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?

Commander’s Palace

Chef Tory McPhail’s

Jazz Brunch Special

Yellow Heirloom Tomato Bloody Mary

Local tomatoes from Covey Rise farm

blended with crushed citrus and New Orleans spice

~ Finished tableside with “ice block” vodka

Turtle Soup

A Commander’s classic

spiked with a splash of sherry

Eggs Couchon de Lait

Two farm fresh eggs over slow smoked

shoulder of pork with warm buttermilk biscuits, mushroom fricassee, and spicy tasso hollandaise

Creole Bread Pudding Soufflé

“The Queen of Creole Desserts”

~ Finished Tableside with Whiskey Cream Sauce

 

‘Nuff said.

Loose Change. . .

I’m home from a road trip that included stops in Memphis and New Orleans. Readers may know that I spent just shy of seven years living in the greater Memphis area and have some great memories of friends, experiences, professional achievement, and some killer food and music.

Wandering a downtown that is significantly changed (for the better) since I left in 1999, I noted new hotels, sports venues, a Gibson Guitar factory, and some new dining options.

Walking the length of Beale Street is a must for me – seeing the clubs Rum Boogie, BB King’s, and Silky O’Sullivan’s brought back some great memories of live delta blues and late night laughter. One mandatory stop is A. Schwab’s Dry Goods Store. From the Beale Street website:

"[At] A. Schwab's Dry Goods Store . . . we emphasize the words "dry goods" because this is where you'll get an umbrella, hat or raincoat to keep you dry if it starts to rain. [The store] Looks much as it must have when it opened in 1876, with an incredible array of [products] such [as] voodoo paraphernalia, familiar from the blues, as Mojo Hands and High John the Conqueror lucky roots in fragrant oil, as well as 99¢ neckties and Sunday School badges. They also have thousands of other unique and interesting items to just marvel at, or actually purchase." http://www.bealestreetonline.com/shops.htm

Schwab’s is the only remaining original Beale Street business, was founded by Abraham Joseph Schwab and operated by generations of Schwabs every since. Well, at least until about 3 months ago when the business was sold to interests outside of the family – there wasn’t a member of the upcoming generation that wanted to continue the tradition. Speaking with a long-time clerk, I learned that the future of the store and its miscellany of items is unclear and she indicated that the new management wasn’t replenishing inventories as things sold. The future of Schwab’s is in the hands of the new owner - while romantic musings won’t contribute to cash flows, I hope there is a future for this mercantile Mecca.

One long-standing Memphis tradition is going strong, I’m happy to report. Dinner at Charlie Vergos’ Rendezvous was magnificent. The din of long-tenured servers yelling drink orders and the stack of used napkins piling up while eating my ribs reassured me that this is one Memphis tradition, if the lines for seating are indicative, that has a long future!

Is it better to keep things the way they are or accept change?

Chances are, the answer is “it depends.” What is it that is changing? Is it a clear improvement? Does it mean the loss of an iconic institution? Does it affect our livelihood? Does it challenge us to get out of a rut?

In my life, I have several examples where I don’t easily change (I’ve purchased the same style Bass Weejuns five times over the last 25 years and reorder from Sperry annually) and others that point to a fickle nature (seven vehicles in the last ten years). I comfortably have my “lunch spot” and my “place to stop on the way home from work” and hold certain traditions dear as I stumble through life.

How we respond to change - especially when it is out of our control - is, I believe, critical to our happiness. One modern parable addresses this fairly well. In his book Who Moved My Cheese, Dr. Spencer Johnson explores different responses to significant life changes using mice as characters. It is a quick read and gives applicable perspectives for one’s professional and personal lives.

Change is necessary and sometimes uncomfortable - sometimes down right scary.  Fear of change can shackle people in bad relationships or unfulfilling careers. When friends and loved ones can break those shackles, it is time to celebrate.  Conversely, losing icons is rightfully difficult to accept - many are measures of our life.

Stay tuned for a report from Bourbon Street. . .

Haikus of Hope

 

Cancer is a bitch!

Count on modern medicine

To win the catfight!

Fifty thousand jobs

Southeastern Michigan bound!

Paycheck dignity

 

Its name sounds scary:

Arteriosclerosis!

Pass the Lipitor! 

 

Muammar Gaddafi

And all terroring despots'

Days are limited

To love thy neighbor

A rewarding enterprise:

Bests loving thyself!

Give to charity

Your time, patience, and money

Invest in your soul

Feel free to add. . .