
50 wasn't bad. I'm pretty sure that you thought it, even if you knew I wouldn't understand. If, after 50, I can mean half to my grandkid(s), of what you mean to us, still, then I'll have accomplished something.
50, but there's a long way to go...
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Thank You, Santa Theo!
One Possible Batting Order for the 2011 World Champion Boston Red Sox:
1. Carl Crawford, LF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. Adrian Gonzalez, 1B
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. David Ortiz, DH
6. JD Drew, RF
7. Jarrod Saltalamacchia, C
8. Marco Scutaro, SS
9. Jacoby Ellsbury, CF
Theo Epstein has a remarkably youthful appearance, but he sure looks like Santa Claus tonight!
1. Carl Crawford, LF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. Adrian Gonzalez, 1B
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. David Ortiz, DH
6. JD Drew, RF
7. Jarrod Saltalamacchia, C
8. Marco Scutaro, SS
9. Jacoby Ellsbury, CF
Theo Epstein has a remarkably youthful appearance, but he sure looks like Santa Claus tonight!
30
Thirty years ago tonight, Howard Cosell told us during a Monday Night Football telecast that John Lennon had been shot and killed. His murder is every bit as nonsensical today as it was then.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Life Is Good! (At Least This Part!)
It was a Monday, so I picked Kaly up from Mothers’ Day Out. As we walked to the car, I asked her what she wanted to do for the afternoon. “I want to see the forest,” was the immediate response. Not unexpected, as we go to the Pink Palace frequently on Mondays, and with the Enchanted Forest open now, well…Off we went. She got excited when she saw the fence along Central, and by the time I got her out of the car seat, she was wired. I had trouble keeping up with her crossing the parking lot and getting to the doors. I had to tell her to slow down, as she went toward the escalator when I approached the ticket counter. When she stopped, she looked at the mobile of the solar system in the lobby. “Jupiter!” she screamed out when she saw the big boy. “Saturn’s rings!” followed as she spotted the next one. “Spot! Rings!” and by now, everyone including the ticket selling kids were staring at this tiny little girl who seems to know way, way too much about her universe.
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
RIP Leslie Nielsen (1926-2010)
Jane: I've heard police work is dangerous.
Lt. Frank Drebin: It is. That's why I carry a big gun.
Jane: Aren't you afraid it might go off accidentally?
Drebin: I used to have that problem.
Jane: What did you do about it?
Drebin: I just think about baseball.
*********************************************************************************
Drebin: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girls dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Jane: Goodyear?
Drebin: No, the worst.
*********************************************************************************
(as a food-poisoning epidemic sweeps the plane)
Captain Oveur: What is it Doctor? What's going on?
Dr. Rumack: I'm not sure. I haven't seen anything like this since the Anita Bryant concert.
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: Can you fly this plane, and land it?
Ted Striker: Surely you can't be serious.
Rumack: I am serious. And don't call me "Shirley!"
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: You'd better tell the Captain we've got to land as soon as possible. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital.
Elaine Dickinson: A hospital? What is it?
Rumack: It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Baseball's Golden Era
It wasn't the glorified 50's. Nor the Hall of Famer-laden 60's. Not the wild 70's, the mild 80's or the steroid era 90's.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Red Sox Season Finally Ends!
Dateline: Arlington, TX
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
11:01 pm, CDT, October 19, 2010
In regards to the previous post on this blog: Nevermind!
I guess they left the ghosts across the street.
Rangers 10, Yankees 3, top of the ninth. Rangers already leading 2-1 in the ALCS.
I guess they left the ghosts across the street.
Rangers 10, Yankees 3, top of the ninth. Rangers already leading 2-1 in the ALCS.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Yankees Are Still the Yankees
Everything was going the Texas Rangers' way in tonight's ALCS Game One. Nolan Ryan threw out the first pitch. The Great Sabathia was, after pitching once in 18 days, merely a mediocre pitcher, as only 51 of his 93 pitches were strikes. And he had managed to wake up Josh Hamilton's bat in the first, throwing a meatball that quickly turned into a three run homer. CJ Wilson was in the middle of his coming out party. Brilliant through 7, allowing only a perfectly acceptable solo shot to Robinson Cano in the top of that frame. Texas had their hands on the first home playoff win of the year.
But the Yankees are the Yankees.
