White Christmas

There is a win/loss when going to warmer climes as winter’s lock clangs shut on Michigan. A whirlwind 36-hour trip to Orlando started with a drive through flurries and beastie temperatures en route to the airport on Sunday. Then landing in 80 degrees and hearing Bing’s golden baritone crooning White Christmas through the airport shuttle’s speakers was truly discordant.

Speaking of White Christmas, did you know that the song played a role in the end of the Viet Nam war? As the North Vietnamese army reached the outskirts of Saigon in late April 1975, any American strongholds were under threat.

Evacuation was imminent and what would become the largest helicopter evacuation in history began with a radio announcement relaying the secret code that the temperature in Saigon was “105 degrees and rising” and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas was played. Bing’s voice told evacuees to get to the U.S. Embassy where helicopters were waiting. (http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1880.html)

Crosby's White Christmas single has been credited with selling 50 million copies, the most by any release and therefore it is the biggest-selling single worldwide of all time. The Guinness Book of World Records 2009 Edition lists the song as a 100-million seller, encompassing all versions of the song, including albums. Crosby's holiday collection Merry Christmas was first released in 1949 and has never been out of print since. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Christmas_%28song%29)

Back in Michigan, scant snow blows through spine-chilling temperatures . . . highs in the 20s with accompanying single digit wind chills offer their early winter challenge. Frankly, the temperatures aren’t really particularly annoying if one has the right gear and a modicum of heartiness.

That heartiness declines with age. I got to see my pal Howard this evening. Howard turns 87 in March (“God-willing,” he’d say) and he’s still living independently. He tells me he’s fallen twice since I’ve seen him. Not from tripping nor ice; instead, he’s certain his heart stops and doesn’t restart until he hits the ground. I asked if he capitulated to his physician’s advice to have a defibrillator implanted. “Not yet, but I might let them after we meet in January.”

He’s noticeably more areel since our last visit; slower and repeating himself. But, as always, full of stories and graciousness. Tonight he told me of his courtship with his wife Donna Lee Chapman, their life together and her untimely demise at age 55. It’s been nearly 30 years since her death and her mention still makes his eyes well. Howard brags on his grandson, reports his delight that his pastor is moving back from Tennessee to Michigan, and shares his recipe for fried potatoes. In less than an hour, we pretty much cover all the bases.

He yawns and I announce my intention to leave. Howard asks my forgiveness for not getting up – I tell him he doesn’t have to stand on ceremony – he laughs at the pun.

“Come back any time.”

I believe I shall.

A Thanksgiving Story

Ray wrestled with sleep – just like every other night for the last ten months. Watching the digital alarm inch through the darkness added to his frustration. Finally, the clock reached 5:00 AM: not optimal, but a reasonable time to rise, wrap himself in a tattered black terrycloth robe, and shuffle into his therapeutic slippers (the heel on the left slipper chewed partially away by a long-passed Cocker Spaniel named Hobo).

In short order, a measure of Folgers was in the percolator, and a rasher was scenting the small house. “Millie loves her bacon,” mused Ray as he set out unmatched place settings and a couple of mugs for the coffee. Spits of grease shot out from eggs in a cast iron fry pan that was the first wedding gift he and Millie opened fifty years ago this week.

He sometimes lucked out and their anniversary would fall on Thanksgiving – the kids and (eventually) grand kids would gather and he didn’t have to take Millie out to dinner. Ray wasn’t particularly cheap, but he loved Millie’s cooking more than anything found at the few restaurants still open in their middle-Tennessee town.

The farm, in its heyday, sent 70-90 cattle to market annually and was located just east of the Hickman County seat: Centerville. Their land backed up to the Duck River and the bottom land would reliably flood every third or fourth winter. Ray and the boys would spend the late spring repairing fences while the herd was pastured on the upper ground.

