Rainbow from God

The sun slips

Behind the silhouette of mountains

Whose broad shoulders

Silently wait as

Both wall and gateway

Below the west rim of the world

It sends

A wavering red wash

To the low, dark, spread of clouds

Wine dark ripples heading East

Space and sky responding

As if liquid mediums

The setting sun

A celestial stone

Cast into a universal pond

The red undulating glow

Reaching towards the East

A struck match

Setting the hidden earth

Alight, aglow

A message sent from

Today to Tomorrow

A message of promise, hope

Not unlike

A rainbow From God

Songs in the Key of Life (How we add music to our life's soundtrack)

 

We all have a soundtrack to our lives, like the Jimmy Buffett tape (CD, mp3, phone) we slap on the car stereo for a summer trip to the beach. I personally like to listen to The Pretenders singing about the chain gang as I work in our garden as the days get warmer and warmer. But there is music that inserts itself unbidden along the way from doctor’s offices, elevators, dentist’s offices, and coffee shops to name a few. They are songs that stick as part of our life’s music because it gets stuck in your head, it embodies a certain irony, or simply and unexpectedly fills a moment.

Being a man of a certain age, I recall my most recent colonoscopy last year (unfortunately all are…uh…memorable). Gastroenterologists are their own breed who see the humor in what they do. Their offices often have blue signage with jokes that you can easily guess. Anyway, as with many procedures the doctor will have music playing that they prefer to work to. As the Propofol started to guide me into disremembering I could hear the music switch on to “Let’s Get it On,” by Marvin Gaye. That’s just wrong.

In the dentist’s office recently for the dreaded expensive deep gum cleaning, as the hygienist was going at my mouth sans Novocain (I can’t stand needles in my mouth), there was music playing over the office speakers. I don’t know if it was canned or simply a radio station, but as I listened while there was griding, probing, suction, and what I strongly suspect was the hygienist making funny shapes with my lips for her enjoyment, Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” played. Really?

Some music in my life attaches itself unintentionally to a moment, or activity. The one that comes easily to mind is my constant playing of the “Grand Illusion” album by Styx. It was the summer that I was finally taking time to read Peter Benchley’s “Jaws.” Now the two are forever intwined. Although, I guess it is fitting to think of shark attacks whenever “Come Sail Away” is played.

In that same vein, another memory comes forward. This time associated with my youthful days as a runner. In college, I was part of the Outta Control Track Club. Team colors black and blue of course (kudos to Eddie Pennebaker for coming up with that), and a team moto of “There is no control like outta control.” The guys and I were in Greenville just down the road from Clemson, joining in on a 4x5 mile relay. When it was my turn to run for the team, I took off. Legs pumping, breath coming fast but easy. I felt like I was flying as I ran the fastest 5-mile time of my life, 26:40. And in my head, the entire circuit was Mick Jagger wailing “Start Me Up.” I’m thankful that takes pre-eminence over the standard runner’s tunes of the theme from Rocky or Chariots of Fire.

I spend two or three hours a week in Coffee Shops, reading, writing, eating, and drinking good coffee. The music though is really hit or miss. Some shops like playing odd alternative music at low volumes which only leaves a jumbled misunderstood collection of words and notes in my head. A rare few play poplar music, and some play folk or jazz. This morning at Switchback Coffee just down the street, as I ate eggs and toast and had a mug of coffee (espressos and custom coffee drinks have fixed prices, the mug of drip is what you can afford or as I choose, the Pay It Forward option), they played popular music. Or actually music that at one time, long ago, and far away just to the east of the Death Star was popular. The last song that came as I was self-bussing and gathering my letter writing tools was “Loving You” by Minnie Riperton. Memories of high school came flooding back. But I no longer remember how I looked then, and my mind saw this old man amid timeless young ghosts. And though those thoughts are returning to dormancy, I cannot get “Loving You” out of my head even as I bid Alexa to play Rickie Lee Jones. Save me, Rickie.

Baseball Ascending

 

As with most that love the game of baseball, mine is a complicated relationship with the sport. My love for baseball has only waxed with me into adulthood, it has never waned. But my attention to it goes through all the phases of the moon. In recent years it has hovered somewhere around the new moon.

