I resolve. . .

To smile at strangers;

To contribute to my health;

To invest in friendships;

To free myself through forgiveness;

To triple the laughter opportunities in my home;

To practice patience, humility, and compassion;

To engage in positive discussions – attempting to listen more than speak;

To try ten new recipes;

To give to charity;

To read and learn;

To plant at least twenty trees;

To pray for guidance and assistance fulfilling these resolutions. 


Image reported to be in the public domain and available at:  http://publicdomainclip-art.blogspot.com/2006_12_01_archive.html

 

A Different Sort of Christmas Story

Max was having the best Christmas ever. He was full, delighted with his new toys, and tired from laughing. Although it was getting late, he fought sleep while recounting his day.

Today, he didn’t miss his mother’s prompting to wake – his excitement roused him before the sun was even a thought. Seeing the array of “Christmas” before his sleepy eyes, Max paddled his way toward his new found bounty: playthings he and his sister never expected to ever have, clothes that both warmed and itched, and a surprise breakfast that let him know it would be a good day.

It wasn’t long before he and his sister broke a couple of the gifts – but there were others to enjoy. Hannah, four years his junior and his biggest fan, had accidently fallen on a short stack of the day’s swag and left all in pieces. Ordinarily, Max would have been angry – maybe even hitting his sister – today, it didn’t matter. It was Christmas.

Max and Hannah celebrated the morning by chasing each other, snatching and hiding the other’s toys, and dressing in all the new clothes all at once. A visitor that morning, Sr. Margaret Mary of the IHM nuns up the street, was quick to chastise the two when their silliness became a distraction. Sister would visit often, bringing a happy balance of discipline and individually wrapped candies. This morning, she brought large candy canes, Hersey Kisses, and at least two scoldings.

Despite it being late December in Michigan, it hadn’t snowed more than a trace and the day’s temperature peaked just over fifty degrees. The park along the river still betrayed shoots of green - though, a few mud holes invited lectures from Sister. A whole afternoon climbing the antiquated monkey bars and pushing Hannah too quickly on the merry-go-round was another highlight of the day.

Well, there was, unfortunately, a downer to the day: church. Sr. Margaret Mary insisted they attend the 11 am Mass with her and no one pleaded on their behalf to the contrary. Going to Mass meant washing their faces, combing their hair, and the indignity of being away from their new toys for at least an hour. Max, bored, got even as he delivered the perfect “wet-willy” to Hannah during the quiet following Communion – her scream even unsettled the celebrant.

The afternoon was spent reassembling toys injured during Hannah’s fall and watching some old movie where a guy jumps off a bridge and the whole town got different – he ends up with people giving him money so that his bank or something doesn’t close. Oh, and something about an angel getting his wings.

Sister left, the movie was over, and the toys had already begun to stale. All their friends were busy with their families doing family things and Max and Hannah were pretty much bored and waiting for dinner.

That was another misunderstanding – the folks running the shelter assumed that all the children staying there had a destination for the holiday. No dinner was planned. Though only eight, Max was resourceful . . . the shelter had a petty cash box that was usually hidden in the third drawer of the file cabinet – and fortunately, there it was. Hannah and Max enjoyed the best Christmas pizza ever and even got two free Cokes delivered.

Max and Hannah’s mother used to order pizza all the time so Max knew how to negotiate Domino’s. Unfortunately, she always was a steady (small "c") coke customer as well. Karen, thirteen when Max was born and seventeen when Hannah entered the world, was committed to making a good Christmas for her children – even if it meant that it was observed in September or July – whenever she was cognizant that she had children. This was the first time Christmas was celebrated on December 25, without one of Max’s “uncles” sleeping over, and without, to Max’s memory, him having to help his mother vomit.

Today, Christmas was at the shelter and people Max would never meet provided clothes, shoes, toys, and goodies for him and Hannah. Max was told his mother was “sick” and would be getting help and he and Hannah would temporarily be staying at the shelter until they could find someone to give them a temporary home and, ideally, some stability.

To this eight-year old, anything beyond safe, warm, fed, and with his sister was simply academic - and it never paid to look toward tomorrow.  Today, he was the richest man on Earth - warm, fed, safe, and with Hannah.

Merry Christmas.




Candy Cane image reported to be in the public domain and available at:  
http://www.christmas-graphics-plus.com/free/candy-canes.html

Luke 2:1-20

Tonight, I defer to a better writer:

Luke 2:1-20 (New International Version)

The Birth of Jesus

 ¹ In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. ² (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) ³ And everyone went to their own town to register.  ⁴ So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. ⁵ He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. ⁶ While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, ⁷ and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.
 ⁸ And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. ⁹ An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. ¹¹ Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. ¹² This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”
 ¹³ Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,
 ¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
   and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”
 ¹⁵ When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”
 ¹⁶ So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. ¹⁷ When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, ¹⁸ and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. ¹⁹ But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. ²⁰ The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told. 

