Saturday, September 29, 2007
No Beethoven Tonight
There's no Ninth Symphony to report on because there wasn't a a Ninth Symphony, at least not one that I could hear. Of course the performances went on as scheduled on 9 27, 9/28, and 9/29 in Orchestra Hall performed by the Minneapolis Orchestra. We couldn't attend because of work schedule, my wife's, not mine. But because of high demand, fortunately for us a fourth performance was later scheduled for Sunday afternoon in Orchestra Hall, and I switched our tickets with no fuss. This way my wife takes care of both her work requirements and her spiritual needs. She completed her work tasks on 9/27 in Mayfield Village, Ohio. And on Sunday afternoon 9/30m, we'll both have our sprits enriched listening to the music of a giant, Ludwig von Beethoven. Last year The Minnesota Orchestra with its current conductor turned out a very highly praised CD of this very same symphony, so I'm sure our time Sunday will be filled with magic.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Fly the Friendly Skies
This afternoon I dropped my wife at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport so that she could wing her way to Cleveland, then drive to some town in Ohio with "Village" in its name, though its probably not a village in the strictest sense of the word. Whatever it is, it's where she'll spend Thursday working before soaring back to Minnesota to celebrate my birthday. I no longer enjoy air travel, nor does she, but it's a requirement of her job.
However, if every trip ended as the one she made last week, she probably wouldn't mind travelling quite as much. And what happened was that someone took the time to do a thoughtful thing for her, which was to return the Day Planner to she had left on the plane. If you have any kind of responsible or professional job, you probably know the value one of these magic books. My wife had both personal and professional information in it, and it would've cost her countless hours of gathering data from a range of sources to put it all back together again, if it could've been done at all.
She was close to distraught at such a loss, and our weekend began on a somewhat sour note. But on Sunday, as she was catching up on some of her work on her company computer, the phone rang. A voice asked, "Are you missing something?" She knew immediately. Someone had found her Day Planner, and that someone was a Flight Attendant for United Airlines. I could hear her talking to him somewhat animatedly, and she came out of her workspace with a huge smile. Further, not only did this United employee refuse to accept any reward, he also refused to accept payment for what turned out to be a overnight FedEx shipment.
This is a big deal for at least two reasons: the loss would have nearly shut her work down for a time; and it softened our growing belief that all civility and thougtfullness is lost in today's world. No, it's not lost. It just hides and pops up when we least expect it, sometimes when we need it most. My wife has sent a letter to United Airlines about the good this employee did for her and the good he's done for his employer. Yes, we'll try to fly the friendly skies as often as possible because one good deed deserves several others.
However, if every trip ended as the one she made last week, she probably wouldn't mind travelling quite as much. And what happened was that someone took the time to do a thoughtful thing for her, which was to return the Day Planner to she had left on the plane. If you have any kind of responsible or professional job, you probably know the value one of these magic books. My wife had both personal and professional information in it, and it would've cost her countless hours of gathering data from a range of sources to put it all back together again, if it could've been done at all.
She was close to distraught at such a loss, and our weekend began on a somewhat sour note. But on Sunday, as she was catching up on some of her work on her company computer, the phone rang. A voice asked, "Are you missing something?" She knew immediately. Someone had found her Day Planner, and that someone was a Flight Attendant for United Airlines. I could hear her talking to him somewhat animatedly, and she came out of her workspace with a huge smile. Further, not only did this United employee refuse to accept any reward, he also refused to accept payment for what turned out to be a overnight FedEx shipment.
This is a big deal for at least two reasons: the loss would have nearly shut her work down for a time; and it softened our growing belief that all civility and thougtfullness is lost in today's world. No, it's not lost. It just hides and pops up when we least expect it, sometimes when we need it most. My wife has sent a letter to United Airlines about the good this employee did for her and the good he's done for his employer. Yes, we'll try to fly the friendly skies as often as possible because one good deed deserves several others.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Take Your Choice
Sometimes when I tell someone that I lived in Southern California for 20 years, he asks me if I was afraid of earthquakes. Of course I was afraid of earthquakes and "enjoyed" two pretty large ones in the Los Angeles area between 1987 and 2006. Now that I've been in Minnesota for over a year, my question to a local would be to ask if he is afraid of tornadoes, to which I'm sure to get an affirmative. It seems, then, that wherever one lives, he has to contend with either floods, fires, tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, or something else that tears hell out of things.