And so Ron Washington behaved reasonably. He pulled Wilson, after 104 pitches, two batters into the top of the 8th. Gardner had outrun Wilson on a scratch grounder. That happens. Jeter promptly whacked a double down the left-field line, 5-2. Hey, the kid was great, but he was finally out of gas. Out came the manager, and Wilson, in favor of the dependable Darren Oliver. Who walked the next two batters, regardless of his spectacular record of control throughout the regular season. So Wash tried O'Day for Arod, and the first pitch almost killed Michael Young as it passed by third, 5-4. That brought Cano up again, and Wash called for the lefty Rapada, going straight by the book. Cano hadn't read the book, but singled to center, 5-5. Righty Holland for Marcus Thames, but he isn't much of a reader, either. Another single, and 6-5, Yankees.
Kerry Wood hadn't been in pinstripes long enough to understand everything about being a Yankee, so he walked Ian Kinsler leading off the 8th. After a couple more balls to Murphy, Dave Eiland came out to remind Wood to look at his uniform. So the former Cub phenom promptly picked off a brain-frozen Kinsler and moved through the rest of his inning, leaving the ninth as easy pickings for The Great Rivera.
So, the Yankees are the Yankees.
And the Rangers will be very fortunate to avoid a sweep after tonight's game.
But the Yankees are the Yankees.
And so Ron Washington behaved reasonably. He pulled Wilson, after 104 pitches, two batters into the top of the 8th. Gardner had outrun Wilson on a scratch grounder. That happens. Jeter promptly whacked a double down the left-field line, 5-2. Hey, the kid was great, but he was finally out of gas. Out came the manager, and Wilson, in favor of the dependable Darren Oliver. Who walked the next two batters, regardless of his spectacular record of control throughout the regular season. So Wash tried O'Day for Arod, and the first pitch almost killed Michael Young as it passed by third, 5-4. That brought Cano up again, and Wash called for the lefty Rapada, going straight by the book. Cano hadn't read the book, but singled to center, 5-5. Righty Holland for Marcus Thames, but he isn't much of a reader, either. Another single, and 6-5, Yankees.
Kerry Wood hadn't been in pinstripes long enough to understand everything about being a Yankee, so he walked Ian Kinsler leading off the 8th. After a couple more balls to Murphy, Dave Eiland came out to remind Wood to look at his uniform. So the former Cub phenom promptly picked off a brain-frozen Kinsler and moved through the rest of his inning, leaving the ninth as easy pickings for The Great Rivera.
So, the Yankees are the Yankees.
And the Rangers will be very fortunate to avoid a sweep after tonight's game.
Monday, September 20, 2010
A Very Difficult Four Days
We were at AutoZone Park, worried only about the score of the Redbirds game against Tacoma in Game 3 of the PCL Final. My phone rang, and it was my brother. Our uncle, Bill, had gone into cardiac arrest, and the doctors were not giving any hope of getting him back.
Before we could get to the hospital, he was gone. While he had been an insulin-dependent diabetic since age 2, he was only 55. He had married just 14 months ago, and now, Teresa was a widow. And in my mother's family, just as happened in my father's family a few years ago, the baby had died first.
We gathered at Memorial Park last night for the visitation. Then, today, the funeral was held at Aldersgate UMC, where Bill and Teresa married in the summer of 2009. Finally, he was laid to rest at Memorial Park, just five feet from his parents, the people who had saved his life, and pointed him to the life he enjoys today.
Bill was just six years older than me. He was 11 years younger than his next sibling. He always seemed more a part of the generation with my brother, sister and me than that of my mother and other uncles. Bill only beat me into the family by two years. He was adopted by my grandparents when he was four. He had come to live with them at 2; at 4 he came in one night to my grandfather's room and asked if he could become a Fisher. The adoption process started the next day.
Bill was funny. He was brilliant. He was passionate about life. And given the work that my grandparents did in teaching their adopted son what it means to be chosen, he committed his life to ministry. He understood fully that just as he was chosen to be part of his family, so does God choose us all to be part of God's family. He needed to communicate that opportunity to other people. He did it in a variety of ministry settings, from running our Conference camp, to serving as pastor to the poor and elderly in our retirement homes, to the Singles ministry at our largest church, to all of his more traditional assignments as pastor of several churches in the West Ohio Conference, as well as here, at home, in West Tennessee and western Kentucky.
Please keep Teresa in your prayers, and my mom and uncles. And all the people whose lives Bill touched as pastor and bearer of God's good news.
Before we could get to the hospital, he was gone. While he had been an insulin-dependent diabetic since age 2, he was only 55. He had married just 14 months ago, and now, Teresa was a widow. And in my mother's family, just as happened in my father's family a few years ago, the baby had died first.
We gathered at Memorial Park last night for the visitation. Then, today, the funeral was held at Aldersgate UMC, where Bill and Teresa married in the summer of 2009. Finally, he was laid to rest at Memorial Park, just five feet from his parents, the people who had saved his life, and pointed him to the life he enjoys today.