My time with baseball recently has been limited to highlight reels on social media and the occasional glance at AL and NL standings, and box scores. This current languor has nothing to do with the sad performance of the Colorado Rockies, or the bonehead decision to give the designated hitter a home in the Nation League instead of kicking him out of the American League. My teams have always gone through extended periods in the basement of their respective divisions - here I offer the Atlanta Braves of the 1970's and 80's as an example. And baseball has always made horrendous mistakes regarding baseball's rules of play assuming offense is the primary reason anyone watches the game - the lowering of the mound due particularly to the dominance of Hall of Fame pitcher Bob Gibson springs immediately to mind. What brings me to my current predicament has everything to do with streaming services and how MLB deals with the watching of local teams.

Five years ago, we made the decision to ditch cable TV for streaming content due to the cost and impossible-to-understand "deals" offered by Xfinity. The only downside to streaming was the inability to watch "in market" baseball games unless I streamed a cable provider (thus defeating the purpose). Add to this the Rockies' inability to retain excellent players in favor of always expecting a talented rookie to arise from the minors, and my day-to-day interest in the sport has wavered. How can I be expected without the aid of television to keep up with the ever changing roster and performance of my Rockies when I look at the box scores and read it as "new guy", "Charlie Blackmon", "new guy", "f'n DH", "new guy", "I didn't know he was on the team", "new guy", and "new guy" - and who the heck knows who that pitcher is.

But without fail, during every spiritual low point with baseball, there is a redeeming epiphany that reminds me of the eternal flame within me for America's Pastime. My epiphany-of-the-moment occurred as I was driving past a neighborhood school, Columbia Elementary. Its lot is less than a square city block, so you can imagine the overall size of its playground. As I was passing it, a flash of bright green caught my eye, and I turned to see in one corner of that playground a perfect child-sized baseball diamond was laid out. I drove by it the following week and stopped and took a picture of it. The diamond was pristine. The grass a well-trimmed and vibrant green. The base paths unmarked by footprints. The chalk lines unmarred by baseballs, runners, or base coaches. The mound was perfectly groomed. I had no way to explain the idyllic conditions of this field fenced in along with gangs of 4-foot-tall bringers of chaos.

I went back today to look at it again and take a picture from atop the playground slide. From that vantage point I noticed something that I had not before. Dismounting, I walked over to the edge of the field, near the third base line. The field, the base paths, the mound were all astroturf. The razor straight base lines were painted on and not chalk at all. Learning this, I was not disenchanted in the least. It was after all, a wise choice for the cheering and laughing berserkers that would use it. I couldn't help but stand there, transfixed by this art imitating life, by this art as life. My mind could make out happily screaming children rounding the bases. I could almost hear the cheering of parents and sound of a baseball coming off the bat echoing in the morning's silence. And I smiled when I pictured a teacher, calling the game from behind the plate, throwing up her arms in exasperation, unable to make any sense of the latest inside the park home run and how it drove in more runners than bases.

This is the nature of the game. Fun, laughter, smiles. This is at the heart of baseball for me. It is what made this elementary school field a holy Chapel among the Cathedrals of baseball. There is Yankee Stadium, there is Fenway Park, there is Wrigley Field. But more importantly there are these oases of baseball purity. The places like sand lots, junk yards, inner city streets, and this school where dreams are born and some never die. 

I stood there, unable to step onto the artificial grass, unable to interrupt the reverence of the moment. I stood there like Doc Graham unable to cross the first baseline and return to his youthful "Moonlight" Graham self in Field of Dreams because those days were behind him, behind the ghost of him. My playing days ended when I was a child and lost track of my glove. My playing catch days ended when I caught a ball tossed by my college age son with my face in the fading light of day at a neighborhood park. At that point he simply said, "Let's go home." We have never tossed the ball since and I miss it, but it was the right call. I was never any good at baseball.