Nativity image reported to be in the public domain and available at:  
http://www.clipartpal.com/clipart_pd/holiday/christmas/nativity_10608.html

Solstice, part deux

A response to my August sonnet:   Thoughts on the Summer Solstice

Thoughts on the Winter's Solstice

A Winter Solstice tiny promise:
Tomorrow’s sunshine? A minute longer. 

Reason for hope? Don’t be a Thomas -
But lift your heart, all the stronger!

Christ’s birth or eight days of light
Are reasons to celebrate and dance; 

And the ever-shortening night
Delivers Earth’s happiest chance
To love, laugh, hug and kiss
Our family, friends, kith and kin.
We’ll also honor those whom we miss
Who’ll not walk this way again.
Though it’s cold with bitter snow,
A warmer prospect, we’ll never know.

Sunrise photo reported to be in the public domain and available at:  http://www.public-domain-image.com/nature-landscapes-public-domain-images-pictures/sunrise-public-domain-images-pictures/sunrise-in-the-bush.jpg.html

Jessie and Rose

A number of years ago, I traveled with my good friends Dave and Gary to Wyoming for the opening of Mule Deer season. Mule Deer (Odocoileus hemionus) are distinct from their White Tail Deer cousins in a few ways. Their ears are significantly larger – extending well out past the sides of their heads; the bucks’ antlers typically grow in a more forked manner – unlike a typical White Tail’s that tend to be prongs off central beams; their tails have a black tip. Their range is typically in the western plains including mountainous areas of Colorado and, of course, Wyoming.

Our destination was Baggs, Wyoming.  According to the 2000 census, Baggs is a spit of a town in Carbon County with 348 residents. I’m not 100% certain, but we were there in 1989 or 1990 – when the census showed 272 – in other words, before the boom.

Among the residents were two remarkable women who allowed us to encamp on their property just west of town: Jessie and Rose – sisters whose personal styles were night and day. Jessie was a well-leathered woman who didn’t mince nor waste words. Typically, Jessie would respond with “ayep” or “nope” to most inquiries. Rose never missed an opportunity to answer a ten-word question with a three or four hundred-word answer. Rose was as full of life as she was full of cancer – her entire diet was pharmaceuticals, milk, and the beer she would sneak when not in the presence of older sister Jessie. Jessie was gaunt, Rose had eyes that bulged and twinkled. My guess is that Jessie was in her late seventies and Rose a decade younger.

Our rent was exorbitant – we’d pick up groceries, do chores, and share any harvest we collected. In return, we set up tents, ran an extension cord to our space heater, and got a shower every other day. Twice, they cooked dinner for us.  I think this adventure was about a week long – excluding the two 24 hour drives from and to Ann Arbor.

I’m convinced that week could, with little addition, inspire a screen play of personal challenge, male bonding, absurdity, and too many laughs.

Some highlights: around day three, I decided to start wearing a bandana loosely around my neck during and through the end of the day’s hunt. While swapping stories with some locals at a watering hole, a friendly young man of mixed Italian and American Indian stock advised, “it’s fine if you want to wear a scarf, but that’s a snot rag.” I thought Dave and Gary would wet their pants laughing.

One other iconic moment was when we were venturing up the mountain in Dave’s wife’s Suburban, we neared a narrow and irregular portion of the trail – hesitating, Dave mused aloud if we should attempt it. Gary, fearlessly, offered, “I wouldn’t hesitate to drive my vehicle there.” Shortly thereafter, we had to stop and pick up the detached running board.

I think the crowning part of the trip (other than my feat of bagging the largest buck – winning the $20 bet) was an evening with Rose and Jessie after about 10 hours afield. We were wedged in their small mobile home, having just finished a rib-sticking dinner of wild game, potatoes, and beans. The five of us couldn’t fit around their small table, so I ate standing at the counter. The trailer was fast filling with cigarette smoke and the beer was flowing – even Jessie looked the other way as Rose enjoyed a brew or two.

The two women started telling stories of their youth. Apparently, as the oldest, Jessie was charged with keeping tabs on her younger siblings. According to Rose, without contradiction from Jessie, at one point Jessie could only keep Rose from fighting with a sibling by hanging them both on the clothes’ line. Rose punctuated her narration with wild gesticulation and her eyes seemed to grow proportionately with her yarns.

I made the mistake of asking what they did for fun living in Southern Wyoming as children. Well, it really wasn’t a mistake (well, then again):

“Oh we had the best times,” began Rose. “You see, we had this crick runnin’ behind our house – ‘member that crick Jessie?” (Ayep)

“Sometimes we go down to the crick and catch them bullfrogs. They was big – ‘member Jessie?” (Ayep)

“We’d take the macaronis and blow dem frogs up and float them down the crick!”

