I Appear To Be Leaking Ocular Fluid
I bought the song from Amazon. Hat tip on this to Don Surber.
Showing posts with label mitzvah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mitzvah. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Time Passages
Many years ago in the Gothic Bookstore at Duke I attended a reading by Reynolds Price of a passage from his then new book, "Surface of the Earth." I couldn't, if my life were on the balance, tell you what it was that he read. But I carry the memory of at least one moment in the discussion afterward with me. The editor of the Duke poetry magazine (full disclosure: I managed to get one poem therein, a nasty bit of business) got into the concept of "place" and Prof. Price made sure the undergrad got a full dose of the importance of that concept to the Southerner. I am a Southerner. By heritage and "a Virginian by the grace of God" as the saying goes. So "place" is practically built into my DNA. One particularly marvelous thing about the world today (and here the praise of modernity by a traditionalist, as all true Virginians are, is to leap forth) is that Google Maps and Google Earth allow us to see distant or remembered places in startling detail. I won't even go into the utilitarian advantage of "street view," I just mean the zooming in and seeing one bit of the world as it has been captured at the moment the image was taken.
Recently I wanted to take a look at an overview (literally) of the Great Falls Park (Virginia side) wherein I spent many a youthful hour clambering over rocks, riding the now-gone Merry-Go-Round and generally having a ripping good time. After checking the park out for a few minutes I began zooming out and took a look at what used to be the house of a good family friend. He has passed several years now and he, as nominally one of my parent's friends, was not in my direct ambit but I am much diminished by his loss. He was a scientist who retired from government service to become an artist. However, what I found in the place of the old familiar house was a huge new construction of a house on the property, with only the angle of the road off the park access road and a tennis court identifying what I intended to see. So, obviously, the house has been taken down, the garage/workshop, the separate "art studio," the horse barn. All gone. As is the way of life and sadness is allowed at such, as long as it is not dwelled upon.
What strikes through the reminiscence is particular things, particular memories. The house had a huge windowed living room - dinning room area and on the dinning room side there was a marvelous stained glass window that was done in setions representing the four seasons. I wish I'd taken a picture of it but one doesn't think of that in the moment. Then there were particular pieces of "small art" inside: a lead "tree" that was made by pouring molten metal into an ant hill - absolutely fascinating even if a visually dull grey thing. A two stick-figure sculpture of fencers. A lump of raw metal ore set beside a metal model of a nosecone. And a clay work-in-progress model of a horse, a horse named Ichabod ("Icky") particularly, that the artist never, to my knowledge, finished because it was never "right." Ross loved that horse, and horses generally I suppose but he and Icky were tight.
Art seems to have been in the family's genetic heritage as the two daughters were artists and the son decided he preferred to farm, I'll admit there is a certain artistry to that as well. I knew that the elder daughter passed away some years ago from non-Hodgkins lymphoma (if memory serves) and the younger daughter turns out to be a photographic artist living in New York and spending some time on a farm in Northern Virginia. I e-mailed her recently to catch up, having had my memory jolted by my Google map excursion as mentioned above. I don't know that we'll ever see each other but it's rather nice to touch base with someone who shares a history, albeit tangentially. And, of course, I got to thinking about her sister who was one of the few people who visited me (on a trip with her grandfather) while I was teaching in Japan. It was a wonderful couple of days and I will always regret that I did not keep up with her more. But I thought I'd search her name just in case.
And now I have, on its way to me, an art book of hers that was put out in 2000 even though she passed away in 1997. 1997. 13 years. It doesn't seem that long ago. She was beautiful, smart, talented and strong-willed. I should have known her better but I do have one small piece of her art, a little geometric paperboard construction in black and red that I couldn't lay a hand on right now to save my soul. But I also know I absolutely saved it. And I will find it. And I will have her book. It seems the least I could do to keep her in memory.
These are the lessons in life that start with a visit to Google Maps.