Bill was just six years older than me. He was 11 years younger than his next sibling. He always seemed more a part of the generation with my brother, sister and me than that of my mother and other uncles. Bill only beat me into the family by two years. He was adopted by my grandparents when he was four. He had come to live with them at 2; at 4 he came in one night to my grandfather's room and asked if he could become a Fisher. The adoption process started the next day.
Bill was funny. He was brilliant. He was passionate about life. And given the work that my grandparents did in teaching their adopted son what it means to be chosen, he committed his life to ministry. He understood fully that just as he was chosen to be part of his family, so does God choose us all to be part of God's family. He needed to communicate that opportunity to other people. He did it in a variety of ministry settings, from running our Conference camp, to serving as pastor to the poor and elderly in our retirement homes, to the Singles ministry at our largest church, to all of his more traditional assignments as pastor of several churches in the West Ohio Conference, as well as here, at home, in West Tennessee and western Kentucky.
Please keep Teresa in your prayers, and my mom and uncles. And all the people whose lives Bill touched as pastor and bearer of God's good news.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
New Rules for Hiking, Mountaineering and Protesting
OK now, boys and girls, please pay attention. Circumstances have now necessitated a new set of rules for those among us who continue to choose inappropriate neighborhoods for our hiking, inappropriate seasons for our mountain climbing, and want to be able to protest anywhere in the world like we were at home in the good ol' USA.
1. Sarah Shourd is, as of this writing, in Oman. She has been released by Iran. She was arrested for being in Iran. During a hike. By my rule, she's the last one. From now on, if you decide to hike in Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea or any other such site on God's Green Earth, then we, the sane portion of the American people, will recognize that you have a bizarre need for attention, that you are willing to risk anything-including death-to get that attention, and we will allow you to pursue it. But don't expect anybody to come get you. No diplomats will waste their time and our money, no military excursion will be mounted at the risk of the lives of military personnel. You hike in Iran, your booty belongs to Iran, have a nice day.
Prior to your departure, backpack in hand, for the Persian Gulf, you might consider the Appalachian Trail, the Rocky Mountains, the Sierra Nevadas, or any other number of exquisite places within the bounds of the United States of America, where you will not be arrested by a totalitarian regime, regardless of what Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck say.
2. New rule #2. It is cold in the winter. On tall mountains, at great elevations, it is even colder in the winter. Do not plan your mountain climb in those months. Understand? Every year now, a certain number of geniuses choose to mount their expeditions at precisely the time that will be the most likely to leave them stranded and in peril for their lives. Some of them even include spouse and children in these lame-brained stunts. OK. I guess that's one of those rights to stupidity guaranteed by our great Constitution. But from now on, you're on your own. You go up there in January, you better get your butt back down. Because we will not endanger the life of any fine park ranger, rescue personnel, National Guard member, or full-time military personnel. You want back-up? Make your climb in August. Then, if there is a problem, there will not likely be an avalanche involved in your rescue. Otherwise, it's been nice knowing you. And, again, if you include your kids in one of these cockamamie schemes, they will be taken from you, as you are, by definition, unfit to be around children, and unable to make decisions about their care.
3. Kim Jong Il don't give a rat's booty about your rights. You want to protest, you better do it here. You can go to Lafayette Park and march your hiney off. You can make a sign and hold it on Wall Street. You can cry out your message from most any street corner in America. But North Korea and some of those other fine countries listed above, well, they don't want to hear it. And if you try to bully your way into their little piece of heaven, you're going to jail. For a very long and hard time. And now, by rule, you're on your own. We will no longer ask the (nearly) 86 year old former President Jimmy Carter to travel to the other side of the world to bail your stupid ass out of a mess of your own creation. Doesn't an 86 year old Nobel Prize winner have better things to do than apologize to a bunch of wingnuts to bail you out for being stupid? Don't want to be in a North Korean jail? Don't go to North Korea. Stand in front of our Capitol, make a great big sign, scream your head off about the injustices of their way of doing business. But stay the heck out of their territory. Because they will flush you and never remember having been in the bathroom.
These few rule changes will encourage a handful of our countrywomen and men to make more informed and much more intelligent decisions about their behavior in the world, and you're welcome! Glad to be able to help.
And check back in a couple of days for the new rules that will govern those who choose to interact inappropriately with wild animals. Got some changes coming there, too.