As I write this post, a tornado warning is just about to expire for the area in which I live. I grew up in the South, an area accustomed to tornadoes, and I remember hunching down in some part of the house believed to be safe as a tornado roared through my part of Dixie. I was a few minutes ago reminded of all these weather disturbances, as I just returned from a trip to Cub Foods, our large grocery retailer, just after someone in the store reported a tornado warning. So I finished my checkout, headed for the car, and came home with large splats of water hitting my windshield. I saw, too, a not-fully-formed funnel, and darkness all around.
As I pulled into our parking area, I heard a loud, shrill siren, a public "announcement" given when a tornado warning has actually been issued, ie.,a tornado has actually been spotted touching down in the area. It would be nice if there were an earthquake warning! In any case, the people here are practiced in dealing with storms, and this siren indicates that they should immediately go to the safest place possible, a central room or a basement.
Once I came into the condo, the television meteorologist said that a tornado had actually touched down near U. S. 494 and France Avenue, the area I had glanced at just a few minutes before. There was no feeling of fear during any of this, certainly not the fear I felt at being nearly thrust out of bed during the large earthquake that hit Los Angeles County in early 1994. I must admit that I was scared silly that early January morning. My bookshelves were emptied by the movement of the earth, and a small glass object d'art broke. I was very lucky because the building, built back in the 50s, suffered very little damage.
There are continuous reports of funnel clouds as I sit here and write, all the while listening to our intrepid weather man (no, that's not sexist; he is a man). Whew! Now I hear that the tornado warnings for my county have been cancelled. I probably won't relax too much, as it's still quite dark out. And this is a huge storm system, complete with high winds and all. Anyway, it's good we don't overthink the natural events that can come suddenly, engulf us, maybe harm us, then leave most of us unscathed and relieved, and saying thanks to whatever we say thanks to -- if we do.
I'm glad for that part of the brain that keeps the horrible at bay, lets us "forget" the last time we hurt so much, or were so afraid. Otherwise, we'd likely not be able to go about our day-to-day tasks with optimism, hope, and all those other wonderful abstracts that give life some of its flavor. And we probably wouldn't be able to live with one another more than a day or two.
As I write this post, a tornado warning is just about to expire for the area in which I live. I grew up in the South, an area accustomed to tornadoes, and I remember hunching down in some part of the house believed to be safe as a tornado roared through my part of Dixie. I was a few minutes ago reminded of all these weather disturbances, as I just returned from a trip to Cub Foods, our large grocery retailer, just after someone in the store reported a tornado warning. So I finished my checkout, headed for the car, and came home with large splats of water hitting my windshield. I saw, too, a not-fully-formed funnel, and darkness all around.
As I pulled into our parking area, I heard a loud, shrill siren, a public "announcement" given when a tornado warning has actually been issued, ie.,a tornado has actually been spotted touching down in the area. It would be nice if there were an earthquake warning! In any case, the people here are practiced in dealing with storms, and this siren indicates that they should immediately go to the safest place possible, a central room or a basement.
Once I came into the condo, the television meteorologist said that a tornado had actually touched down near U. S. 494 and France Avenue, the area I had glanced at just a few minutes before. There was no feeling of fear during any of this, certainly not the fear I felt at being nearly thrust out of bed during the large earthquake that hit Los Angeles County in early 1994. I must admit that I was scared silly that early January morning. My bookshelves were emptied by the movement of the earth, and a small glass object d'art broke. I was very lucky because the building, built back in the 50s, suffered very little damage.
There are continuous reports of funnel clouds as I sit here and write, all the while listening to our intrepid weather man (no, that's not sexist; he is a man). Whew! Now I hear that the tornado warnings for my county have been cancelled. I probably won't relax too much, as it's still quite dark out. And this is a huge storm system, complete with high winds and all. Anyway, it's good we don't overthink the natural events that can come suddenly, engulf us, maybe harm us, then leave most of us unscathed and relieved, and saying thanks to whatever we say thanks to -- if we do.
I'm glad for that part of the brain that keeps the horrible at bay, lets us "forget" the last time we hurt so much, or were so afraid. Otherwise, we'd likely not be able to go about our day-to-day tasks with optimism, hope, and all those other wonderful abstracts that give life some of its flavor. And we probably wouldn't be able to live with one another more than a day or two.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Yes, I Did Make a Difference
Some of us would like to think we made a difference in someone else's life, someone who was not blood or otherwise linked to us in any way. I'm very happy to report that not only did I make a difference in one man's life, he actually told me just how it happened. Over the years he mentioned it several more times, so I guess he was telling the truth.
