I haven't seen such behavior since third grade as was on display at the Republican Debate last night.
I think Trump, Rubio and Cruz should just mud wrestle for the nomination. They came close last night--taunting and insulting each other like 9 year old brat boys.
John Casic could just shake his head on one end of the five and Ben Carson even once said, "would someone insult ME!" because the three whiny, potty mouthed guys in the middle got to respond to an insult.
Not much of any substance, besides challenges of each others' integrity, got discussed.
He who is loudest, it seems, wins.
For a long while I was amused by all the GOP fussing. Now it has gone beyond the pale. Could Cruz, Rubio and Trump sit down and have a drink together without throwing vodka and tonic in each others' faces? I'm not sure any more.
There is nothing wrong with a spirited debate on issues. Issues, after all, can be looked at from different points of view.
But all I could hear was personal attacks and character assassination. I was actually shocked that no one mentioned the size of one of the other debater's genitals.
Well, in fact, they did--in political code.
What a mess.
How do we raise the level of debate to middle school, at least?
Friday, February 26, 2016
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
3 hours in hell (well, not really....)
I got to the Department of Motor Vehicles' office in Hamden a few minutes before noon.
I was in Bern's truck, calling her, ready to leave, at a few minutes after 3.
It wasn't 'fun' by any means, but the longer I thought about that 3 hours, the less it seemed like hell.
I started out standing outside in a line that was a couple of hundred people long. A sign when I finally got inside said "THIS BUILDING CANNOT HAVE MORE THAN 200 PEOPLE". Since there were about 125 people sitting in chairs (and the line never got shorter) I'm not sure there was any time when there were 'only 200 people' in the building!
It took about 2 hours and 20 minutes to get my ticket to actually be waited on. That transaction took about a minute. I waited about 40 more minutes until my number came up on the screen. Getting a new registration and new license plates took maybe 3 minutes. So, of the 180+ minutes, only 4 minutes were consumed with my actual business for being there. That's 2.2% if you do the math!
Hurry up and wait!
Sounds like a nightmare, right?
But there were things in that 3 hours that give me faith in human beings. First of all, I didn't see any visible anger, though I was angry and I assume everyone else was two. There wasn't a riot--which, given the 97.8% of the time that was essentially wasted would have been almost righteous--and people were friendly and kind (letting people get out of line to go the the bathroom and come back without complaint).
I should have known this was a marathon when the first thing I saw once I got actually inside the main room was a snack bar. "Who would eat here?" I initially asked myself. Then, two hours in, I realized most of us were missing lunch! And all the kids were getting hungry.
And there were lots of kids--dozens of them, all pre-school--and, wonder of wonders, all but one little girl named Queen, were incredibly well behaved. Astonishing, really. And I saw or heard not one parent yell at or hit a child. That's better than at Stop and Shop.
And who were all these people? Not lawyers, I don't think, though 1/4 were, like me, middle class of the white, black and Hispanic variety. But many were not affluent. I talked to 6 people who work at night and were passing up sleep to come to the DMV.
I never thought I'd say this--but Smart Phones were helpful in keeping the social contract of kindness and patience. About 80% of the folks were looking at their phones while they waited. I had a book and read, standing in line, moving more slowly than a snail.
There were only 2 DMV workers giving out tickets to actually do your business and 15 or so doing that business. So the sitting was shorter than the standing. Not a bad strategy, if you think about it.
There was a level of politeness, patience, 'we're all in this together' that I seldom experience except at church.
I came to deeply respect all those people swimming upstream with me. I felt a connection...even a 'community' with them.
What could have simply been 3 hours of hell, taught me a respect and appreciation of my fellow humans.
What a gift in a time that could have been pure stress. I'm thankful to all those folks and to the DMV workers who were patient and kind as well.
I was in Bern's truck, calling her, ready to leave, at a few minutes after 3.
It wasn't 'fun' by any means, but the longer I thought about that 3 hours, the less it seemed like hell.
I started out standing outside in a line that was a couple of hundred people long. A sign when I finally got inside said "THIS BUILDING CANNOT HAVE MORE THAN 200 PEOPLE". Since there were about 125 people sitting in chairs (and the line never got shorter) I'm not sure there was any time when there were 'only 200 people' in the building!