Columbia Elementary School's field was just another reminder that you don't have to be good at baseball to love it. You don't have to be good at baseball to regard it as mystical. You don't have to be good at baseball to keep it in your prayers and to honor it as America's Pastime.

A Pirate Passes

 I woke this morning to find that on September 1, 2023, Jimmy Buffet at the age of 76 had died. He reportedly passed peacefully surrounded by family, friends, dogs, and music. I would be hard pressed to imagine someone who had not heard of Jimmy Buffet. He was a citizen of the world and he made us all citizens of Margaritaville.

One of his greatest hits collections was called Songs You Know by Heart, and we did. We knew the words to everyone of those songs. From Come Monday to Grapefruit - Juicy Fruit on that album, I knew all the words. And to the likely chagrin of whomever would be around me, I would sing along with each and every tune. I would sing along with Jimmy.

I couldn't even tell you what was the first song of his that I ever heard. Was it Margaritaville? Cheeseburger in Paradise? Son of a Sailor? I don't know. I know the first album I purchased of his was Son of a Sailor back when I was a college student. I am sure I bought several more in short order. And my favorite song of his? He went to Paris.

Jimmy Buffet was big on campus when I was at Clemson. I was lucky enough to be able to work with Clemson's Central Dance and Concert Committee and help set up the stage for Jimmy Buffet when he came to town. Before the show started, but after the audience was already in the building, I remember running across the stage and yelling out "Save the Whales". It was an act of joy brought on by just being at a Jimmy Buffet concert. My friend Eddie Pennebaker will remind me of that from time to time even to this day as we settle into our 60's.

Jimmy was a storyteller, and he did this through his music, his books, and between songs during his concerts. His songs were often joyous, and even those that weren't ventured toward the meditative but never sadness. Through his music, he made us wonder what it would be like to have a pencil thin mustache like Boston Blackie, he would make us nod in sympathy as he sang of stepping on a pop top, he made us crave cheeseburgers and margaritas. He had the seductive power of genuine smiles and relatable tales.

For me this is particularly true in his song Son of a Sailor. Hearing it, I cannot help but think of my father that brought sailing to his children. And from there my thoughts go to my little brother Greg. Captain Greg as he is often called. He caught our father's love of sailing much more deeply than the rest of us. He is now a sailor and a man of the sea by passion and profession. He conducts fishing and sailing charters, and has found a particular niche that I'm sure Jimmy Buffet would have approved of, Bachelorette Cruises. Throughout the Spring and Summer, he can often be found in the waters off of Folly Beach and Charleston with a boat full of young women who are drinking, having fun, and above all smiling. In his boating life, Greg is a bringer of smiles. This, I believe, Jimmy would have also approved of.

No matter the size of the audience, a Jimmy Buffet concert was a raucous yet intimate experience. He played venues of all sizes, comfortable whether he was in a stadium or had just popped into some local bar with his guitar in hand. He seemed infinitely approachable, like an old friend. I have no doubt he was. It is not difficult to imagine being outside under an umbrella with him, sharing a beer, and chatting about anything and everything beneath the hot tropical sun.

I will miss Jimmy Buffet, but I can't seem to mourn him. He was too full of life and energy to believe he won't be anything but in the world. And I guess he will be. His music, his stories will last forever. And besides, he will never be truly gone as long as there are margaritas and rum and an horizon for a pirate to chase.

Political Climate

This mid-term as my wife and I drove to the library ballot drop off, we shared the same thought – will there be armed and masked drop box “observers”? I did not like that tinge of fear at voting. It was both a new and unwelcome feeling.

Though Colorado has not evinced any such behavior to my knowledge, fear is something that can reach epidemic proportions in the blink of an eye. And fear is what politics peddles more than any other idea lately. Fear for democracy, fear for our purses and wallets, fear of science and intellect. Of course, as fear spreads, its sibling anger comes with it hand-in-hand.

Fear and anger are certainly nothing new to politics, but now it seems to be the primary goal over ideas and ideals. Fear and anger have become the stick accompanying the prosperity carrot. It is a smorgasbord, grab a plate and pick your poison.