His name was Ron B., and I use that appelation because we met in Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't mind if you know I'm a recovered drunk, but I don't have the right to tell you that anyone else is. Anyway, I used to attend a Men's Stag Meeting of A. A. on Monday nights on Radford Avenue in Studio City, California. Radford Avenue ran right beside the CBS Studios where "Rosanne" and many other shows were taped. I met Ron in 1987, the year I settled in Los Angeles and began to attend all those wonderful stag meetings, which I blogged about earlier.
First of all, Ron attracted attention because he wore many pieces of metal in his body, most of which one could see (I took his word for the others), and he had at least his fair share of tattoos. He had so many pieces of metal hanging from his ears that he almost jingled when he walked. And he was a rocket scientist, really! He worked for N. A. S. A., and his skills were such that he participated in some of the most interesting launches in the latter part of the century, such as the Mars probes. He was intelligent, well read, a curmudgeon before his time, and I grew to love him as a brother.
One particular Monday night, Ron was called on to share from the podium. As he shared, I noticed that he "downed" himself a lot, saying one negative thing after another about himself. Though I didn't know him except casually at the time, I stopped him after the meeting and asked him if he minded some observations on what he said. He agreed to listen, and I told him that if he continued to think and speak negatively about himself, he would eventually believe the negatives, if he didn't already. I explained that even as adults, we react to our own words as a child would if a parent continually criticizes and finds fault. How many children who turned out less than they could have were told as children that they were and always would be losers? My guess is that it was quite a few.
Ron looked at me as if I'd told him his name for the first time. He took this in, and I know he thought about it, as he later told me that it was one of the singlemost important comments anybody had ever made to him. Ron told me that it changed his life. I tried the false modesty route, but he wouldn't allow it. Finally, I said what I should've said right away, "Thank you." As a gay man, Ron truly trusted few straight men, and I was surprised that he asked me to be his sponsor in the A. A. program. I served in that capacity for several years. Then he stopped coming to the Men's Stag and went almost exclusively to gay N. A. meetings in Los Angeles. He also found another gay man for a sponsor, which I applauded when he asked if it would hurt my feelings. It didn't. He did exactly what he needed to do to continue in sobriety. Ron also told me later that he passed on what I said to him that night in 1987 to every man he sponsored in
A. A. and N. A.
There was something else about Ron that was immediately noticeable; one of his arms was shrunken, and he walked with a combination of limp and shuffle, the aftermath of childhood polio. Ron died in the Spring of 2004, the final result of that once dreaded disease. He had been going downhill slowly, and he knew it was inevitable, though he died earlier than most of would like. He was only 63. I missed his memorial service only because I didn't know about it. I telephoned him one day in April about getting together and left a message on his answering machine. It was his voice that greeted me when I called, so I fully expected to hear back from him. Instead I received a call from one of Ron's gay friends that he had died the month before. He said they didn't have time to call everybody, though I'm not sure what that meant.
I was angry at first, but I realized quickly (whew!) that it's not all about me. It was about Ron, and I know he knew I loved him because I told him each time we spoke. I think of him often, and I'm still saddened that he's not sharing the world with us. Rest in peace my dear, old friend.
His name was Ron B., and I use that appelation because we met in Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't mind if you know I'm a recovered drunk, but I don't have the right to tell you that anyone else is. Anyway, I used to attend a Men's Stag Meeting of A. A. on Monday nights on Radford Avenue in Studio City, California. Radford Avenue ran right beside the CBS Studios where "Rosanne" and many other shows were taped. I met Ron in 1987, the year I settled in Los Angeles and began to attend all those wonderful stag meetings, which I blogged about earlier.
First of all, Ron attracted attention because he wore many pieces of metal in his body, most of which one could see (I took his word for the others), and he had at least his fair share of tattoos. He had so many pieces of metal hanging from his ears that he almost jingled when he walked. And he was a rocket scientist, really! He worked for N. A. S. A., and his skills were such that he participated in some of the most interesting launches in the latter part of the century, such as the Mars probes. He was intelligent, well read, a curmudgeon before his time, and I grew to love him as a brother.
One particular Monday night, Ron was called on to share from the podium. As he shared, I noticed that he "downed" himself a lot, saying one negative thing after another about himself. Though I didn't know him except casually at the time, I stopped him after the meeting and asked him if he minded some observations on what he said. He agreed to listen, and I told him that if he continued to think and speak negatively about himself, he would eventually believe the negatives, if he didn't already. I explained that even as adults, we react to our own words as a child would if a parent continually criticizes and finds fault. How many children who turned out less than they could have were told as children that they were and always would be losers? My guess is that it was quite a few.