Many years ago in the Gothic Bookstore at Duke I attended a reading by Reynolds Price of a passage from his then new book, "Surface of the Earth." I couldn't, if my life were on the balance, tell you what it was that he read. But I carry the memory of at least one moment in the discussion afterward with me. The editor of the Duke poetry magazine (full disclosure: I managed to get one poem therein, a nasty bit of business) got into the concept of "place" and Prof. Price made sure the undergrad got a full dose of the importance of that concept to the Southerner. I am a Southerner. By heritage and "a Virginian by the grace of God" as the saying goes. So "place" is practically built into my DNA. One particularly marvelous thing about the world today (and here the praise of modernity by a traditionalist, as all true Virginians are, is to leap forth) is that Google Maps and Google Earth allow us to see distant or remembered places in startling detail. I won't even go into the utilitarian advantage of "street view," I just mean the zooming in and seeing one bit of the world as it has been captured at the moment the image was taken.
Recently I wanted to take a look at an overview (literally) of the Great Falls Park (Virginia side) wherein I spent many a youthful hour clambering over rocks, riding the now-gone Merry-Go-Round and generally having a ripping good time. After checking the park out for a few minutes I began zooming out and took a look at what used to be the house of a good family friend. He has passed several years now and he, as nominally one of my parent's friends, was not in my direct ambit but I am much diminished by his loss. He was a scientist who retired from government service to become an artist. However, what I found in the place of the old familiar house was a huge new construction of a house on the property, with only the angle of the road off the park access road and a tennis court identifying what I intended to see. So, obviously, the house has been taken down, the garage/workshop, the separate "art studio," the horse barn. All gone. As is the way of life and sadness is allowed at such, as long as it is not dwelled upon.
What strikes through the reminiscence is particular things, particular memories. The house had a huge windowed living room - dinning room area and on the dinning room side there was a marvelous stained glass window that was done in setions representing the four seasons. I wish I'd taken a picture of it but one doesn't think of that in the moment. Then there were particular pieces of "small art" inside: a lead "tree" that was made by pouring molten metal into an ant hill - absolutely fascinating even if a visually dull grey thing. A two stick-figure sculpture of fencers. A lump of raw metal ore set beside a metal model of a nosecone. And a clay work-in-progress model of a horse, a horse named Ichabod ("Icky") particularly, that the artist never, to my knowledge, finished because it was never "right." Ross loved that horse, and horses generally I suppose but he and Icky were tight.
Art seems to have been in the family's genetic heritage as the two daughters were artists and the son decided he preferred to farm, I'll admit there is a certain artistry to that as well. I knew that the elder daughter passed away some years ago from non-Hodgkins lymphoma (if memory serves) and the younger daughter turns out to be a photographic artist living in New York and spending some time on a farm in Northern Virginia. I e-mailed her recently to catch up, having had my memory jolted by my Google map excursion as mentioned above. I don't know that we'll ever see each other but it's rather nice to touch base with someone who shares a history, albeit tangentially. And, of course, I got to thinking about her sister who was one of the few people who visited me (on a trip with her grandfather) while I was teaching in Japan. It was a wonderful couple of days and I will always regret that I did not keep up with her more. But I thought I'd search her name just in case.
And now I have, on its way to me, an art book of hers that was put out in 2000 even though she passed away in 1997. 1997. 13 years. It doesn't seem that long ago. She was beautiful, smart, talented and strong-willed. I should have known her better but I do have one small piece of her art, a little geometric paperboard construction in black and red that I couldn't lay a hand on right now to save my soul. But I also know I absolutely saved it. And I will find it. And I will have her book. It seems the least I could do to keep her in memory.
These are the lessons in life that start with a visit to Google Maps.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
On The Small Annoyances In Life
I just ordered a canister for my coffee from Amazon. This one. For years I've been using a Gevalia canister I got from them as a promotion to sign up for their 'coffee of the month' club. It's done yeoman duty for those years yet today as I'm flipping it open, the bail that holds the lid down comes off. Right into the pan of sausages as it turns out but I cook those low and slow so it wasn't like I deep fried the thing. The fault, as I examined it, lay in the pin that holds the bail to the ring around the body of the canister. It looks like a long rivet that has lost the flange on one end.