To be sure, there is real risk to some of the elements goaded at. Democracy is at risk, but that risk can be used as a club just as much as our pocketbooks can be. Still, if I had to pick among the topics of fear, I would worry most about democracy.

The economy is currently causing aches and pains, but I do not worry about it. The economy is global in nature and therefor neither the full blame nor the full responsibility of the U.S. It is also demonstrably cyclical. It falls and it comes back. In my sixty years, we have survived the recession of the 70’s, an economic collapse in 2008, and are weathering inflation and talk of a recession now. Live within your means, be understanding and generous to those less fortunate, and we will all come out of the downward spiral. The economy will cycle up.

Democracy does not come and go in cycles. It is a living thing, an experiment that has been going in the United States for 246 years. As a living thing it is born to grow and adapt within the sound framework of the founding fathers. It is made to live and thrive. But if it is ignored or taken advantage of it can die as well. It can be stronger than you imagined, and is more fragile than you think.

Much of the fear in general these days is driven by the political climate espousing what I call “stuffism”. Where’s my stuff? What’s in it for me? Why do they get all the stuff while I get nothing? And this latest manifestation of our greed could not thrive so without the use of “villains”. Villains that are wedges to be driven into our socio-economic fissures and cracks. Villains with roots in antisemitism, racism, and anti-intellectualism. In many ways antisemitism and racism are self-explanatory. They have been front and center before and have raised their ugly heads once again. The anti-intellectualism pervasive today is not as familiar to people. Too many candidates in the last six years have miss-used common sense to make us doubt science and reasoning. This is an appeal to our baser instincts, our lizard brains. Encouraging people not to think. It leads people to embrace conspiracy theory that no matter how implausible draws lines that people blindly follow between one thing and another. And this laziness of thought leads us to deny thoughtful and reasonable explanations and conclusions. It causes us to deny science and the scientific method. It caused us to throw down our masks in anger and breath in COVID. It caused us to believe our system of voting and electing our representative is greatly flawed and given to abuse, instead of believing the numerous recounts and demonstrations of how solid and unbiased it truly is. Where once most people would construct an intellectual exercise to understand an issue, now we google for more information on the disinformation we are fed.

To me it feels like this rise in fear and anger, this combustible fuel of selfishness, this burning match of “common sense”, is turning us into sheep. Cattle herded blindly in the trust of others though it may lead us to slaughter. Politicians wringing their hands in glee as we follow the Judas goat of lies. I admit, this IS easier. That thinking and testing and discovering are an effort. But like most effort, we come out the other side stronger.

The End of the Longest Day

At the end of a long day, you take your leisure where you can find it. That is how I captioned the picture above six years ago according to the Facebook memory notification today. I ache at both picture and caption, because today Mabel's longest day has ended, and she has been lain down for her longest rest. I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to say goodbye to her and to have her leave us. I will never be able to properly describe the loss we feel, a loss born of love.

Jean-Marie found her and fell in love with her the moment she saw her at the Humane Society when she was a volunteer. Mabel had been placed on hold by someone who allowed that hold to expire. And so it seems Mabel was meant to be with us and we with her.

I was in Winnipeg on business when Jean-Marie found her and texted me her picture and details. It was sweet of Jean-Marie to check with me before she did anything. If I said no, she would have gotten Mabel anyway I think. But I didn’t say no. I was smitten at first sight with Mabel just as she was. Of course Mabel’s name was not Mabel when we adopted her. But the name that the Humane Society gave her, Dandi, didn’t fit. Jean-Marie saw into the baby girl’s soul and Dandi became Mabel from that moment on.

Mabel joined our family, but she was the one to set the rules. Jean-Marie was Mabel’s comfort. She clung to Jean-Marie. We would often say that Mabel was glued to her hip. Mabel simply made me her man-servant. She never wanted to trouble Jean-Marie with anything and so if she was hungry, she barked for daddy. If she was thirsty, she barked for daddy. If she needed to go outside, she barked for daddy. If she needed anything, she barked for daddy. She never bothered momma. She sat with momma. Lavished lovins’ on momma, curled up with momma. She only kissed me right before bed time, and only curled up against me during the night for my abundant body heat. That was all I needed.