It took about 2 hours and 20 minutes to get my ticket to actually be waited on. That transaction took about a minute. I waited about 40 more minutes until my number came up on the screen. Getting a new registration and new license plates took maybe 3 minutes. So, of the 180+ minutes, only 4 minutes were consumed with my actual business for being there. That's 2.2% if you do the math!
Hurry up and wait!
Sounds like a nightmare, right?
But there were things in that 3 hours that give me faith in human beings. First of all, I didn't see any visible anger, though I was angry and I assume everyone else was two. There wasn't a riot--which, given the 97.8% of the time that was essentially wasted would have been almost righteous--and people were friendly and kind (letting people get out of line to go the the bathroom and come back without complaint).
I should have known this was a marathon when the first thing I saw once I got actually inside the main room was a snack bar. "Who would eat here?" I initially asked myself. Then, two hours in, I realized most of us were missing lunch! And all the kids were getting hungry.
And there were lots of kids--dozens of them, all pre-school--and, wonder of wonders, all but one little girl named Queen, were incredibly well behaved. Astonishing, really. And I saw or heard not one parent yell at or hit a child. That's better than at Stop and Shop.
And who were all these people? Not lawyers, I don't think, though 1/4 were, like me, middle class of the white, black and Hispanic variety. But many were not affluent. I talked to 6 people who work at night and were passing up sleep to come to the DMV.
I never thought I'd say this--but Smart Phones were helpful in keeping the social contract of kindness and patience. About 80% of the folks were looking at their phones while they waited. I had a book and read, standing in line, moving more slowly than a snail.
There were only 2 DMV workers giving out tickets to actually do your business and 15 or so doing that business. So the sitting was shorter than the standing. Not a bad strategy, if you think about it.
There was a level of politeness, patience, 'we're all in this together' that I seldom experience except at church.
I came to deeply respect all those people swimming upstream with me. I felt a connection...even a 'community' with them.
What could have simply been 3 hours of hell, taught me a respect and appreciation of my fellow humans.
What a gift in a time that could have been pure stress. I'm thankful to all those folks and to the DMV workers who were patient and kind as well.
Monday, February 22, 2016
The basement door
I just brought my newly washed clothes up from the basement. I left the door from the living room standing open as I went down and up.
I couldn't (or wouldn't) have done that a few weeks ago. I would have shut the door when I went down and secured it with the little latch on the inside.
Every time, for 16 years, that someone opened the basement door, Luke, our cat would come running. Luke tried every way in the world to get in the basement whenever he could.
Our house was built in 1850, so none of the doors shut flush (and no two windows are exactly the same size--but that's another issue). Over time we installed little latches on a couple of bedroom doors and the basement door to keep Luke on the outside of those doors. He would reach into the opening under the basement door, even if it was, for all intent and purpose, closed, and pull it open and run down.
Because our house is 165 years old, some of the floors in the full basement are still dirt floors--only the front of the basement has concrete floors. Luke loved it down there because it was damp and dank and inviting to moles. Over the years, he brought half a dozen or so moles up to us as gifts. For an indoor cat, he was lethal to small critters.
He'd stay in the basement for over an hour sometimes and come up filthy when we finally called him. No matter where he was, if you called "Lukie! Lukie!" he'd come running. Very dog like, I thought. Bern thought he believed we had a pork chop for him.
I carried down a waist high container of clothes whenever I washed. Holding that with my knees, I used both hands to latch the basement door. I often wondered if someday I'd lose my balance on the narrow stairs and fall.
I don't have to worry about that, now that Luke is dead. The dog has never once came into the basement. I just leave the door standing open.
That's the only good thing about Luke's moving on. I can leave the basement door open when carrying clothes.
Every time I do, though, I sigh when I don't shut the door.
I couldn't (or wouldn't) have done that a few weeks ago. I would have shut the door when I went down and secured it with the little latch on the inside.
Every time, for 16 years, that someone opened the basement door, Luke, our cat would come running. Luke tried every way in the world to get in the basement whenever he could.