I put it back together but it's now compromised and fatally flawed. Add in that the square base of the canister has never bee my favorite design (coffee gets trapped in the corners) and it became time to acquire a new one. Since I'm all about the stainless steel in the kitchen (wantwantwant a nice stainless fridge but not about to drop the ready on that when the current model is functioning perfectly), I figured that one from Amazon seemed a reasonable bet. From the customer comments I can see that I'll probably have to tack the gasket down and hope the thing holds enough which, since I usually get 8 oz bags from Boca Java, it probably will.
So why the post title? Well, something like buying a new canister is so monumentally inconsequential that my spending the maybe five minutes it took to buy it seemed, afterward, like a waste of time. Compound that with the fact that I didn't really need to buy it, I could have soldiered on with the old one or even kludged a fix, and I'm left wondering about all the staggering inconsequentialities that mount up to form the bulk of days. It's a metaphor for the human condition is my conclusion. It's disgusting to have to go to the bathroom but think what would happen if you didn't. Your life is made better by a process of elimination.
Sometimes a sawbuck for a kitchen gewgaw is a crack in the sidewalk that trips you as you pass. But that stumble may give you a moment to reflect and give you a grip on your basic human condition. It's a mitzvah if you make it so.
I just ordered a canister for my coffee from Amazon. This one. For years I've been using a Gevalia canister I got from them as a promotion to sign up for their 'coffee of the month' club. It's done yeoman duty for those years yet today as I'm flipping it open, the bail that holds the lid down comes off. Right into the pan of sausages as it turns out but I cook those low and slow so it wasn't like I deep fried the thing. The fault, as I examined it, lay in the pin that holds the bail to the ring around the body of the canister. It looks like a long rivet that has lost the flange on one end.
I put it back together but it's now compromised and fatally flawed. Add in that the square base of the canister has never bee my favorite design (coffee gets trapped in the corners) and it became time to acquire a new one. Since I'm all about the stainless steel in the kitchen (wantwantwant a nice stainless fridge but not about to drop the ready on that when the current model is functioning perfectly), I figured that one from Amazon seemed a reasonable bet. From the customer comments I can see that I'll probably have to tack the gasket down and hope the thing holds enough which, since I usually get 8 oz bags from Boca Java, it probably will.
So why the post title? Well, something like buying a new canister is so monumentally inconsequential that my spending the maybe five minutes it took to buy it seemed, afterward, like a waste of time. Compound that with the fact that I didn't really need to buy it, I could have soldiered on with the old one or even kludged a fix, and I'm left wondering about all the staggering inconsequentialities that mount up to form the bulk of days. It's a metaphor for the human condition is my conclusion. It's disgusting to have to go to the bathroom but think what would happen if you didn't. Your life is made better by a process of elimination.
Sometimes a sawbuck for a kitchen gewgaw is a crack in the sidewalk that trips you as you pass. But that stumble may give you a moment to reflect and give you a grip on your basic human condition. It's a mitzvah if you make it so.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
On The Grill
Yes, friends, the dry aged steaks hit the grill this afternoon (early afternoon - I had a friend over to lunch which was steak, attempted coconut rice, grilled asparagus and bell pepper). Holy cow! As in actual apotheosis of a shard of bovine. I butterflied the steaks and it was interesting to see the color change of the interior versus the exterior. Here are a couple of shots of the halved steaks.
You'll note the dramatic difference of the red and the brown. One side effect of this is that the steaks are a lot easier to handle. They don't goo up your hands down as you deal with, say, cutting them in half.
The exterior is (you're not going to believe this!) dry. So it doesn't take being marked by the grill terribly well but I think that's a minor problem. It may mean that it's better not to butterfly the steak and let the melting marbling wet up the surface of the steak. I will try that and report thereon.