1. Sarah Shourd is, as of this writing, in Oman. She has been released by Iran. She was arrested for being in Iran. During a hike. By my rule, she's the last one. From now on, if you decide to hike in Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea or any other such site on God's Green Earth, then we, the sane portion of the American people, will recognize that you have a bizarre need for attention, that you are willing to risk anything-including death-to get that attention, and we will allow you to pursue it. But don't expect anybody to come get you. No diplomats will waste their time and our money, no military excursion will be mounted at the risk of the lives of military personnel. You hike in Iran, your booty belongs to Iran, have a nice day.
Prior to your departure, backpack in hand, for the Persian Gulf, you might consider the Appalachian Trail, the Rocky Mountains, the Sierra Nevadas, or any other number of exquisite places within the bounds of the United States of America, where you will not be arrested by a totalitarian regime, regardless of what Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck say.
2. New rule #2. It is cold in the winter. On tall mountains, at great elevations, it is even colder in the winter. Do not plan your mountain climb in those months. Understand? Every year now, a certain number of geniuses choose to mount their expeditions at precisely the time that will be the most likely to leave them stranded and in peril for their lives. Some of them even include spouse and children in these lame-brained stunts. OK. I guess that's one of those rights to stupidity guaranteed by our great Constitution. But from now on, you're on your own. You go up there in January, you better get your butt back down. Because we will not endanger the life of any fine park ranger, rescue personnel, National Guard member, or full-time military personnel. You want back-up? Make your climb in August. Then, if there is a problem, there will not likely be an avalanche involved in your rescue. Otherwise, it's been nice knowing you. And, again, if you include your kids in one of these cockamamie schemes, they will be taken from you, as you are, by definition, unfit to be around children, and unable to make decisions about their care.
3. Kim Jong Il don't give a rat's booty about your rights. You want to protest, you better do it here. You can go to Lafayette Park and march your hiney off. You can make a sign and hold it on Wall Street. You can cry out your message from most any street corner in America. But North Korea and some of those other fine countries listed above, well, they don't want to hear it. And if you try to bully your way into their little piece of heaven, you're going to jail. For a very long and hard time. And now, by rule, you're on your own. We will no longer ask the (nearly) 86 year old former President Jimmy Carter to travel to the other side of the world to bail your stupid ass out of a mess of your own creation. Doesn't an 86 year old Nobel Prize winner have better things to do than apologize to a bunch of wingnuts to bail you out for being stupid? Don't want to be in a North Korean jail? Don't go to North Korea. Stand in front of our Capitol, make a great big sign, scream your head off about the injustices of their way of doing business. But stay the heck out of their territory. Because they will flush you and never remember having been in the bathroom.
These few rule changes will encourage a handful of our countrywomen and men to make more informed and much more intelligent decisions about their behavior in the world, and you're welcome! Glad to be able to help.
And check back in a couple of days for the new rules that will govern those who choose to interact inappropriately with wild animals. Got some changes coming there, too.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
On the Burning of Qu'rans
So some nobody "pastor" of a nobody, nondenominational "church" in Florida with a total of a reported 50 adherents wants to "draw a line" and burn the holy book of Islam. Responses from your poor blogger:
1. Why is the press paying any attention to this buffoon? Regardless of the choices of my local tv stations, the robbery of a Dollar General store somewhere in Oklahoma is not news in Memphis, and neither is some goof who's clearly staging a stunt to garner attention that his efforts at "ministry" haven't been able to get him. Why not give the book burner's time to the homeless man who walks up and down Summer Ave. everyday, talking to someone the rest of us can't see? They are operating on pretty much the same plane.
2. Apparently "Pastor" Terry Jones (and he isn't the Monty Python genius, or any other sort, for that matter) is not conversant with the Christian scriptures he claims to defend. Either that, or he really wants someone out there to burn a bunch of Bibles. (See the whole "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" thing.)
3. I'm tired of living in a world of Jerry Springer's making. Only in Springer-World can a toothless Alabaman sharing a bedroom in his trailer with his wife, her sister, his sister and a goat be presented on stage as the equal of a psychologist. Well, there, and on the average network newscast. And, now, in presenting Jones as anyone with the intelligence, education, tradition or vision to speak for Christianity. Baseball broadcasters have the good sense to never put on tv those who are either drunk or crazy enough to run out on the field during a game. Because showing them would only encourage other drunks and nuts. News people should only be so bright.
4. I'm tired of this crap and I'm going to bed. To quote Keith Olbermann, "Good night and good luck."
1. Why is the press paying any attention to this buffoon? Regardless of the choices of my local tv stations, the robbery of a Dollar General store somewhere in Oklahoma is not news in Memphis, and neither is some goof who's clearly staging a stunt to garner attention that his efforts at "ministry" haven't been able to get him. Why not give the book burner's time to the homeless man who walks up and down Summer Ave. everyday, talking to someone the rest of us can't see? They are operating on pretty much the same plane.