Our house was built in 1850, so none of the doors shut flush (and no two windows are exactly the same size--but that's another issue). Over time we installed little latches on a couple of bedroom doors and the basement door to keep Luke on the outside of those doors. He would reach into the opening under the basement door, even if it was, for all intent and purpose, closed, and pull it open and run down.
Because our house is 165 years old, some of the floors in the full basement are still dirt floors--only the front of the basement has concrete floors. Luke loved it down there because it was damp and dank and inviting to moles. Over the years, he brought half a dozen or so moles up to us as gifts. For an indoor cat, he was lethal to small critters.
He'd stay in the basement for over an hour sometimes and come up filthy when we finally called him. No matter where he was, if you called "Lukie! Lukie!" he'd come running. Very dog like, I thought. Bern thought he believed we had a pork chop for him.
I carried down a waist high container of clothes whenever I washed. Holding that with my knees, I used both hands to latch the basement door. I often wondered if someday I'd lose my balance on the narrow stairs and fall.
I don't have to worry about that, now that Luke is dead. The dog has never once came into the basement. I just leave the door standing open.
That's the only good thing about Luke's moving on. I can leave the basement door open when carrying clothes.
Every time I do, though, I sigh when I don't shut the door.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
That kind of morning...
I'm celebrating at St. James in Higganum for Lent and Easter. St. James has church at 9 a.m. (a very un-Anglican time, by the way!) and is at least a half-mile away. So I have to get up before 7, take the dog out, eat breakfast and leave.
This morning was that kind of morning so I didn't get up until 7:08 and the dog sniffed more than he did his business, so I didn't eat breakfast before I left.
Turning off I-691 onto I-91 N. an unmarked car (rather sporty car!) pulled me over with full lights and sound. The State Police Officer asked me where I was heading.
"Church", I told him, trying to score points.
It turns out that my registration expired in February of 2013--or was falsely cancelled (one of the problems the CT DMV has had)--and the officer could have impounded my car then and there but since my insurance was current and I was a church-going type, he let me drive away but told me, "you're in the system" (ominous that!) and needed to get this worked out asap. He also told me "it could happen to any of us. Don't beat yourself up...."
I worked the whole encounter into my sermon--talking about how 'each moment' holds the possibility of encountering God and finding grace. We need to 'live in the moment', as cliched as that sounds. I felt grace and I drove away, hungry and shook up, but still on my way to church.
Church and the class I'm leading on John's gospel were great!
Sometimes the 'moments' on that kind of morning can be grace-filled.
But just to prove it was 'that kind of morning', when I went to use the bathroom before coming home (something men of my age always do--pee before getting into a car!) I almost wet myself because I'd put my boxer shorts on backwards and there was no opening to be found!
The problem was, I buy all my clothes bigger than I need. I like 'loose things', even shoes. My feet are 10 at most but I buy 10 1/2 or sometimes, for boots and such, 11's. Same with boxer shorts, so I can't tell they're on backward.
The rest of the day has turned out better than this morning boded. (Is that how you spell the pass tense of 'bode'? My spell check didn't catch it but it looks funny to me.)
Hoping your tomorrow morning isn't 'one of those'....
This morning was that kind of morning so I didn't get up until 7:08 and the dog sniffed more than he did his business, so I didn't eat breakfast before I left.
Turning off I-691 onto I-91 N. an unmarked car (rather sporty car!) pulled me over with full lights and sound. The State Police Officer asked me where I was heading.
"Church", I told him, trying to score points.
It turns out that my registration expired in February of 2013--or was falsely cancelled (one of the problems the CT DMV has had)--and the officer could have impounded my car then and there but since my insurance was current and I was a church-going type, he let me drive away but told me, "you're in the system" (ominous that!) and needed to get this worked out asap. He also told me "it could happen to any of us. Don't beat yourself up...."
I worked the whole encounter into my sermon--talking about how 'each moment' holds the possibility of encountering God and finding grace. We need to 'live in the moment', as cliched as that sounds. I felt grace and I drove away, hungry and shook up, but still on my way to church.
Church and the class I'm leading on John's gospel were great!
Sometimes the 'moments' on that kind of morning can be grace-filled.