Dave, Gary and I collectively said, "huh?"

“Oh,” Rose answered, “we’d put them macaronis up dem frogs’ asses and blowed them up. Now, we would only use the long macaronis, you know, cause the short ones woulda been gross.”

Our recognition of what we were hearing was, I’m sure, well obvious on our faces.

“We blow and blow and they would get all puffed up!” continued Rose – whose eyes seemed to widen with each “blow.”

Rose, wouldn’t that hurt the frogs?

“Oh, we’d stop when they’s eyes bugged out.”

Of course.

“We’d have five or six of ‘em all blowed up and would race 'em down the crick - bubbles just pushin' them along like little motors. Then they'd just swim off.”

I’m almost certain that I’m doing that evening a disservice trying to relate it here. Rose’s animation and Jessie’s casual assent seemed to make this a perfectly normal recollection of a hard, hard childhood. We laughed and laughed – and the surreal vision of “blowed up” frog races, perhaps embarrassedly, seemed to make sense. Ayep.


Frog image reported to be in the public domain and available at:  http://www.clker.com/clipart-27018.html

John Henry Faulk

The central library in Austin, TX was dedicated to the memory of John Henry Faulk in 1995 – five years after Mr. Faulk’s death from cancer. Mr. Faulk, a local son born in 1913, was a gifted folklorist, story teller and freedom of speech advocate.

He studied under J. Frank Dobie – a noted folklorist and storyteller – and served in the Merchant Marines, the American Red Cross, and the U.S. Army during World War II. After the war, he hosted a number of radio programs, most famously the John Henry Faulk Show beginning in 1951.

Faulk was active in the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, serving as vice-president. This union took a stand against the efforts of Senator Joseph McCarthy and, by extension, the House Committee on Un-American Activities, to identify and blacklist Communists in the entertainment industry. You may remember the movie Good Night, and Good Luck that dramatized that slice of ignoble history.

Subsequent to his efforts, Faulk was himself blacklisted and unemployed. With the help of attorney Louis Nizer, he won a six-year court case for libel. Despite the victory, it took years for Faulk’s career to even partially recover.

I’m familiar with Faulk through a recording that is played annually this time of year on NPR. It is a short story penned by Faulk and recorded by him in 1974. It is a very sweet story of Christmas that always manages to bring a tear to my eye. The transcript of the story is available at:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5028755 . 

There is a link to the recording near the top of that page. It takes about ten minutes to hear.  Grab a tissue and enjoy.

Information about Mr. Faulk gleaned from:

http://www.ci.austin.tx.us/library/lbfaulk.htm

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5028755

http://www.ci.austin.tx.us/library/faulk_central.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_Faulk

Photo of Mr. Faulk from:

http://www.heehaw.com/cast/john-henry-faulk.php

Know your role

In 1990, I was privileged to serve on Ann Arbor Civic Theater’s board (AACT). I believe that my appointment to the board was a strategic action on the part of this group, one of the nation’s oldest amateur community theater organizations – not because I was a particularly helpful board member, but it let them keep me off the stage.

Oh, I don’t think I was awful, but after struggling as a baritone in Mame, the musical director quietly pulled me aside and asked that I only lip-sync during Brigadoon (and, yes, I did look smashing in a kilt). While my theatrical range pretty much ends with holding a spear “up center,” I did have two very important roles during my tenure with AACT.


The first was the 1988 title role in Bigfoot Stole My Wife (Ron Carlson – based on varied short stories including his The News of The World, 1987, Norton, W.W. & Company, Inc.). After a series of monologues directly out of the tabloids (e.g., “I ate my best friend’s brain”) Bigfoot gets to tell his side of the story. I delivered this short monologue wearing a full head mask, large oversized feet, red plaid sports coat, and, as obnoxious, red golf slacks. This was a three week run and at the second from last performance, the stage went dark at the end of the monologue and I literally got lost trying to leave the stage. The house lights came up, and there I was, groping along the wall looking for an exit!

For the closing night, a fellow cast member made an “exit” sign out of glow-in-the-dark paint that he waved from off stage. . .I did appreciate it!

Two of us from that cast, the original director and stage manager reunited 20 years later and joined a handful of very able actors to present a one-weekend reprisal of the show. While I still had the big feet, my lines were delivered behind a screen. I guess I have a face for radio.

The other role was a solo performance that called for a complex balance of traditional line delivery and witty adlibs. It was a staged in a most challenging venue and had, almost by design, a most unwelcoming audience. I spent an afternoon as Santa at a downtown Ann Arbor espresso shop mostly populated by graduate students reading Nietzsche and practicing their sneers.