2. Apparently "Pastor" Terry Jones (and he isn't the Monty Python genius, or any other sort, for that matter) is not conversant with the Christian scriptures he claims to defend. Either that, or he really wants someone out there to burn a bunch of Bibles. (See the whole "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" thing.)
3. I'm tired of living in a world of Jerry Springer's making. Only in Springer-World can a toothless Alabaman sharing a bedroom in his trailer with his wife, her sister, his sister and a goat be presented on stage as the equal of a psychologist. Well, there, and on the average network newscast. And, now, in presenting Jones as anyone with the intelligence, education, tradition or vision to speak for Christianity. Baseball broadcasters have the good sense to never put on tv those who are either drunk or crazy enough to run out on the field during a game. Because showing them would only encourage other drunks and nuts. News people should only be so bright.
4. I'm tired of this crap and I'm going to bed. To quote Keith Olbermann, "Good night and good luck."
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
He was a Mighty Man, Dead and Gone...
Most of the attention paid in these parts to any departed musician tends to focus on August 16, Whitehaven, and peculiar things like candlelight vigils. Please pardon a minority report.
On August 15th of last year, James Luther Dickinson died of complications following heart surgery. Jim was the Godfather, the soul, the heart of Memphis music. Judy Peiser dedicated this year's Memphis Music and Heritage Festival to Jim's memory. That's a start, in remembering this embodiment of what Memphis is all about, and why it matters.
Johnny Cash died on September 12, 2003. Johnny Cash was rock and roll, and Johnny was country. He was big and cool and strong, with a voice that sounded like the voice of God. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can ever take the place of Johnny Cash.
Warren Zevon died five days prior to Johnny Cash's death. Zevon was smart. He, too, brought an incredible cool to the table. Warren had a good time, even when he was dying. In his last television appearance, he encouraged David Letterman, and all the rest of us, to "enjoy every sandwich." Good advice, to this day.
This trio are way at the top of my list of musical heroes. I am eternally grateful for their work, that their recordings survive, and that their music guarantees Dickinson's chosen epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."
Rest well, my friends!
On August 15th of last year, James Luther Dickinson died of complications following heart surgery. Jim was the Godfather, the soul, the heart of Memphis music. Judy Peiser dedicated this year's Memphis Music and Heritage Festival to Jim's memory. That's a start, in remembering this embodiment of what Memphis is all about, and why it matters.
Johnny Cash died on September 12, 2003. Johnny Cash was rock and roll, and Johnny was country. He was big and cool and strong, with a voice that sounded like the voice of God. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can ever take the place of Johnny Cash.
Warren Zevon died five days prior to Johnny Cash's death. Zevon was smart. He, too, brought an incredible cool to the table. Warren had a good time, even when he was dying. In his last television appearance, he encouraged David Letterman, and all the rest of us, to "enjoy every sandwich." Good advice, to this day.
This trio are way at the top of my list of musical heroes. I am eternally grateful for their work, that their recordings survive, and that their music guarantees Dickinson's chosen epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."
Rest well, my friends!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Is the President a Christian?
Apparently it has been a slow news week, but attention has been paid to a Pew Research poll that found 18% of the American people generally, including 31% of Republicans, believe that Barack Obama is a Muslim.
The discussion surrounding the poll is much more interesting to me than the actual topic of the poll, but let's start with that subject.
Is the President of the United States a Muslim? I'm of two minds here.
First, who cares? When the time came to consider our Constitution over 200 years ago, there was a general outcry that the document would never be approved without an enumeration of certain rights that could not be denied to (given the ignorance of the time) white, male citizens. Over time, our forebears discovered the wisdom to extend these freedoms to all people. The first of those amendments made six sacred declarations: that the government would never be in the business of establishing a church or churches; that the government would never interfere in the rights of individuals to practice their religion; that people would be free to speak their minds; that the press would enjoy that same freedom; that people would be free to associate with whom they choose; and that the people could come to the government seeking justice when wronged. Each of these points is simple and clear. Read them sometime. The significance of the First Amendment for this discussion: It's none of your business or mine whether or not Obama has a religion, and if he does, what it is. That must necessarily be the response of any American citizen who takes our Constitution seriously. Anything less is, by definition, Unconstitutional, and therefore by definition, Un-American.
The second part of what chews on me about this is the arrogance of Obama's political opponents. The exemplary statesman, Sen. Mitch McConnell, was on Meet the Press this morning. Mediator David Gregory asked McConnell, the Senate Minority Leader, about the Pew Poll, wondering how such a misperception could arise. McConnell answered, "I have no idea." Really, Senator? I would have thought by this point that someone would have introduced a fine conservative such as yourself to Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and all of the other people who have committed their lives to convincing Amercans that Obama is lurking in their closets or under their beds, just waiting to get them like those childhood monsters that disappeard when the light was turned on. Disingenuous at best, Senator. A bald-faced lie, more likely.