But the center ring of this circus of beef is the flavor. And it is incredible. It is more (please forgive the redundant nature of this) beefy, more meaty than an unaged steak. It's like the difference between a mouthful of cream and a mouthful of milk. I can't in good conscience suggest that you spend the kind of money restaurants charge for such steaks but I strongly suggest you try the home version. Strongly.
Bottom line on this, at the moment, is that I have to try a couple more permutations. Grilling a full thickness steak for example. Even absent full experimentation, I am going to do my utmost to cook only dry aged steaks from here on. They are that damn good.
Yes, friends, the dry aged steaks hit the grill this afternoon (early afternoon - I had a friend over to lunch which was steak, attempted coconut rice, grilled asparagus and bell pepper). Holy cow! As in actual apotheosis of a shard of bovine. I butterflied the steaks and it was interesting to see the color change of the interior versus the exterior. Here are a couple of shots of the halved steaks.
You'll note the dramatic difference of the red and the brown. One side effect of this is that the steaks are a lot easier to handle. They don't goo up your hands down as you deal with, say, cutting them in half.The exterior is (you're not going to believe this!) dry. So it doesn't take being marked by the grill terribly well but I think that's a minor problem. It may mean that it's better not to butterfly the steak and let the melting marbling wet up the surface of the steak. I will try that and report thereon.
But the center ring of this circus of beef is the flavor. And it is incredible. It is more (please forgive the redundant nature of this) beefy, more meaty than an unaged steak. It's like the difference between a mouthful of cream and a mouthful of milk. I can't in good conscience suggest that you spend the kind of money restaurants charge for such steaks but I strongly suggest you try the home version. Strongly.
Bottom line on this, at the moment, is that I have to try a couple more permutations. Grilling a full thickness steak for example. Even absent full experimentation, I am going to do my utmost to cook only dry aged steaks from here on. They are that damn good.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Chastening
I have a tendency to snark but in deep contradistinction to that attitude is this post at Mudville Gazette. If one is not moved by the story of a young woman facing deep psychic and physical pain to not just survive but triumph, well the person who is not touched is somewhat less than human. Please go read that story. And offer thanks that there are young Americans like Abbey Stokely.
I have a tendency to snark but in deep contradistinction to that attitude is this post at Mudville Gazette. If one is not moved by the story of a young woman facing deep psychic and physical pain to not just survive but triumph, well the person who is not touched is somewhat less than human. Please go read that story. And offer thanks that there are young Americans like Abbey Stokely.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
This Is The Day The Lord Made
As was yesterday. As tomorrow will be.
Enjoy it. Have a beer. On me. As long as you drink with me and not against me.
God made the grains, and the waters, and the tiny, tiny yeasties. He wanted us to have beer. Because He loves us and wants us to be happy. Talk about a blessing! And I'd like to point out in grateful anticipation that He set the world in motion that brings us massive breasted turkeys, (watch it! I know what you're thinking!), pumpkins that are made into pies, apples that are made into pies, cranberries, sage for sausage. Oh, just so many, many wonderful things. Here's something that I saw online that I think I have to add to the mix:
As was yesterday. As tomorrow will be.
Enjoy it. Have a beer. On me. As long as you drink with me and not against me.
God made the grains, and the waters, and the tiny, tiny yeasties. He wanted us to have beer. Because He loves us and wants us to be happy. Talk about a blessing! And I'd like to point out in grateful anticipation that He set the world in motion that brings us massive breasted turkeys, (watch it! I know what you're thinking!), pumpkins that are made into pies, apples that are made into pies, cranberries, sage for sausage. Oh, just so many, many wonderful things. Here's something that I saw online that I think I have to add to the mix:
Cranberry Truffles
Heat 1/2 cup simple syrup and 1/2 cup bourbon or water; add 2 cups dried cranberries and steep until soft, 10 to 15 minutes. Drain, reserving the liquid. Pulse the fruit in a food processor, adding just enough liquid so the mixture comes together. Roll spoonfuls of the cranberry filling into balls, then roll them in cocoa, mixed with pulverized nuts if you like.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wondering At Its Cosmic Significance
I'm aging. You'd think that such a basic fact would be evident from, oh, about the time rational thought began to arc between neurons in my young cerebroverse. But such a fact is easily ignored as one "develops." Grows up. Aging then is good. "I can drink when I'm how old then? But I can drive now, right? Good enough."