Some background: the downtown merchants association offered to make a donation to AACT if we would provide individuals to play Santa at different stores throughout the month of December. The shifts were 1 pm to 4 pm and volunteers were to report to a downtown toy store to garb up in the appropriate “ho ho” uniform and then walk through town to that day’s assigned venue. There, we’d find a North Pole-esque throne and let the magic happen.

Other volunteers that month got to serve at the toy store, an ice cream shop, a chocolate emporium, and a family restaurant. My assignment was to bring St. Nick to Espresso Royale on South Main Street. Unlike today, where there are coffee shops populated by all ages on most corners throughout town, this was the first such business in town and it was populated by hipsters, the aforementioned scholars, and the occasional folk singer.

I got to the coffee shop, bedecked in red coat (over two down-filled vests to add appropriate girth), red pants, black boots and a rather well used beard and wig. Did I mention that the coffee shop's temperature was somewhere close to eighty degrees? You may be getting the picture.

My "feet" from the 2008 reprisal - thanks Martha!

After an hour, finally a co-worker from my Domino’s Pizza days, her husband and young son came in. I belched out a loud “Ho-Ho-Ho” and greeted Jonathon, their four-year-old. I think had I stuck him with a needle, his scream would not have reached such a decibel level. Tears, yelling, angst, punctuated by harrumphs from the shop’s patrons all made it clear that my first foray as the Jolly Old Elf wasn’t going well.

My friends could only console the poor little guy by rushing him out of the store. I was sweating and felt the caffeine-fueled vile increasing in the room.

Another hour passes, no children, plenty of sneers.

Just about 3 pm, a mother led her son – probably 8-9 years of age – into the shop. A bright-eyed redhead, the young lad had a look of nervous excitement as his mother prodded him to talk to Santa. My chance for redemption!

This was the exchange:

Me: “Ho-Ho-Ho! What is your name little man?”

Redhead [somewhat shy]: “I’m Danny.”

Me: “Hello Danny! I’m Pete!”

Yes, I really said that.

Me: “Pete-Santa. . .er, Santa-Pete. I mean, I’m one of Santa’s helpers, I’m ah, um, ah. . .”

Danny blanched and looked at his mother. She said nothing, but her eyes predicted the years of therapy I likely caused with that exchange. “Come on, Danny,” she barked.

I figured that was my cue to leave and I skulked out – a most deflated and withered Santa Clause. Apparently, I'm not especially well suited to play certain roles – heck, some days, it’s all I can do to be a productive member of life’s cast.

Merry Christmas my friends.

Santa hat clip art reported to be in the public domain and courtesy of http://www.clker.com/clipart-12348.html

An Ohio Farmer

This honor comes to me unsought. I have never had the Presidential fever; not even for a day. - James A. Garfield

I’m reading The Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President (Millard, Candice, 2011, Random House, Inc., Kindle Edition) and have found, I believe, a new hero.

Beyond contemplation of a certain lasagna loving cat, the name Garfield wasn’t much more than a vague memory in the list of American presidents. I don’t ever recall the nuns highlighting him during grade school history (of course, to the good sisters of the IHM, the only president of note was John Kennedy).

So far, Millard has woven a quite enjoyable historical novel that puts the era in context – noting Alexander Graham Bell’s problems with usurping lawsuits challenging his telephone’s patent and Joseph Lister’s frustration with the dismissal of his discovery of the critical importance of antisepsis – preventing infection by killing germs.

Also, well-chronicled is the journey into derangement of Garfield’s assassin, Charles Guiteau. Some highlights: Guiteau had been a student at the University of Michigan before leaving for Oneida – a socialistic commune established in 1848 in New York where shared labor and open marriage were promoted (according to Millard, Guiteau was profoundly disappointed that his overtures to others’ wives were rebuffed regularly!). There is even a reference to Guiteau eluding pending prosecution by jumping off a train in Ypsilanti, Michigan – just down the road from the farm.

The best surprise is the narrative that profiles Garfield – born into abject poverty (he didn’t own shoes before age four) and working as a janitor to put himself through school and eventually leading his class and put into service teaching. He argued a single case as an attorney – before the Supreme Court, no less – and won. Additionally, he commanded a key battle during the Civil War that secured Kentucky for the Union forces. From the book:

In the end, the struggle for Kentucky’s allegiance came down to a single, seminal battle—the Battle of Middle Creek—and a military strategy that some would call brilliant, others audacious. In January of 1862, after weeks of marching through fog and mud, shivering under thin blankets in snow and sleet, and surviving largely on whatever could be found in the countryside, the 42nd finally reached Marshall’s men. Despite the Confederate force’s size and artillery, Garfield refused to wait for additional troops. Instead, he divided his already small regiment into three even smaller groups. The plan was to attack the rebels from three different sides, thus giving the impression, Garfield hoped, of a regiment that was much larger and better equipped than his.