McConnell went on to say, about his own opinion of Obama's faith, "I take the President at his word [that he is a Christian]." How noble. I'll tell you what, Senator, since you've been so generous with the President, then I'll take you at your word that you're a Christian, too. And I'll take Rush's word for it, too, although he's from Missouri, and just up the road from his hometown of Cape Girardeau, a Muslim father carried out an "honor killing" of his daughter for shaming the family. And, come to think of it, Rush just got married for the fourth time. Kind of violates that whole sanctity of Christian marriage being between one man and one woman (at a time?). (Whoever heard of a nearing-60 multi-millionaire suddenly feeling the need to marry a stunning blonde in her early 30's anyway?)
But I'll take your word, and Rush's, because that's all any of us can do. We take one another's word for it. You don't know what's in my heart, and I don't know what's in yours. But here's what I do know: You and/or I deny a brother or sister in Christ at our own peril.
Whether or not any person is a Christian or not is, ultimately, between that person and God. Again, meddle in that at your own peril. Deny a brother or sister in Christ at your own peril. You might Google "Bible, Jesus, Millstone" and see what you come up with. Read it carefully. And then share with 31% of the Republicans what you find.
The discussion surrounding the poll is much more interesting to me than the actual topic of the poll, but let's start with that subject.
Is the President of the United States a Muslim? I'm of two minds here.
First, who cares? When the time came to consider our Constitution over 200 years ago, there was a general outcry that the document would never be approved without an enumeration of certain rights that could not be denied to (given the ignorance of the time) white, male citizens. Over time, our forebears discovered the wisdom to extend these freedoms to all people. The first of those amendments made six sacred declarations: that the government would never be in the business of establishing a church or churches; that the government would never interfere in the rights of individuals to practice their religion; that people would be free to speak their minds; that the press would enjoy that same freedom; that people would be free to associate with whom they choose; and that the people could come to the government seeking justice when wronged. Each of these points is simple and clear. Read them sometime. The significance of the First Amendment for this discussion: It's none of your business or mine whether or not Obama has a religion, and if he does, what it is. That must necessarily be the response of any American citizen who takes our Constitution seriously. Anything less is, by definition, Unconstitutional, and therefore by definition, Un-American.
The second part of what chews on me about this is the arrogance of Obama's political opponents. The exemplary statesman, Sen. Mitch McConnell, was on Meet the Press this morning. Mediator David Gregory asked McConnell, the Senate Minority Leader, about the Pew Poll, wondering how such a misperception could arise. McConnell answered, "I have no idea." Really, Senator? I would have thought by this point that someone would have introduced a fine conservative such as yourself to Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and all of the other people who have committed their lives to convincing Amercans that Obama is lurking in their closets or under their beds, just waiting to get them like those childhood monsters that disappeard when the light was turned on. Disingenuous at best, Senator. A bald-faced lie, more likely.
McConnell went on to say, about his own opinion of Obama's faith, "I take the President at his word [that he is a Christian]." How noble. I'll tell you what, Senator, since you've been so generous with the President, then I'll take you at your word that you're a Christian, too. And I'll take Rush's word for it, too, although he's from Missouri, and just up the road from his hometown of Cape Girardeau, a Muslim father carried out an "honor killing" of his daughter for shaming the family. And, come to think of it, Rush just got married for the fourth time. Kind of violates that whole sanctity of Christian marriage being between one man and one woman (at a time?). (Whoever heard of a nearing-60 multi-millionaire suddenly feeling the need to marry a stunning blonde in her early 30's anyway?)
But I'll take your word, and Rush's, because that's all any of us can do. We take one another's word for it. You don't know what's in my heart, and I don't know what's in yours. But here's what I do know: You and/or I deny a brother or sister in Christ at our own peril.
Whether or not any person is a Christian or not is, ultimately, between that person and God. Again, meddle in that at your own peril. Deny a brother or sister in Christ at your own peril. You might Google "Bible, Jesus, Millstone" and see what you come up with. Read it carefully. And then share with 31% of the Republicans what you find.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
For a Reason?
"Everything happens for a reason."
This mindless statement has become extraordinarly fashionable as a catch-all for those moments when most of us have absolutely no idea what to say. It is usually attached to some equally mindless palaver about "God's Plan" or some such idiocy. Most of the time, thinking people are gracious enough to allow the stupidity to go unchallenged, although there are times when it is utterly painful to let it pass.