Ron looked at me as if I'd told him his name for the first time. He took this in, and I know he thought about it, as he later told me that it was one of the singlemost important comments anybody had ever made to him. Ron told me that it changed his life. I tried the false modesty route, but he wouldn't allow it. Finally, I said what I should've said right away, "Thank you." As a gay man, Ron truly trusted few straight men, and I was surprised that he asked me to be his sponsor in the A. A. program. I served in that capacity for several years. Then he stopped coming to the Men's Stag and went almost exclusively to gay N. A. meetings in Los Angeles. He also found another gay man for a sponsor, which I applauded when he asked if it would hurt my feelings. It didn't. He did exactly what he needed to do to continue in sobriety. Ron also told me later that he passed on what I said to him that night in 1987 to every man he sponsored in
A. A. and N. A.
There was something else about Ron that was immediately noticeable; one of his arms was shrunken, and he walked with a combination of limp and shuffle, the aftermath of childhood polio. Ron died in the Spring of 2004, the final result of that once dreaded disease. He had been going downhill slowly, and he knew it was inevitable, though he died earlier than most of would like. He was only 63. I missed his memorial service only because I didn't know about it. I telephoned him one day in April about getting together and left a message on his answering machine. It was his voice that greeted me when I called, so I fully expected to hear back from him. Instead I received a call from one of Ron's gay friends that he had died the month before. He said they didn't have time to call everybody, though I'm not sure what that meant.
I was angry at first, but I realized quickly (whew!) that it's not all about me. It was about Ron, and I know he knew I loved him because I told him each time we spoke. I think of him often, and I'm still saddened that he's not sharing the world with us. Rest in peace my dear, old friend.
Pardon The Interruption
The title of today's posting is instantly recognizeable by you real sports fans out there. It's a daily sports talk show on ESPN at 4:30 P. M., CDT, and hosted by two actual newspaper sports columnists, Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon, both of The Washington Post. I'm borrowing it today to write about the aging process as we're experiencing it, and I ask the reader's pardon because few people really want to hear about anyone else's aging aches and pains.
About 2 hours ago, I dropped my wife off at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a business trip to Kalamazoo, MI, by way of Detroit. Again, she looked frail and somewhat lost, but she's going because she has to if she wants to keep her job. She had a rough weekend, the pain from her bursitis returning with a vengeance. Recently, she tried again to take her suitcase onto whichever airplane she was boarding to see if she could lift it into the overhead bin. She couldn't and had to ask for help, but it sufficiently strained the muscles in her chest to kick in the old ailment again.
In order for us to clean our slate and depart the frozen north, we recently calculated that she needs to work at least 2 1/2 more years. I'll be truly surprised if she makes it half that. And the frustration for me is that with my spinal condition, even though most of the pain has been relieved through medication, and with my oxygen deficit, I can't work. It's so hard to know that your spouse feels like hell, both physically and mentally, as you send her off on another stressful trip. If there are any of you out there who talk to a power greater than yourselves, please post a prayer for my wife who's giving her best to keep us afloat.
I'm glad that I've had recently several positive things to write about. I'm grateful for all the good we've experienced lately. But I feel so much for her situation, and I can do nothing. You have a good week, and I'll keep you up-to-date on all of it.
About 2 hours ago, I dropped my wife off at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport for a business trip to Kalamazoo, MI, by way of Detroit. Again, she looked frail and somewhat lost, but she's going because she has to if she wants to keep her job. She had a rough weekend, the pain from her bursitis returning with a vengeance. Recently, she tried again to take her suitcase onto whichever airplane she was boarding to see if she could lift it into the overhead bin. She couldn't and had to ask for help, but it sufficiently strained the muscles in her chest to kick in the old ailment again.
In order for us to clean our slate and depart the frozen north, we recently calculated that she needs to work at least 2 1/2 more years. I'll be truly surprised if she makes it half that. And the frustration for me is that with my spinal condition, even though most of the pain has been relieved through medication, and with my oxygen deficit, I can't work. It's so hard to know that your spouse feels like hell, both physically and mentally, as you send her off on another stressful trip. If there are any of you out there who talk to a power greater than yourselves, please post a prayer for my wife who's giving her best to keep us afloat.