I'm not past my unsell-by date (it's a Brit term, you can figure it out) but the process is having effects that bother and, quite frankly, annoy me. Specifically, my vision is not what it once was. Of course, in a number of ways my vision is never what it once was but that's a philosophical question I'd rather not think about (fingers in ears, "La La La"). I need more light to read now than I did before. I recently went to dinner with a friend and in the ambient light I could hardly make out the menu. Holding up the tealight candle to the menu is ... inelegant.
So I've decided that I need one of those little keychain LED lights which I seem to recall paying about a sawbuck for the last time I got one. Resorting, of course, to Amazon, I found these: a five pack of the little goobers for $7.00 and free shipping. Maybe they're just gawd-awful crappy but there's something encouraging about facing advance and decline and, in dealing with it, finding a surprising bargain.
Life, which sucks, is good. As long as you can find the good.
I'm aging. You'd think that such a basic fact would be evident from, oh, about the time rational thought began to arc between neurons in my young cerebroverse. But such a fact is easily ignored as one "develops." Grows up. Aging then is good. "I can drink when I'm how old then? But I can drive now, right? Good enough."
I'm not past my unsell-by date (it's a Brit term, you can figure it out) but the process is having effects that bother and, quite frankly, annoy me. Specifically, my vision is not what it once was. Of course, in a number of ways my vision is never what it once was but that's a philosophical question I'd rather not think about (fingers in ears, "La La La"). I need more light to read now than I did before. I recently went to dinner with a friend and in the ambient light I could hardly make out the menu. Holding up the tealight candle to the menu is ... inelegant.
So I've decided that I need one of those little keychain LED lights which I seem to recall paying about a sawbuck for the last time I got one. Resorting, of course, to Amazon, I found these: a five pack of the little goobers for $7.00 and free shipping. Maybe they're just gawd-awful crappy but there's something encouraging about facing advance and decline and, in dealing with it, finding a surprising bargain.
Life, which sucks, is good. As long as you can find the good.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Undeserved Grace
I have recently been in the presence of the troubles of those I love. This pains me more than I can say. Then I remember the undeserved grace I received and wonder, how to I ask for blessings to flow to others when I am still greedy for them myself? If any of half a dozen of my friends won the lottery, their troubles could, in the main, be solved. As the Bard says: 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. So how do I get over the impulse to importune God for such blessings for myself? I don't think it's enough to say, "If I win the lottery, I will share my good fortune with those I love." Yes, I'd love to win it but I am too cognizant of the sin of avarice to be happy with myself for so wishing.
Let me instead pray that I can see the way to wishing the blessings of undeserved grace on others. Surely, good things for them are good things for me.
I have recently been in the presence of the troubles of those I love. This pains me more than I can say. Then I remember the undeserved grace I received and wonder, how to I ask for blessings to flow to others when I am still greedy for them myself? If any of half a dozen of my friends won the lottery, their troubles could, in the main, be solved. As the Bard says: 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. So how do I get over the impulse to importune God for such blessings for myself? I don't think it's enough to say, "If I win the lottery, I will share my good fortune with those I love." Yes, I'd love to win it but I am too cognizant of the sin of avarice to be happy with myself for so wishing.
Let me instead pray that I can see the way to wishing the blessings of undeserved grace on others. Surely, good things for them are good things for me.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Anonymous Condolences
Sometimes the Internet is not really the right place to put personal wishes and in this case, I'm going to violate that personal bond but hold anonymity to those involved and hope that in making the personal public, I might not do actual violence to those bonds.