Here's a newsflash, boys and girls: there is, indeed, a reason for everything. It is not, however, the same reason for everything. Let's consider a couple of examples.
A child is born, mother and child both emerge healthy, the child is loved, provided for in every way, and grows to adulthood well in the care of a church family? Indeed, the grace of God is at work, and God's intention has been fulfilled. A child is born, only to die, suffocated by his mother? How about two children, for good measure? (If you've been in a cave, this happened, in our country, earlier this week) Yeah, there's a reason for this. A human being, operating under whatever set of circumstances that will be presented in court as a defense, did an evil, evil thing. Don't blame this on God. The God I know was disregarded totally on this one.
A person makes mistakes in life. Becomes substance-dependent. "Comes to himself" as Jesus said in the Prodigal's story. Asks for help, finds it, and proceeds to live a redeemed life? Again, God's grace on display, available to all. Another person, substance-dependent, comes to himself and asks for help. But he's unemployed, has no insurance, and cannot get a placement for care, and that, after appeals for help to both of the prominent church-named hospitals in the community? Not God's fault! God was not considered in this; a throw-away person was, simply, thrown away. This is not God's Plan, God's intention, or in any way an expression of God's presence in the world.
These are both very small examples, nothing on the scale of the Holocaust, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, Stalin's purges or the Rwandan genocide of the last decade. Or, for that matter, any of the evil that you and I encounter and wrestle with on a daily basis, inflicted by petty, evil people who are determined to abuse and destroy and abandon? I would never, ever, consider working for a God who would include such circumstances in his/her "Plan" and neither would you.
So, how about a little more honesty and integrity? The next time we feel "There's a reason for everything" or "It's part of God's Plan" or any such horse excrement, about to escape our lips, decide, instead, to tell the truth: "I don't know what to say, but I love you, I believe God does, and God and I are here." Because that's actually God's plan for us to care for one another.
This mindless statement has become extraordinarly fashionable as a catch-all for those moments when most of us have absolutely no idea what to say. It is usually attached to some equally mindless palaver about "God's Plan" or some such idiocy. Most of the time, thinking people are gracious enough to allow the stupidity to go unchallenged, although there are times when it is utterly painful to let it pass.
Here's a newsflash, boys and girls: there is, indeed, a reason for everything. It is not, however, the same reason for everything. Let's consider a couple of examples.
A child is born, mother and child both emerge healthy, the child is loved, provided for in every way, and grows to adulthood well in the care of a church family? Indeed, the grace of God is at work, and God's intention has been fulfilled. A child is born, only to die, suffocated by his mother? How about two children, for good measure? (If you've been in a cave, this happened, in our country, earlier this week) Yeah, there's a reason for this. A human being, operating under whatever set of circumstances that will be presented in court as a defense, did an evil, evil thing. Don't blame this on God. The God I know was disregarded totally on this one.
A person makes mistakes in life. Becomes substance-dependent. "Comes to himself" as Jesus said in the Prodigal's story. Asks for help, finds it, and proceeds to live a redeemed life? Again, God's grace on display, available to all. Another person, substance-dependent, comes to himself and asks for help. But he's unemployed, has no insurance, and cannot get a placement for care, and that, after appeals for help to both of the prominent church-named hospitals in the community? Not God's fault! God was not considered in this; a throw-away person was, simply, thrown away. This is not God's Plan, God's intention, or in any way an expression of God's presence in the world.
These are both very small examples, nothing on the scale of the Holocaust, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, Stalin's purges or the Rwandan genocide of the last decade. Or, for that matter, any of the evil that you and I encounter and wrestle with on a daily basis, inflicted by petty, evil people who are determined to abuse and destroy and abandon? I would never, ever, consider working for a God who would include such circumstances in his/her "Plan" and neither would you.
So, how about a little more honesty and integrity? The next time we feel "There's a reason for everything" or "It's part of God's Plan" or any such horse excrement, about to escape our lips, decide, instead, to tell the truth: "I don't know what to say, but I love you, I believe God does, and God and I are here." Because that's actually God's plan for us to care for one another.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Excuses or Explanations, the Truth is the Truth
After the games of Sunday, August 15, the Boston Red Sox are 67-52, the fifth best record in the American League. They are third in the AL East, trailing the first place MFYs by six games (seven in the loss column), and the Wild Card leading Tampa Bay Rays by five games (six in the loss column).
Here's a quick trip around the diamond.