Incredibly, Marshall believed everything Garfield wanted him to, and more. When Garfield’s first detachment attacked, the Confederates, as expected, confidently rushed to meet them. Then a second force fell upon the rebels from a different direction, throwing them into disarray and confusion. Just as they were beginning to figure out how to fight on two fronts, Garfield attacked on a third. “The [Confederate] regiment and battery were hurried frantically from one road to another,” recalled a young private, “as the point of attack seemed to be changed.” Finally, convinced that a “mighty army”—a force of four thousand men with “five full regiments of infantry, 200 cavalry, and two batteries of artillery”—had surrounded him, Marshall ordered his men to retreat, leaving Kentucky solidly in Union hands (p.25).

Also moving is the scene at the 1880 Republican Convention in Chicago where Garfield makes the nomination speech of fellow Ohio Senator John Sherman, General William Tecumseh Sherman’s younger brother and secretary of the treasury under Rutherford B. Hayes. Garfield is ill at ease with the entire convention but manages to deliver a most eloquent nomination speech that astonished the delegates. Much to Garfield’s chagrin, however, the eventual impasse of multiple votes among Sherman, former president Ulysses S. Grant, and Maine’s Senator James G. Blaine ends up with a groundswell that awards the nomination to Garfield.

Millard further profiles a most reluctant candidate who eventually wins the presidency with over 70% of the electorate voting. I’ll let you read (as Paul Harvey might have said) “the rest of the story.”

A couple of thoughts: would that current candidates have such humility and record of service and would that the voting public turn out in such numbers.  Huh.

A tough subject

[I debated publishing this as my thinking is still evolving. That said, I’d very much welcome feedback from readers who, I know, have much to teach me.]

I do not actively practice a religion – not a boast, but a place where I happen to be. I was raised Catholic and have very good memories of that time of my life and still find solace in aspects of that faith that remain as part of my fabric. I’ve also come to admire many teachings from alternate Christian sects as well as (to the extent I understand) elements of Judaism, Islam, and Hinduism. Heck, I even have learned admirable lessons from secular humanists, Deists, pantheists, and others with a spiritual centering that may discomfort many.

Among the noticeable currents in many religions is the need to atone for wrongdoings or, at the very least, live along a righteous path. Call it Lent, Ramadan, Yom Kippur, or Manusmriti – as I understand each of these, they are proscriptive calls to set ourselves on a proper course of living toward an eventual higher existence. Please forgive my simplistic description, but these all strike me as excellent calls to self-examination and to seek forgiveness or accept guidance toward better living.

OK, here comes the odd juxtaposition – your indulgence is appreciated.

As a nation, we’ve just celebrated Thanksgiving – our national day of thanks – and I got to witness some magnificently articulate statements of gratitude from friends, Facebookers, and local and national figures. I believe that among the times people are at their best are when they demonstrate sincere appreciation for the good things and the good people in their lives.

So, we are encouraged to atone and to give thanks. No complaints here.

But, how are we admonished to actively forgive others and to graciously acknowledge those offering their gratitude?

One small means is that great line in The Lord’s Prayer: “. . . and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”   Kind of puts our own redemption on hold until we are forgiving of others, doesn’t it?

Building on this, I believe that an individual’s moral and emotional health is at least in part dependent on our ability to forgive – and by doing so, to release the chains of resentment that distract us from living our lives. Carrying hurt is a heavy burden and to forgive is a start to living more freely and happily.

I know this is easier said than done in so many cases. Recent headlines more than scream the atrocities that happen in our world that call for rightful condemnation and swift justice. We should, with terrible fervor, condemn certain actions. Even as uninvolved spectators to so many headline-grabbing misdeeds, I hope our blood still boils at the thought of these transgressions. I also acknowledge the ire we feel when those we love have been hurt.

I’m thinking far more personally: when it happens to us. Are there things that happen to us that are unforgivable? I don’t know – I’ve not experienced anything like that. I have experienced the bondage of resentment and felt its emotional upheaval more than once in my life and it wasn’t until I forgave that healing came (and also more than once – lessons about my own misbehavior emerged).

Let me be very clear: it is with respect that I acknowledge that so many are victims of truly heinous things that even the consideration of forgiving perpetrators would make one nauseous. I don’t know an answer and offer no disrespect to victims by this discussion.

There are many times where we can forgive and, by doing so, discover where we can grow in our efforts toward redemption and happiness. I stop short of calling for a national day of forgiveness – in so many cases it is a very personal and difficult thing. I do suggest that when we are seeking spiritual growth through personal atonement, we at least also ask where we need to forgive.


"Coexist" bumper sticker sold by Lifeweaver LLC and available for order at:  
http://www.amazon.com/PeaceMonger-Coexist-Bumper-Sticker/dp/B002QSX8P8/ref=sr_1_1?s=automotive&ie=UTF8&qid=1322620669&sr=1-1

Hail!