A very dear friend of mine called me recently to tell me, in a rather round-about way it turned out, that his younger brother was just found dead. Then, in a sort of grotesque echo of that, the brother's son killed himself. My heart breaks for my friend because I have no doubt that he will internalize both of these deaths with the feeling that someway, somehow he played a role in these sad events. In reality, the brother's death was a long time coming and there's nothing that would have stopped it. That snowball has been rolling down the hill for so long I knew the shattering on impact would be dramatic even if I couldn't have imagined that the real drama would be in the loss of another life.
Leaving the nephew aside for a moment, the loss of this brother was, sadly, not a real loss for humanity. He has been an alcoholic, drug-addicted wastrel essentially all his life, a fair amount of which has been spent in custody. Of course in our world this hasn't stopped him from being married a few times and producing a few children that he hasn't been able to support. I wouldn't bother to consider what left him this way apart from the fact that he grew up in a toxic stew of a broken family with a mother who was no mother at all. What matters about this is for my friend to recognize that he grew up in that same stew and he is doing all right - beautiful wife who loves him deeply, a good son and daughter-in-law who brought a beautiful granddaughter into the family not too long ago, a lovely home in the suburbs. His life is not the perfect image he carries in his mind's eye but it is good, better than he will admit, probably.
When we weep for the dead, we cry for what we lose, that our lives have been stripped of being with someone we will never again hold, talk to, laugh with, gain knowledge from, feel the warmth of. In this case, even though there was hurt in his voice, my friend has not lost anything that was not lost long, long ago. In the last several years his brother has done nothing but make demands. Money, a place to live, even (I am not kidding) organ donation. Again, not ask for, demand as in 'you have it and I want it and you're my brother so you should give it to me.' This was a life that had become a black hole for the physical and emotional resources of a family (my friend's mother and sister, not his family per se) that was dysfunctional at best.
Now as for the nephew, I am at a loss there. I believe the young man (23 years old if I remember correctly) was not long out of jail for attempting to murder his father. Why would one feel the need to take his life after the death of someone he earlier tried and failed to kill? Perhaps the hopelessness of existence opened up before him when he faced the actuality of his father's death. Instead of seeing a blight and a burden on his life lifted, he confronted his life and could only see himself as his father's son which made his going on an impossibility. It takes an almost unimaginable depth of hatred for one's father to lead to suicide when seeing nothing but "I am my father's son" in the mirror. But I imagine, I posit, I do not know. I only met the lad once and were I pressed, I would say he suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome.
Not every life illuminates the world. As sorrowful as the family is, and I don't mean to diminish their sadness, the world will not much miss either of these lives. But I desperately want my friend to understand that the lesson is there for him: You and your sister came out of the same dumpster childhood that broke your brother and then his son. You may not have the life your fondest dreams limn but you have a wonderful one nonetheless. Let him go, hold what you've made of yourself and for yourself dear. And may God bless you. May you and your family find undeserved grace in every day.
Sometimes the Internet is not really the right place to put personal wishes and in this case, I'm going to violate that personal bond but hold anonymity to those involved and hope that in making the personal public, I might not do actual violence to those bonds.
A very dear friend of mine called me recently to tell me, in a rather round-about way it turned out, that his younger brother was just found dead. Then, in a sort of grotesque echo of that, the brother's son killed himself. My heart breaks for my friend because I have no doubt that he will internalize both of these deaths with the feeling that someway, somehow he played a role in these sad events. In reality, the brother's death was a long time coming and there's nothing that would have stopped it. That snowball has been rolling down the hill for so long I knew the shattering on impact would be dramatic even if I couldn't have imagined that the real drama would be in the loss of another life.