She was never a dog in our household. She was a person. She was a personality. Occasionally I would put a leash on her in attempt to take her for walks, but she always looked upon this act with disdain. She did not lead nor follow. She walked where she wanted, wandered on the leash up to the point that I would eventually have to pick her up and carry her for the remainder of the walk. Of course this is what she wanted.

Mabel brought joy to everyone to meet her. She loved to go out shopping with us, particularly to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and the nearby Home Depot on North Academy. As we pushed her around in our shopping cart, people would flock over to pet her, ask about her, smile because of her. She was enchanting. She was a people person.

With all of this personality, it has always been difficult for us to believe that someone had dropped Mabel off near the Humane Society at a Walmart entrance along with several other dogs. It makes us sad to even try and imagine what the first seven or eight years of Mabel’s life had been like. She did not deserve that kind of life. So we gave her all that she did deserve, and she gave back to us unconditional love in return.

Over the years Mabel has constantly made us smile and laugh. She took our hearts and kept them safe. Because rescuing a pet is essentially a selfless act, we never considered that Mabel would rescue us in return. But that is what happened. Now today, Mabel can rest after years of taking care of us. We will always miss her, we smile at countless memories of her, and we will be shedding tears at the loss of her for quite some time.

Flagging Belief

Our nation’s Flag has always been special to me. When I was young, I learned to honor it first with The Star Spangled Banner, and as I matured with my beliefs. When the Flag was raised over ball games, I sang to it along with the crowd in my young off-key voice. I would feel the nation was being put to bed when late night TV would sign off with a view of our Flag waving in the breeze. And I remember scout leaders impressing upon me the care of the Flag. These were the wholesome images of our national symbol that I carry with me from my youth.
The other day while running errands, a truck traveling in the opposite direction passed me. It was large and black, covered in slogans, and flying the American Flag and a Trump flag from its truck bed. No pride within me was evident at the sight of the Flag as there used to be, only a sense of dread and disappointment.
This symbol of our nation that unified us by our differences has been coopted, has been radicalized in a surprisingly few years. What once symbolized the good we could achieve, what once symbolized the loftier heights to strive for, now symbolizes much less, is now used to drive wedges into the differences that once united us.
Now I often see that Flag of our nation on the back of pickups sharing equal space with a Trump banner. I see that Flag of our nation roadside along with signs equating Democrats with socialists and communists, and ones claiming President Biden and Vice President Harris to be Satan incarnate.
Our Flag is now at the leading edge of disinformation and hate. It has been placed at the head of a charge that has reduced the Constitution of the United States to only a broadly interpreted Second Amendment with a dollop of First Amendment on the side. The rest of that beautiful document is left to rot in a corner, neglected.
Part of this front of hate is aimed at people of color and immigrants. With the exception of my maternal grandfather whose family has proudly been here for many generations, my remaining grandparents represent immigrants and first generation Americans. In fact, my father’s parents immigrated from Palestine. I wonder if these false-bearers of our standard had their way if my family would have been allowed in the front door at all.
Our once proud Flag has become a distracting bauble, a glittery charm used to hypnotize the faithful and rob them of reason. Many who wave that Flag believe all lives matter without any recognition of how little black lives matter, how much more poorly people of color are treated. Many who wave that Flag want to live a life of freedom of their own design rather than within the framework of freedom first formed in 1776.
My sadness and ache spread out darkly like oil on pavement. Viscus and tangible. We have been led to the edge of a precipice surprisingly easily, cattle following a Judas goat. We cannot fall in, we must not fall in. Either the Flag stretches far enough to embrace all or it has failed to cover any. Agree to disagree but still hold hands. Give rise to debate rather than descension. Restore our Flag as a symbol instead of continually using it as a bludgeon.