It was a good living and it sent four children through college, allowed Ray and Millie a week’s vacation in Destin, Florida each year, and paid off the mortgage 10 years early. Millie’s acre garden supplemented the meat he raised or hunted for their family and Millie’s autumn canning ritual would easily carry them to spring.

He had almost forgotten that today was Thanksgiving. Closing his eyes, he recounted fifty years of Thanksgivings. The first time the two of them hosted his and her parents for the holiday – and Millie cooking the Butterball with the package of giblets still inside; the year their oldest was in the hospital with bacterial meningitis and they brought turkey, dressing, yams, cranberries, and chess pie to the ward and fed the entire second-floor nursing staff and most of the hospital residents; the year their youngest daughter’s soon-to-be fiancée followed Ray to the barn to ask if he could marry her (this brought an audible chuckle as the rest of the story included the boy slipping on a cow pie and having to borrow clothes before Millie would allow him to join the family at dinner); the year that their oldest grandson didn’t come back from Iraq.

There were plenty of ups and downs over five decades. On balance, however, Ray was truly thankful for and proud of his children, thankful for the joy and the laughter that defined their years on the farm and, especially, he was thankful for Millie. Oh, they didn’t have a perfect marriage, but he’d still fight anyone who said anything critical about his beloved. It wasn’t a perfect marriage; it was a perfect love.

Ray finished his breakfast and noticed that he once again set the table for two despite Millie being gone for ten months. Today, his daughter was picking him up to celebrate the day in Murfreesboro at their family home. It was his first Thanksgiving without Millie and his daughter promised she’d make chess pie just like her mom’s. Ray just hoped she would remember to take the giblets out of the turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving.






Image reported to be in the public domain and available here:  
http://blogs.cdc.gov/publichealthmatters/files/2012/09/ElderlyEmergency_Banner.jpg

A smaller sphere

Sean Lee during the Detroit/Dallas game 10/27/13

The idea of “six degrees of separation” is familiar: that we are connected to anyone else on the planet by no more than six different relationships. There is even a tongue-in-cheek axiom: “six degrees of Kevin Bacon” where it is asserted that any actor can be connected to a movie in which Bacon appeared through six instances of various actors and their co-stars.

I can’t vouch for the reliability of “six degrees” – I suspect that there are farmers in North Korea with whom I have no connection. Conversely, I can easily trace short steps to Presidents, Celebrities, Serial Killers, CEOs, Popes, and Royalty from my little splash of Lima Township.

It’s likely more productive to consider a simpler degree: with whom are we personally connected and what do those connections mean?

This last weekend, I got to reunite with enatic cousins and watch one of them excel at the highest of gridiron levels, the NFL. Cousin Sean Lee and the Dallas Cowboys came to town for a match-up against the Detroit Lions. Sean had two interceptions (he’s a linebacker) and some key tackles in a game where the Lions managed to squeak out a victory with 12 seconds left. While I can only imagine Sean’s disappointment, I was very proud to have this connection to such a successful and gifted athlete.

I’m also proud to be connected to a number of others: to my nephew who served in Afghanistan; to a good friend who, after losing his wife, re-energized his life and became a chef; to friend who is a firefighter and another who is a police officer; to the friend who is a State Senator; to several friends who are committed to keeping the Constitution alive in our Republic; to a brother who faces life’s challenges with enviable faith and optimism; to my mother who inspires me and makes me laugh. There are also cancer survivors, activists, caregivers, artists, actors, moms, dads, plumbers, educators, farmers, restaurant workers, lawyers, judges, entrepreneurs, scalawags, bandits, and many others who comprise my life’s tapestry.

I guess that may be tonight’s reflection: we are enriched by those friends and family who nurture and support us and we are educated by those who disappoint and betray. Each, in his or her way, contributes. And we too, in turn, contribute.





Photo credit: Shannon DeVilbiss Gallup

Ducks, Apples, Gravlox, Update

It isn’t often that events affirm life choices – this week has afforded me such an affirmation.