Leaving the nephew aside for a moment, the loss of this brother was, sadly, not a real loss for humanity. He has been an alcoholic, drug-addicted wastrel essentially all his life, a fair amount of which has been spent in custody. Of course in our world this hasn't stopped him from being married a few times and producing a few children that he hasn't been able to support. I wouldn't bother to consider what left him this way apart from the fact that he grew up in a toxic stew of a broken family with a mother who was no mother at all. What matters about this is for my friend to recognize that he grew up in that same stew and he is doing all right - beautiful wife who loves him deeply, a good son and daughter-in-law who brought a beautiful granddaughter into the family not too long ago, a lovely home in the suburbs. His life is not the perfect image he carries in his mind's eye but it is good, better than he will admit, probably.
When we weep for the dead, we cry for what we lose, that our lives have been stripped of being with someone we will never again hold, talk to, laugh with, gain knowledge from, feel the warmth of. In this case, even though there was hurt in his voice, my friend has not lost anything that was not lost long, long ago. In the last several years his brother has done nothing but make demands. Money, a place to live, even (I am not kidding) organ donation. Again, not ask for, demand as in 'you have it and I want it and you're my brother so you should give it to me.' This was a life that had become a black hole for the physical and emotional resources of a family (my friend's mother and sister, not his family per se) that was dysfunctional at best.
Now as for the nephew, I am at a loss there. I believe the young man (23 years old if I remember correctly) was not long out of jail for attempting to murder his father. Why would one feel the need to take his life after the death of someone he earlier tried and failed to kill? Perhaps the hopelessness of existence opened up before him when he faced the actuality of his father's death. Instead of seeing a blight and a burden on his life lifted, he confronted his life and could only see himself as his father's son which made his going on an impossibility. It takes an almost unimaginable depth of hatred for one's father to lead to suicide when seeing nothing but "I am my father's son" in the mirror. But I imagine, I posit, I do not know. I only met the lad once and were I pressed, I would say he suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome.
Not every life illuminates the world. As sorrowful as the family is, and I don't mean to diminish their sadness, the world will not much miss either of these lives. But I desperately want my friend to understand that the lesson is there for him: You and your sister came out of the same dumpster childhood that broke your brother and then his son. You may not have the life your fondest dreams limn but you have a wonderful one nonetheless. Let him go, hold what you've made of yourself and for yourself dear. And may God bless you. May you and your family find undeserved grace in every day.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Thursday, August 06, 2009
A Day Late
Dang it! I've been busy enough to be offline for a good portion of the last couple of days which led me to miss Joe Sherlock's birthday. Yesterday the esteemed Joe turned 66 - it's a Route, it's birthday, it's two, two things in one! Joe notes his genetic heritage argues in favor of his mortality but I, for one, am damned grateful that he's managed to skirt the boneyard and become a real online friend. Joe, you have a belated birthday tipple or, for that matter, a birthday dinner, waiting for you in Northern Virginia should you be coming this way. Happy Birthday and may there be many, many more.
And, should there be any doubt about my tagging this post with "mitzvah," I consider Joe a blessing. So there.
Dang it! I've been busy enough to be offline for a good portion of the last couple of days which led me to miss Joe Sherlock's birthday. Yesterday the esteemed Joe turned 66 - it's a Route, it's birthday, it's two, two things in one! Joe notes his genetic heritage argues in favor of his mortality but I, for one, am damned grateful that he's managed to skirt the boneyard and become a real online friend. Joe, you have a belated birthday tipple or, for that matter, a birthday dinner, waiting for you in Northern Virginia should you be coming this way. Happy Birthday and may there be many, many more.
And, should there be any doubt about my tagging this post with "mitzvah," I consider Joe a blessing. So there.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
And A Good Saturday To You
"Good?" you say? Sure. I discovered something in the Apple Mail app today. A friend sent me an e-mail which contained the phrase "on Saturday." By happenstance, I let the cursor linger of the phrase and what should appear but a box with a drop-down arrow to its right. Hunh?
Turns out that Mail can pick days out of context and give you access to the calendar application with one click. That's pretty damn cool.