Catchers: Victor Martinez, 4 time AL All-Star
Jason Varitek, 3 time AL All-Star
First Base: Kevin Youkilis, 2 time AL All-Star, 2008 Hank Aaron Award, best AL hitter
Mike Lowell, 4 time All-Star, 2007 World Series Most Valuable Player
Second Base: Dustin Pedroia, 3 time AL All-Star, 2007 AL ROY, 2008 AL MVP
Short Stop: Marco Scutaro
OF: Jacoby Ellsbury, Franchise single season stolen base record holder
Mike Cameron, 1 time All-Star, 3 time Gold Glove winner
Pitchers: Hideki Okajima, 1 time All-Star, 8th inning set-up specialist
Josh Beckett, 2 time All-Star, 2007 ALCS MVP
These players have all spent significant time this season on the Disabled List, with Youkilis and Cameron being lost for the season. Only 3b Adrian Beltre, DH David Ortiz, and (ironically) RF JD Drew among the everyday players have avoided the DL this season, and Papi forgot how to hit in April.
The fact that the Sox are still in contention is a miracle, and points to only one thing: Terry Francona is the Manager of the Year in the American League.
Here's a quick trip around the diamond.
Catchers: Victor Martinez, 4 time AL All-Star
Jason Varitek, 3 time AL All-Star
First Base: Kevin Youkilis, 2 time AL All-Star, 2008 Hank Aaron Award, best AL hitter
Mike Lowell, 4 time All-Star, 2007 World Series Most Valuable Player
Second Base: Dustin Pedroia, 3 time AL All-Star, 2007 AL ROY, 2008 AL MVP
Short Stop: Marco Scutaro
OF: Jacoby Ellsbury, Franchise single season stolen base record holder
Mike Cameron, 1 time All-Star, 3 time Gold Glove winner
Pitchers: Hideki Okajima, 1 time All-Star, 8th inning set-up specialist
Josh Beckett, 2 time All-Star, 2007 ALCS MVP
These players have all spent significant time this season on the Disabled List, with Youkilis and Cameron being lost for the season. Only 3b Adrian Beltre, DH David Ortiz, and (ironically) RF JD Drew among the everyday players have avoided the DL this season, and Papi forgot how to hit in April.
The fact that the Sox are still in contention is a miracle, and points to only one thing: Terry Francona is the Manager of the Year in the American League.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Guided by Gibby
In 1967 Cardinals' Hall of Famer pitcher Bob Gibson suffered a broken leg when he was struck by a ball off the bat of Roberto Clemente. Gibby was never known to be the most patient man. One legendary story about Gibson's on-field disposition finds catcher Tim McCarver being dispatched by manager Red Schoendienst to go to the mound and talk to Gibson during an opponent's rally. As McCarver tells it, he got a couple of steps toward the mound only to hear Gibson bellow, "What the hell are you doing?" McCarver told his pitcher of the manager's instructions. "Get back behind the plate," came the answer. "The only thing you know about pitching is that you can't hit it."
As you might guess, Gibson quickly tired in the summer of 1967 of being questioned repeatedly by reporters about his injury. Finally, he made a small sign that he taped to his shirt. On the sign:
"1. Yes, it is off." (meaning his cast)
"2. No, it doesn't hurt."
"3. I don't know how much longer." (before he could pitch again)
I have developed a better understanding of Gibson's frustration in the last month than I ever had before. The questions have been frequent and awfully repetitive. I don't have a sign (yet), but if I did, here are the answers:
1. No, I don't know who I ticked off.
2. Yes, it hurts a great deal.
3. No, I'm not sure how we'll manage.
4. No, thank you, I haven't been accused of anything.
5. No, I don't think you can be embarrassed unless you worry about the opinions of people whose opinions don't matter.
I am grateful for the well-wishes of a few kind people; less so of those who also stop on the interstate to gawk at the crash victims. I wish I had better answers. I wish even more that I didn't need them.
As you might guess, Gibson quickly tired in the summer of 1967 of being questioned repeatedly by reporters about his injury. Finally, he made a small sign that he taped to his shirt. On the sign:
"1. Yes, it is off." (meaning his cast)
"2. No, it doesn't hurt."
"3. I don't know how much longer." (before he could pitch again)
I have developed a better understanding of Gibson's frustration in the last month than I ever had before. The questions have been frequent and awfully repetitive. I don't have a sign (yet), but if I did, here are the answers:
1. No, I don't know who I ticked off.
2. Yes, it hurts a great deal.
3. No, I'm not sure how we'll manage.
4. No, thank you, I haven't been accused of anything.
5. No, I don't think you can be embarrassed unless you worry about the opinions of people whose opinions don't matter.
I am grateful for the well-wishes of a few kind people; less so of those who also stop on the interstate to gawk at the crash victims. I wish I had better answers. I wish even more that I didn't need them.
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