Nearly fifteen years ago, I “bought the farm.” In this case, however, the literal rather than the dreaded figurative applies to that phrase. When I moved back from Tennessee, I ended up on this property and it’s helped provide too many blessings to share.

Saturday morning three of us eased through the morning fog toward the “big pond” (the western most impoundment of “Black Dog Bog”). I stalked the south side while Bruce and Laurie slipped to their post on the north end. Within 30 minutes, we had a full limit of ducks, wet asses, and that happy adrenalin of success. We retrieved our quarry and slogged back up to the house for hot coffee, dry clothes, and to handle the post hunt duties.

Fast forward about five hours. Twenty-five friends aged 4 – 64 gathered on the farm to press some 35+ gallons of apple cider. Our happy gang picked apples from my tree to mingle with apples from the others’ trees; we washed, sorted, chopped and pressed a cider that is as sweet as laughter. I got a couple of chances to look up and see so many happy hands contributing and knew that all the work the farm demands is balanced by the joy from days like this.

I got the chance to tell Howard about the day – yes, I’ve not mentioned him for a few months because I’ve not had the chance to catch him at home. I think I missed him six or eight times but did see him at a restaurant now and then. He’s doing ok. Still living alone, cooking, driving, going to market and sometimes out for a glass of wine. And still cranky.

He had a new pacemaker implanted but reports that his doctor wants to replace it with a device called an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator (ICD) as he is at significant risk of sudden cardiac arrest (SCA). 

“I don’t like it,” bemoaned my friend. “They just spent $5,800 on a brand new pacemaker and this damn thing is probably $7,000. I told that doctor it was a waste of money.” Howard further railed that the doctor dismissed his objection because “that’s what insurance is for.”

“Those damn doctors have no sense of money and spend other peoples’ money too freely.” It was at this point I wondered if Howard was available to run the Department of Health and Human Services; I digress.

We talked about his family (his grandson just finished top in his class as a state trooper), classical music, how much we cherish our homes, and he shared his recipe for gravlax.

He and I discussed his financial situation and his living options. “I screwed up,” he began, but then quickly corrected himself. “I didn’t screw up – I wouldn’t do anything different – but meeting Lloyd C. Douglas changed my life.” (see Lloyd C. Douglas )

For those familiar with Ann Arbor, at the corner of Hill and South State there was a coffee and doughnut joint called The Chatterbox. Howard recounted going there as a young man and the place was packed. An older gentleman beckoned Howard to his table – Lloyd C. Douglas. Douglas was an ordained minister and, for a time, was at the First Congregational Church in Ann Arbor. He was also the prolific author who penned The Robe. “He told me to give to others less fortunate and I’ve done that my entire life. Sure, I was well off when I retired, but I need a little bit now to get through.” And it is being provided.

The timer for his dinner was buzzing and I knew it was time to leave. We’ll gather again soon.

Sick Bastards

Truman Capote published In Cold Blood in 1966 and scared the hell out of my mother.

Back then, my father was often gone through the week as an engineer on pipeline projects and mom was left with two preschool aged boys: my brother and me. The book, lauded as one of the first “non-fiction” novels, details the murder of four members of the Clutter family in 1959 Holcomb, Kansas. Capote explores the victims’ lives and deeply profiles the murderers: Richard Hickock and Perry Smith.

You may have seen any of the three movies inspired by this book: In Cold Blood (1967) starring Robert Blake as Perry Smith and Scott Wilson as Richard Hickock or Capote (2005) starring Philip Seymour Hoffman or Infamous (2006) with Daniel Craig and Sandra Bullock.

But, back to mom: reading the account of the randomness of the victim selection and the brutal cruelty served upon the Clutter family triggered fearful speculation that our house could be similarly selected and our fates equally doomed. In fairness to mom, I’m pretty certain this wasn’t a major phobia, but the randomness and cruelty of the crime – encountered in the 1960s – was so uncommon that its affect was soul shaking.