What else on this mitzvah Shabbos? Praise of customer service. First, Amazon. I recently ordered a couple of firewire adapters to be sure I got the proper one for my new iMac. And, indeed, one was right. The other was then made moot. So how difficult are returns at Amazon? I suppose they could be easier if someone else walks your package to the post office but with about two minutes and a few clicks, I have the return address, postage paid label printed and ready to affix to the box which I can now drop off. That's the way to do it!
And the same level of customer service was displayed by the garden folks at Burpee. Of all the plants I ordered for this year's Deck Farm™, two of the tomato plants arrived moribund. So I called. And with, really, no trouble a replacement set of plants (one extra actually as they ship in threes and I only need two) will be to me in a couple of weeks. I can't ask for anything more than they did. How nice.
"Good?" you say? Sure. I discovered something in the Apple Mail app today. A friend sent me an e-mail which contained the phrase "on Saturday." By happenstance, I let the cursor linger of the phrase and what should appear but a box with a drop-down arrow to its right. Hunh?
Turns out that Mail can pick days out of context and give you access to the calendar application with one click. That's pretty damn cool.
What else on this mitzvah Shabbos? Praise of customer service. First, Amazon. I recently ordered a couple of firewire adapters to be sure I got the proper one for my new iMac. And, indeed, one was right. The other was then made moot. So how difficult are returns at Amazon? I suppose they could be easier if someone else walks your package to the post office but with about two minutes and a few clicks, I have the return address, postage paid label printed and ready to affix to the box which I can now drop off. That's the way to do it!
And the same level of customer service was displayed by the garden folks at Burpee. Of all the plants I ordered for this year's Deck Farm™, two of the tomato plants arrived moribund. So I called. And with, really, no trouble a replacement set of plants (one extra actually as they ship in threes and I only need two) will be to me in a couple of weeks. I can't ask for anything more than they did. How nice.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Gratitude?
I'm a bit unsure (witness the question mark above) if this post could be properly categorized under my "gratitude" tag. And it's a prime candidate for "navel-gazing" but I can't help but think that there's something about being grateful in here.
Some years ago I signed onto the National Marrow Donor Program. As in bone marrow. As in 'this might save someone's life who has leukemia.' Gave a blood sample and all that. And I've never been contacted. Of course it might be a blessing on my part to be sure that my contact info is up to date and that I haven't been bureaucratically misplaced. Because, yes, I do know that this is strange, I would really like to donate bone marrow. I understand that it's painful, a rather large bore needle is inserted into the pelvis and a good hunk of the tasty stuff (c'mon - you know you've sucked out the gelatinous goodness of a beef bone!) is extracted.
But the pain, to my mind, would be nothing compared to the idea that what I've grown, casually and incidentally, might just let another person live more years of quality life. I'd like to be that guy. I'd like to be the one who gives.
Having said that, I urge everyone who's willing to register for the registry. You could save someone's life by doing so. It's worth it. I'd be grateful for the chance to donate even if there might be a little glimmer of hubris in there somewhere.
I'm a bit unsure (witness the question mark above) if this post could be properly categorized under my "gratitude" tag. And it's a prime candidate for "navel-gazing" but I can't help but think that there's something about being grateful in here.
Some years ago I signed onto the National Marrow Donor Program. As in bone marrow. As in 'this might save someone's life who has leukemia.' Gave a blood sample and all that. And I've never been contacted. Of course it might be a blessing on my part to be sure that my contact info is up to date and that I haven't been bureaucratically misplaced. Because, yes, I do know that this is strange, I would really like to donate bone marrow. I understand that it's painful, a rather large bore needle is inserted into the pelvis and a good hunk of the tasty stuff (c'mon - you know you've sucked out the gelatinous goodness of a beef bone!) is extracted.
But the pain, to my mind, would be nothing compared to the idea that what I've grown, casually and incidentally, might just let another person live more years of quality life. I'd like to be that guy. I'd like to be the one who gives.
Having said that, I urge everyone who's willing to register for the registry. You could save someone's life by doing so. It's worth it. I'd be grateful for the chance to donate even if there might be a little glimmer of hubris in there somewhere.
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