Today, after seven years, the University of Michigan’s football team beat Ohio State University in their annual fall match up 40 - 34. There have been 108 games in the series – Michigan winning 58, Ohio State winning 43; there have been six ties and one victory by Ohio State was vacated due to NCAA violations (2010). The first meeting was October 17, 1897 in Ann Arbor with Michigan carrying the day 34 – 0.

OSU's "Big Nut" visits my friends' tailgate prior to the game

In my life, the faces of the rivalry were undoubtedly Woody Hayes of OSU and Bo Schembechler of UM. Although the two’s last meeting was in 1978, their “ten-year war” still casts a long shadow that elicits emotions yet today. The final tally from those years saw Bo with a 5-4-1 record against Woody. Both of these legendary coaches have passed away.

Wandering around the stadium area this morning, fans garbed in partisan colors were evident (being a home game, maize and blue outshone scarlet and gray by about a 25:1 margin) and good-natured ribbing was bantered between the tailgates. And not all tailgates were purely UM or OSU – there were several where the grill was staffed by a Wolverine while a Buckeye was serving beers.

While bookies and sports pundits assigned Michigan as a favorite going into today’s matchup, every fan of this rivalry denied that either team had a clear edge going into the game. Several lead changes throughout the game and startling momentum shifts underscored the clear unpredictability of the game. That’s what made it so fun – despite punting my heart into my throat more than a few times!

Rivalries, with proper perspective, do something special for us. We rally behind our teams win or lose and revel when our boy’s bring one home or temper our disappointment with “wait until next year.” It’s a healthy day of emotion, fellowship, and, in most cases, sportsmanship.

Why is it, then, that personal rivalry – among family members, co-workers, or social circles – can become so ugly? It is as though the bulwarks of sportsmanship and fair play can get dismissed in a “win-at-all-costs” emotional scrum. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve been guilty of this – that beating another or simply seeing their misfortune has been of too great a delight to me.

A distinction probably is important: there is no sin in being driven to be the best – as measured by your performance and output. But to be the best based on other’s misfortune is entirely a different animal. Cutting the legs out from under one’s personal rival proves only one thing – that you are more vicious than him or her – not that you are the better salesperson, tradesman, academic, parent, administrator, sibling, etc.

While no one (especially me) likes to lose, being out performed by another can spell opportunity. Instead of going on the attack or bemoaning personal shortfalls, focus on the new day. What else can I bring to the field of battle to shine? What is deep within me that I’ve not yet found? How do I overcome self-imposed obstacles?

I have no universal answers. I will, however, share an inspiring clip that I’ll pull out from time to time when I’m faced with what seems insurmountable. I believe this to be one of the best acted scenes I’ve seen on film. Kenneth Branagh’s depiction of King Henry in the 1989 film Henry V (based on Shakespeare’s play The Life of Henry the Fifth). Produced by Bruce Sharman with the BBC and Branagh’s company Renaissance Films, the film includes a gritty depiction of the build up to the Battle of Agincourt (where the English were severely outnumbered by the French by a 6:1 estimate) that I find very inspiring – I hope you do too.



Reach within; be your best. Oh, and, congratulations Wolverines on a great victory today!

Thanksgiving

For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food, for love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson


I am thankful for my family – parents, brother, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts, cousins, ancestors. . .

I am thankful for my friends – you are a wide-ranging and diverse group of bandits and saints. . .

I am thankful for those people who smile and nod even though we are not entirely sure of each others’ name. . .

I am thankful for my surrogate nieces and nephews. . .

I am thankful for my education – it's a daily challenge, but so far, it’s gone well. . .

I am thankful for those who forgive me when I’m foolish or unkind. . .

I am thankful that God has a sense of humor and infinite patience. . .

I am thankful that from time to time I seem to make a difference. . .

I am thankful for those who’ve taught me love. . .

I am thankful for those who’ve whooped me upside my head as needed. . .

I am thankful for some very good doctors. . .

I am thankful for every bump in the road; every punch in the gut; every toe stub – and their lessons. . .

I am thankful to live in the United States of America and for our men and women in uniform – be they military or first responders. . .

I am thankful for constructive disagreement and honest debate. . .

I am thankful for great art, great music, great food, and great style. . .

I am thankful that I can be a productive member of society and contribute in my own small ways. . .

Amen.



Image reported to be in the public domain and can be found at:  
http://www.pdclipart.org/displayimage.php?album=65&pos=3

Happy Birthday Dad

The following was written to commemorate what would have been Dad's 80th birthday . . . I update and republish in tribute to what would have been his 90th birthday . . . and for my own happy reasons.


Today, November 21, 2021, Dad would have been 90.

Growing up, I always thought he was super lucky because his birthday was 11/21/31 – that someone could have that cool of a birthday must have meant that God had something special in mind for him. What was it?