I read In Cold Blood in the early 90s at mom’s suggestion. She shared her reaction to the book from 30 years prior and I expected to be equally shaken. Not so much. By the 1990s, society had met “Son of Sam”, John Wayne Gacy, the “Unibomber” and countless other sick bastards. The daily newspapers had calloused my sensibilities such that Mr. Capote’s opus wasn’t so scary.

Which brings me to today: twelve innocents and another sick bastard died today at the Washington, DC Navy Yard. According to reports, Aaron Alexis (aka, sick bastard), a 34 year old contractor to the military, started shooting random victims just after 8 am. The cable news channels gave whole day blanket coverage, the Washington Nationals postponed tonight’s baseball game and the Senate punched out early.

Unlike after Columbine, Virginia Tech, Aurora, Fort Hood and, of course, Sandy Hook – no one I encountered today was stopped aghast. I met with two students at a pub for dinner and the televisions were tuned to ESPN. Diners chatted up their day and I admit not having a knot in my stomach.

Are we getting used to this? Is this a new normal? In December, I wrote of the children slaughtered at Sandy Hook and that post has, by almost double, been the most read piece I’ve proffered (Link to post). The post’s title “Unfathomable is the new black” was meant somewhat sardonically tongue-in-cheek. Instead, I’m afraid it may be accurate.

I can report that after some reflection, I am sickened, saddened, and angry about today’s shooting. Twelve people won’t be home with their families tonight. Holidays will pass without their presence. Folks, let’s not ever get used to this.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Alice and Mushrooms

“This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went, 'One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.'” 1

During a recent trip north, a friend and I ended up tromping through the woods in pursuit of wild mushrooms. No, not morels – those are sought in the spring – but Chanterelles – bright orange fungi that resemble anemones one would find while diving a reef. We trudged up and down a rolling

Chanterelles in the wild

forested landscape and managed to collect close to three pounds of these delicious treats.

Records indicate that Chanterelles have been collected and eaten as long ago as the 1500s – not surprising because their apricot aroma and peppery taste makes them a delightful addition to nearly any dish. If you go collecting, be aware that imposters are prevalent in the same habitat.

That things are not always as they seem, reminds me of my recent reread of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (and who doesn’t love the hookah smoking caterpillar perched on the magic mushroom?). I can confidently report: it’s a weird read. The prose is messy, challenging, and nonsensical. It is also, however, a delight. Who can’t smile when such word play is proffered?

'And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.

'Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: 'nine the next, and so on.'

'What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.

'That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: 'because they lessen from day to day.' 2

This tale of Alice, the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, Bill the Lizard, the Queen, and others was actually banned at one time in U.S. school systems because of perceived sexual references and in China because animals spoke and were portrayed at the same level of humans. In other words, Lewis’ speech wasn’t deemed “correct.”

I believe we face some real challenges to free speech and true intellectual debate because of the tightening noose of political correctness. I might be particularly sensitive to the phenomenon since I work on a university campus that once had a speech code – violation of which could result in discipline up to and including expulsion or termination.

Now, I don’t advocate being hateful or inconsiderate. I do, however, believe that one should be able to speak freely whether or not one’s words are popular. I’d never support the marching Nazis, but I’d support their right to march. Their stance on most things, to me, is abhorrent and offensive – guess what, I have no Constitutional protections against being offended. I do, however, have Constitutional protections for my speech.

I acknowledge that freedom of speech hasn’t always been played on a level field – many groups and individuals have been suppressed in our great nation’s history. That wasn’t right. Similarly, it isn’t right to suppress any individuals or groups today.

But, back to the caterpillar; enjoy Grace Slick’s performance at Woodstock some 44 years ago:

1. Carroll, Lewis. BANNED! An Anthology of Banned Books (14 books) [Illustrated] (Kindle Locations 43093-43096). Kindle Edition. 

2. Carroll, Lewis (2009-10-21). BANNED! An Anthology of Banned Books (14 books) [Illustrated] (Kindle Locations 43768-43773). Kindle Edition.