But just to prove it was 'that kind of morning', when I went to use the bathroom before coming home (something men of my age always do--pee before getting into a car!) I almost wet myself because I'd put my boxer shorts on backwards and there was no opening to be found!
The problem was, I buy all my clothes bigger than I need. I like 'loose things', even shoes. My feet are 10 at most but I buy 10 1/2 or sometimes, for boots and such, 11's. Same with boxer shorts, so I can't tell they're on backward.
The rest of the day has turned out better than this morning boded. (Is that how you spell the pass tense of 'bode'? My spell check didn't catch it but it looks funny to me.)
Hoping your tomorrow morning isn't 'one of those'....
Friday, February 19, 2016
the folly of the gods...
This morning, when I brushed my teeth, shaved my neck and cheeks and took a shower, I used more water than many around the world have in a week.
For some reason, I have had a growing awareness of my privilege. And it is a troubling experience.
I'm 68 years old and never in my life have I wanted for much of anything. And I've never lived in fear. I've always known where my next meal is coming from...or some meal months in the future. I've always been able to drink tap water with no concerns. We don't lock our doors except when we're away for several days. I just assume I'll be as safe and free tomorrow as I've always been.
The list could go on and on--I am privileged and safe and secure in a way most people on the earth aren't. It is a sobering thought--'why me?'
I hear politicians take my privilege for granted and see it as an example as 'American Exceptionalism'--we simple 'deserve' what we've got that so many don't.
I'm profoundly troubled by the divides around the world and in my own community.
It was a commercial on TV that advised not to let the water run while you brush your teeth that prompted all this introspection.
I don't remember who paid for the ad, but it pointed out how many of the world's people spend vast amounts of time walking miles to get water for their families.
That message got inside my skin and mind and heart.
How blessed and privileged I am! And the question is 'why?'
I'm not sure there is a reason besides the luck of my being born in the US to hard working parents who believed absolutely in education.
And I'm as yet not sure what to do about my sudden insight into how inexplicably blessed I am.
I'll start with this: being always, every moment, grateful for my life and to be more compassionate toward everyone.
I hope I'll be led to add to that response. But I know this and know it fare well--I will never again, not ever, take my privilege/luck/good fortune/blessedness for granted.
Not ever.
(And you shouldn't either...by the way. Maybe that's another part of my response to the sudden, intuitive knowledge of how blessed I've been--I'll remind others of their blessings....)
For some reason, I have had a growing awareness of my privilege. And it is a troubling experience.
I'm 68 years old and never in my life have I wanted for much of anything. And I've never lived in fear. I've always known where my next meal is coming from...or some meal months in the future. I've always been able to drink tap water with no concerns. We don't lock our doors except when we're away for several days. I just assume I'll be as safe and free tomorrow as I've always been.
The list could go on and on--I am privileged and safe and secure in a way most people on the earth aren't. It is a sobering thought--'why me?'
I hear politicians take my privilege for granted and see it as an example as 'American Exceptionalism'--we simple 'deserve' what we've got that so many don't.
I'm profoundly troubled by the divides around the world and in my own community.
It was a commercial on TV that advised not to let the water run while you brush your teeth that prompted all this introspection.
I don't remember who paid for the ad, but it pointed out how many of the world's people spend vast amounts of time walking miles to get water for their families.
That message got inside my skin and mind and heart.
How blessed and privileged I am! And the question is 'why?'
I'm not sure there is a reason besides the luck of my being born in the US to hard working parents who believed absolutely in education.
And I'm as yet not sure what to do about my sudden insight into how inexplicably blessed I am.
I'll start with this: being always, every moment, grateful for my life and to be more compassionate toward everyone.
I hope I'll be led to add to that response. But I know this and know it fare well--I will never again, not ever, take my privilege/luck/good fortune/blessedness for granted.
Not ever.
(And you shouldn't either...by the way. Maybe that's another part of my response to the sudden, intuitive knowledge of how blessed I've been--I'll remind others of their blessings....)
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Watching my photos....
Somehow, I don't remember how, I got my computer to give a slide show of the photos I have stored on it when it goes to sleep.
Sometimes I just sit and watch them scroll by.