He was born in Batavia, New York to Thomas and Mary Niedbala, second of four children in a household where Polish was spoken with frequency. Dad and his siblings were charged with helping with the garden and raising chickens in addition to schoolwork and other chores. I remember a childhood story that was recounted more than a few times involving the hazing of the lone daughter in the family – my Aunt Pat.

Electric trains were big entertainment for my father, Dick, and his older brother Tom. They had an HO scale Lionel and had set up a figure eight track in their family basement. No telling their motivation, but one day they bound poor Pat’s hands and feet and laid her across the track ala Snidely Whiplash. Apparently, Aunt Pat’s protestations went unheard – at least until Grandpa got home with the belt.

Dad began his collegiate career at Canisius College in Buffalo; he eventually was awarded a Navy ROTC scholarship and earned a chemical engineering degree at Penn State. With his officer’s commission, he went active with the Navy as a Seabee. Though his active duty was concurrent with part of the Korean Conflict, he (often saying “fortunately”) never saw action. As little boys, we envisioned dad loading the cannons to sink pirate ships – not so. He did, however, tell us of the time he sunk a bulldozer. There was an unfortunate and unnoticed sinkhole just offshore that swallowed the earthmover.

Dad sailed on the USS Missouri and had at least one tour through the Mediterranean Sea. It was during this tour that he and mom wrote regularly – he even managed to mail her a pair of gloves that arrived on her birthday. I’m fairly certain that was all luck. Mom once recounted that she was most impressed with his flowing prose describing sunsets over Tuscany and pristine beaches accented with historic villas. Apparently, dad did a good job transcribing portions of Foley’s Guide to the Mediterranean.

After my parents were married, they lived on a Navy base in Virginia where an iconic family story was born. Dad was first to shower one day and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. After a short while, he knocked on the bathroom door during mom’s shower and remorsefully reported, "Sheila, there aren’t enough Rice Krispies to fill your bowl." You can imagine the mileage we got from that story.

Dad was well respected in our small town: he served on various boards, filmed the high school football games for the coaching staff, participated in the annual “Goodfellows” newspaper sale, played golf, jogged, and was recognized frequently walking our basset hound, “Uncle Bill.”

He had a long career with Michigan Gas Utilities and, as a claim to fame, was one of the first engineers to specify plastic pipeline for natural gas transmission.

Dad has been gone nearly forty years. His large loving heart was unfortunately poorly wired – he had his first cardiac event when he was 39 with subsequent ones leading up to the fatal MI at age 50. His funeral was very well attended and an industry group memorialized him by naming an annual golf outing in his honor.

I do recall meeting so many strangers at the lunch following the funeral and each could tell me about things I’d done in my life. Participation in the high school band, attending Hillsdale, a couple of European trips – all were well reported by my dad to everyone he knew. I almost feel sorry for his friends – he must have been insufferably boring talking of his children. That something special God had in mind? That he got to be my dad and, more importantly, I got to be his son.  Happy Birthday.

First Light

Four-forty-five AM alarms suck.

Well, most days anyway. Today is opening day of deer season in Michigan. November 15, for many, is as exciting as Christmas morning. Several hundred thousand hunters go afield in hopes of bagging a trophy buck or, at least, some venison for the freezer. I didn’t grow up in a hunting family, but as an adult, I’ve taken to the sport with the help and guidance of many good friends.

By 4:50, I had the coffee started and turned on the news while waiting for two compatriots to arrive. Three of us would be hunting the farm this morning: Craig in a tree stand along the western border of the property, Jack in the “playhouse” – a kids’ play structure converted to a nobler use (though, we did leave the yellow plastic steering wheel in place. . .something to do if deer are scarce!) – and I will occupy the “Blue Heron.” The Blue Heron is a roughly 12 by 12 structure with a shingled roof, insulation, sliding windows, a small heater, and a couple of La-Z-Boy chairs. Did I mention that roughing it wasn’t a necessary condition to enjoying the great outdoors?

Craig brought McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches and Jack was (as expected) about a half hour late. We all were moving a bit slow – our goal was to be in our stands by 6:00 AM. Six-fifteen will have to do.

I have a six-wheeled ATV that serves the farm well. This morning, Jack and I loaded up (Craig would walk to his stand) and I dropped Jack off at the play structure. . .I headed WSW to the Blue Heron.

Unloaded into the blind, and eased into a recliner, I very carefully planned my hunting strategy – at least until I woke myself up snoring. The sun peeked over the eastern fields and shadows began to belie the presence of deer. Sure enough, there are two just south of me foraging where soybeans stood just days ago.

There really isn’t a good angle from my position for a shot. Had I opted for a tree stand to the south of me, conditions would have been ideal. I’ll have to risk scaring them off by going outside.