I'm glad that I've had recently several positive things to write about. I'm grateful for all the good we've experienced lately. But I feel so much for her situation, and I can do nothing. You have a good week, and I'll keep you up-to-date on all of it.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
My Recommendations
This will be a short entry, the purpose of which is to recommend two other blogs and one domain. The person who got me into blogging is my youngest child, and you can read her work at www.southernmuslimah.blogspot.com. She is hugely intelligent and writes very, very well. The other blog I read only occasionally, but when I do, I find it quite interesting. It is also written by a very intelligent woman, and you can find it at www.dooce.com. It was recommended by my blog-writing daughter. Notice that both are from the south, as is my last recommended writer whose domain is www.veritas-anydaynow.com. He publishes each Friday, and he is my oldest friend, a man I met in college back in 1964. He, too, is intelligent. So, if you want to peruse well written, thoughtful pieces, go to any or all of these, one at a time, of course. I hope you like them all. And don't forget to continue reading mine, too, from time to time. I hope to be more regular in the future.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Birthday Month
Yes, it's birthday month again, though the number is not one I ever anticipated reaching. I'll be 67 years old on the 27th of September. I've always enjoyed birthdays, and this one should be little different. On this birthday, my wife and I will go to Orchestra Hall in Minneapolis and hear Beethoven's 9th Symphony, "The Chorale." Although I've heard this work on record, tape, and CD, I've never heard it live, and it should be a treat.
Over the years, I've had some quite enjoyable birthdays, the earliest of which I remember is my 7th. There was a big party on our large back yard, complete with neighborhood children, gifts, ice cream, and a huge cake. Somewhere in all our boxes, I have a picture of that memorable celebration.
My 18th birthday was something special in that it was the first birthday I'd ever spent away from home. On 9/27/58, I was at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, undergoing training to become a member of the Corps. It wasn't special because anybody celebrated. It was just another training day, hot, sweaty, difficult.
I spent my 40th birthday in Los Angeles, visiting a friend from college who worked as an actor until his retirement a few years ago. I also attended an art opening at the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Doheny Drive, which celebrated a friend of his, a local artist whose work I really enjoyed. My friend, his wife, Sandy the artist, and I, all broke bread at a wonderful steak house on Ventura Blvd. that has since been torn down. Sandy and I shared a Chateaubriand for two. And it was during this birthday period that I had my first Haagen-Dazs ice cream, vanilla. I also ate my first sushi and sashimi during this visit.
The last memorable birthday I can recall is my 55th. My wife and I were working at a pharmaceutical research facility in Los Angeles, and she surprised me with a party that day at work. Some of my co-workers bought me a very nice gift, a briefcase, also a surprise. There was and is a specialty cake shop in L. A., and my wife bought me a quite appropriate birthday cake, one topped with a set of rather lovely female breasts. The cake was tasty, too.
It will be one more year to add to my total so far. It will be a night of tremendous music. It will be another birthday with cake and ice cream. And whenever each of yours is, Happy Birthday.
Over the years, I've had some quite enjoyable birthdays, the earliest of which I remember is my 7th. There was a big party on our large back yard, complete with neighborhood children, gifts, ice cream, and a huge cake. Somewhere in all our boxes, I have a picture of that memorable celebration.
My 18th birthday was something special in that it was the first birthday I'd ever spent away from home. On 9/27/58, I was at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina, undergoing training to become a member of the Corps. It wasn't special because anybody celebrated. It was just another training day, hot, sweaty, difficult.
I spent my 40th birthday in Los Angeles, visiting a friend from college who worked as an actor until his retirement a few years ago. I also attended an art opening at the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Doheny Drive, which celebrated a friend of his, a local artist whose work I really enjoyed. My friend, his wife, Sandy the artist, and I, all broke bread at a wonderful steak house on Ventura Blvd. that has since been torn down. Sandy and I shared a Chateaubriand for two. And it was during this birthday period that I had my first Haagen-Dazs ice cream, vanilla. I also ate my first sushi and sashimi during this visit.
The last memorable birthday I can recall is my 55th. My wife and I were working at a pharmaceutical research facility in Los Angeles, and she surprised me with a party that day at work. Some of my co-workers bought me a very nice gift, a briefcase, also a surprise. There was and is a specialty cake shop in L. A., and my wife bought me a quite appropriate birthday cake, one topped with a set of rather lovely female breasts. The cake was tasty, too.
It will be one more year to add to my total so far. It will be a night of tremendous music. It will be another birthday with cake and ice cream. And whenever each of yours is, Happy Birthday.
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