They are all at least 8 years old because the only grandchildren in them are Emma and Morgan as babies and they're now 9 1/2.
Some of the photos are in Josh and Cathy's apartment in Brooklyn, where they haven't lived for 6 or 7 years. Most of the photos are in and around the house we've lived in for over 25 years. Some, very artful, are taken on Block Island, where we used to go for vacation.
At least 3 cats and 3 dogs are in them. Catherine and Luke and 'big Fatty'--our worst cat ever--who had a name once but became 'big Fatty' and, late in his life, 'big F***'. Really. An awful cat. There is dear Sadie dog and Bela as a puppy and Cathy and Josh's now dead dog, Sumi. Great dogs all.
The only people in the photos are Bern and me and Josh and Cathy and Mimi (no Tim, a little before he was always around) and Morgan and Emma as babies. There are photos of Bern and Mimi and me holding the babies, with them happy or unhappy or asleep. There are photos of the remarkable views from Block Island and of Sadie and Bern and I in that magical place.
There are photos of Josh and Mimi and Cathy and Bern together. And of me with Josh and of everyone with a dog or cat or two.
There's one shot that brings tears of joy to my eyes of Bern working in our yard, raking leaves. She is so lovely in that photo it makes me week.
There are photos of the 5 of us in NYC, on the street and in a restaurant, Mimi pulling up her sweater to cover her mouth, Josh and Cathy looking weird, everyone but me on the street--this must have been the day Josh was accepted to the bar in NY--all those.
And photos of a wondrous white flower on our back deck that I cannot name and will never forget.
Did I say about Bern and Mimi and Josh and Cathy and me with those babies? I think I did.
And the one with Josh and me on the deck, laughing. And Bern asleep in our bed with Luke and Sadie asleep with her? And me holding Bela (who now weighs 50 pounds) in one hand in our back yard when he first came to live with us? And those babies--now 9, going on 10.
I've left some out--like one I didn't take of Mimi waving to the camera and pointing to Sydney, Australia in the distance when she was there.
I sit and watch them scroll through--memories from almost a decade ago that are a part of me each day as I watch them.
Lovely, they are. Some bring me near tears of joy. What a wonder to see (and relive) a Life long past and to know it again.
How blessed I am by my photos.
Did I mention the one with Luke in my suitcase, waiting to go somewhere? I printed it out for Bern after Luke died. Luke has 'moved on', just as he was waiting to do in that photo.
I watch them over and again. They give me great joy and great thankfulness for the life I have had and the life I have.
Blessed, that's me....
Sometimes I just sit and watch them scroll by.
They are all at least 8 years old because the only grandchildren in them are Emma and Morgan as babies and they're now 9 1/2.
Some of the photos are in Josh and Cathy's apartment in Brooklyn, where they haven't lived for 6 or 7 years. Most of the photos are in and around the house we've lived in for over 25 years. Some, very artful, are taken on Block Island, where we used to go for vacation.
At least 3 cats and 3 dogs are in them. Catherine and Luke and 'big Fatty'--our worst cat ever--who had a name once but became 'big Fatty' and, late in his life, 'big F***'. Really. An awful cat. There is dear Sadie dog and Bela as a puppy and Cathy and Josh's now dead dog, Sumi. Great dogs all.
The only people in the photos are Bern and me and Josh and Cathy and Mimi (no Tim, a little before he was always around) and Morgan and Emma as babies. There are photos of Bern and Mimi and me holding the babies, with them happy or unhappy or asleep. There are photos of the remarkable views from Block Island and of Sadie and Bern and I in that magical place.
There are photos of Josh and Mimi and Cathy and Bern together. And of me with Josh and of everyone with a dog or cat or two.
There's one shot that brings tears of joy to my eyes of Bern working in our yard, raking leaves. She is so lovely in that photo it makes me week.
There are photos of the 5 of us in NYC, on the street and in a restaurant, Mimi pulling up her sweater to cover her mouth, Josh and Cathy looking weird, everyone but me on the street--this must have been the day Josh was accepted to the bar in NY--all those.
And photos of a wondrous white flower on our back deck that I cannot name and will never forget.