The door moans softly as I ease it ajar. . .the blind has a small porch and the boards creak an alarm to the deer. They face my direction with bright ears and flight on their minds. I’m frozen. The larger of the two kicks up her heels and bolts about 20 yards west. The other puts its snout to the ground. I decide I don’t have enough light to make a clean shot and retreat back into the blind.

Pacing, waiting for more sun, hoping the deer remain. It’s about 6:50 and I have a small coffee buzz. Time to ease back outside.

The two are still there and in range. Getting the angle is the hardest part. I draw on the big doe – she stares right at me and bolts. Rats. Surprisingly, the other deer stands its ground and is easily acquired in the crosshairs. Bang. The deer immediately drops without even a rattle. I’ve met my goal of a quick (and humanely as possible) kill.

It’s a yearling weighing about 100 lbs on the hoof so it will yield around 30 – 40 lbs of usable venison. I’ll spend the morning skinning and quartering the deer and putting the meat into the refrigerator until I can do the fine butchering later this evening. Generally, I’ll cut and wrap roasts and grind the balance to make breakfast sausage. The deer will be honored at several meals.

Hunting, admittedly, isn’t for everyone. With more Whitetail Deer in North America now than when the pilgrims arrived, I argue that this is a food source worth tapping. And yes, there are some yahoos who give hunters a bad name – just as there are yahoos who give anti-hunters a bad name. I do know that later this week, I’ll enjoy a venison roast, medium rare, with a homemade apple syrup glaze.

Cooking up a soundtrack

Daily, I see students wired into their smart phones or MP3 players as they wander campus or sit cross-legged on tiled hallway floors with books or notes open in their laps. Earbuds or headphones providing, I suppose, a soundtrack for their lives. I wonder if ITunes can anticipate when the scary or chase scene music should start?

While I have a passion for various musical genres, I’ve never been one needing songs for company. Oh sure, while in high school, I installed an eight-track player, a Radio Shack power booster, and co-axle 6 x 9 speakers into my 1976 Pinto wagon (I also tore out all the carpeting and installed Astroturf – go figure) and would click through the channels to hear “that one song.” And through the years, I’ve attended live performances featuring a broad range of artists including James Levine, B.B. King, Doc Watson, Mick Jagger, Taj Mahal, Dave Brubeck and many others.

None of these artists, however, excite and inspire me like all-stars such as Pepin, Prudhomme, Batali, Lagasse, Colicchio, and Bourdain. No, these names aren’t part of a World Cup team; they are chefs who have – especially with the rise of competitive cooking shows – become celebrities in their own right. I’ve had the good fortune to eat in most of their restaurants and have pretended to execute meals for which their recipes are known. The aromas and flavors arising from their culinary mastery are symphonies deserving standing ovations.

Memphis-style ribs shared with students

My curious palate comes honestly. The dinners of my youth were adventurous and there wasn’t a “chicken nugget” option for my brother and me. What Mom cooked, we ate. I did have the good fortune to have a mother whose cooking was well celebrated throughout our small town. She would be a judge for the Monroe Evening News cooking contest, she taught cooking at our school, and after countless requests from friends to have her help cook or supply dishes for family gatherings, she co-founded a catering business. I still have the copy of the Kids in the Kitchen Cookbook that was in a Christmas stocking and recall, on sick days home from grade school, dozing on the couch with Julia Child or Graham Kerr (the “Galloping Gourmet”) on the tube.

As we progressed through high school, Mom’s business grew to a point where she and her partner were the house caterers for Monroe’s largest event venue. It wasn’t unusual for them to feed over 500 people through the course of a weekend – I think their largest single evening party was for over 700 guests. My brother and I were expected to dedicate at least one weekend evening to the cause and soon our friends joined us – all wearing navy blue pants and white shirts. With limited entertainment options, it seemed like the same six or seven bands would rotate through the string of weddings and we’d argue as to which had the best rendition of Proud Mary. We’d work hard; it was fun.

Gathering at the farm to celebrate friends' 50th wedding anniversary

Subsequent years of travel introduced me to various international cuisines and regional specialties; hunting added entirely new cooking challenges. A summer of classes at the Memphis Culinary Academy gave me additional courage in the kitchen. Most importantly, cooking leads to entertaining old and new friends and evenings filled with shared stories and warm memories. A favorite expression: “there is nothing better than a driveway full of cars and a house full of laughter.”

Not that the meals are always stellar. Notable failures include stuffing a turkey with uncooked dinner rolls hoping they’d turn into dressing, shrimp Creole so over-spiced that it drove us from the kitchen, and, most recently, the exploding roast beef. I’m sure there were many other less than spectacular meals from my stove, but my guests didn’t complain – maybe the wine helped!

Bacon sizzling, stemware clinking, mixers on high, blenders whirring, coffee percolating, corks popping, knives chopping, forks dancing on china, friends laughing – maybe I do have a soundtrack to my life after all?