Did I say about Bern and Mimi and Josh and Cathy and me with those babies? I think I did.
And the one with Josh and me on the deck, laughing. And Bern asleep in our bed with Luke and Sadie asleep with her? And me holding Bela (who now weighs 50 pounds) in one hand in our back yard when he first came to live with us? And those babies--now 9, going on 10.
I've left some out--like one I didn't take of Mimi waving to the camera and pointing to Sydney, Australia in the distance when she was there.
I sit and watch them scroll through--memories from almost a decade ago that are a part of me each day as I watch them.
Lovely, they are. Some bring me near tears of joy. What a wonder to see (and relive) a Life long past and to know it again.
How blessed I am by my photos.
Did I mention the one with Luke in my suitcase, waiting to go somewhere? I printed it out for Bern after Luke died. Luke has 'moved on', just as he was waiting to do in that photo.
I watch them over and again. They give me great joy and great thankfulness for the life I have had and the life I have.
Blessed, that's me....
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
apple butter and hot tea
I was a sickly child. That may be hard for people who know me now to believe! But I was a scrawny little kid until I hit 7th grade--then I grew, in two years, to my current height. (Or, probably an inch taller than I am now--I'm the shrinking old man of your nightmares.
Anyway, being sickly, I had to take medicine (mostly what we called 'sulfur drug' though Lord knows what that was or if it's even used anymore). I have always had a hair-trigger gag reflex, so swallowing pills--then and now--was difficult.
My mother's solution was apple butter. She would get a spoonful of apple butter and put the pill in it and I could swallow it. ("A spoonful of apple butter" {not 'sugar'} "makes the medicine go down.")
Over time, unsurprisingly, I developed an aversion to apple butter since I associated it with being sick.
Recently I've started taking an over the counter joint medicine which says "do not chew" on it. I usually chew pills up to swallow them, except for capsules, for some reason I can swallow anything that is a capsule.
So, I went to the store and bought--you guessed it--apple butter. And it works great. My aversion is gone. I don't put it on toast yet but might someday.
Which brings me to hot tea. I drink cold tea every day but haven't had a cup of tea for decades.
Part of my sickliness was asthma. My grandmother knew hot tea was good for wheezing since my grandfather had terrible asthma. Truth is, I learned much later, tea (real tea, not these flavored things masquerading as 'tea') has aminopolin in it--which is a natural bronchial dilator. So, as in so many ways, Mammaw Jones was right! But I soon got sick of tea because it actually made me feel sick when I drank it.
But my aversion to hot tea has remained. I can barely sit at a table where someone else is drinking it! I must try it soon. If I like it, I will regret shunning it for 50+ years.
If apple butter is ok now, what about hot tea?
Anyway, being sickly, I had to take medicine (mostly what we called 'sulfur drug' though Lord knows what that was or if it's even used anymore). I have always had a hair-trigger gag reflex, so swallowing pills--then and now--was difficult.
My mother's solution was apple butter. She would get a spoonful of apple butter and put the pill in it and I could swallow it. ("A spoonful of apple butter" {not 'sugar'} "makes the medicine go down.")
Over time, unsurprisingly, I developed an aversion to apple butter since I associated it with being sick.
Recently I've started taking an over the counter joint medicine which says "do not chew" on it. I usually chew pills up to swallow them, except for capsules, for some reason I can swallow anything that is a capsule.
So, I went to the store and bought--you guessed it--apple butter. And it works great. My aversion is gone. I don't put it on toast yet but might someday.
Which brings me to hot tea. I drink cold tea every day but haven't had a cup of tea for decades.
Part of my sickliness was asthma. My grandmother knew hot tea was good for wheezing since my grandfather had terrible asthma. Truth is, I learned much later, tea (real tea, not these flavored things masquerading as 'tea') has aminopolin in it--which is a natural bronchial dilator. So, as in so many ways, Mammaw Jones was right! But I soon got sick of tea because it actually made me feel sick when I drank it.
But my aversion to hot tea has remained. I can barely sit at a table where someone else is drinking it! I must try it soon. If I like it, I will regret shunning it for 50+ years.
If apple butter is ok now, what about hot tea?
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