Success in Failure (or One Runner's Story)

Last week I found out from friends on Facebook that Clemson University was discontinuing its men’s cross country and track programs at the end of this academic year. This has brought out such commentary as “Travesty!”. This is neither inappropriate nor over-stated. These programs are the definition of storied. Their history includes many conference titles, multiple Olympians, and even a few Olympic golds. But these are the least important of the teams’ accomplishments and contributions. The intrinsic meaning that has brought substance to so many beyond the programs shines much brighter than titles and medals. In the stories posted about this, I am struck not by the differences among them, but that many of the stories mirror my own. Like the posted experiences on Facebook of friends like Joe Hammond and Tim Stewart that are so familiar and similar to mine. Stories that center around not measuring up to these Clemson teams and yet gaining so much from that, gaining things that have lasted a life time. I started running to follow my father around, who was running before it was a trend, before it was a fever upon the nation’s landscape. I then started running for me. A consistent last place finisher in the 2-mile of every track meet I ran in for three years, I still loved each foot plant, each race. During my last two years of track, I blossomed and became competitive. More than that, I went from enjoying running to loving running. And even though my school had no cross country program, I wanted to run college cross country because there was nothing like training and competing on the roads and trails to me. As a high school senior, I contacted Clemson’s then head coach Sam Colson. Coach Colson was a former Olympian in the javelin and in my mind a bit of a dick (I believe time bore me out on this assessment). Still, I sent him my times and accomplishments and stated my desire to be a member of the Clemson Cross County program starting in the ’80-’81 academic year. He responded with an indiference which kept my hopes afloat. When I got to Clemson for my freshman year, I went to meet with Coach Colson. He said that I would not be able to practice with the team, but that I should run 80 miles a week in preparation for my tryout at Clemson’s first meet of the season. He then introduced me to Ian Davidson, former Clemson Athlete in Cross Country and Track and who was then an employee of the Clemson Athletic Department. This turned out to be one of my life’s most seminal moments (seminal likely doesn’t mean what you think, Count. You should google it 😊). I had heard of Ian from being a past winner of the Orangeburg Rose Festival 10K in my hometown. Heck he was a legend to me. But I did not know Ian until that point. Ian took me under his wing by running with me and introducing me to two other former teammates of his, Eddie Pennebaker and Dave “Geerman” Geer. It was to be the beginning of forming lifelong friendships and relationships. When I finally tried out for the team, I finished last behind Clemson and Georgia Tech while my mother watched, and my two youngest siblings Ginny and Greg waited bored in my dorm room. If there was another team involved, I have blocked that out to limit the number of people I lost to. My disappointment over such a resounding failure lasted the rest of that day and evening. But I had to get up the next morning and run with Eddie. This was no consolation prize; this was my routine and my joy. Eddie and his girlfriend (soon to be wife) the superlative Julie Pennebaker ne Brown lead me to a larger community outside the University. My circle expanded from Eddie, Julie, Ian, and Dave to include the likes of Tim Stewart, the famous Tommy “Pooh Bear” Williams, Steve (the Fig) Figueroa, Joe Hammond, Dr. Don LeTorre, Rolf Craven, Steve Hlis, Dr. Keith “Banjo Man” Allen. We formed the Outta Control Track Club or as “Pooh Bear” would say, “OTTC, OCCT, OTCC, daggumit, the Outta Control Track Club!” I also was blessed by having friends from the Cross Country team I was not good enough to be part of – Jim Haughy, Laurie Montgomery (the future and current Laurie Haughy), Hans Koeleman, Stijn Jaspers, Kerry Robinson, Tina Krebbs, Terry Goodenough, Bob (the grumpiest man in the world) Sams, the fearless Kenyan Julius Ogaro, Iain Campbell. Each of those people have affected their communities in deep and positive ways. Some did so with prematurely shortened life spans. Dr. Don Latorre who was one of my favorite people to run with, to hang with at Clemson very sadly passed a few years back. He was a professor of Mathematics at the University. Dr. Don brought the passion of mathematics to so many. I was never lucky enough to have him as a professor, but he once asked me if I had taken Linear Algebra. I told him I had and that it was a great subject that I really liked. He replied by saying if I had taken it under him that I would have LOVED the subject. I believe him. Stijn Jaspers, cross country great, Olympian with a ready smile and always a friendly word, passed in his sleep from an undiagnosed heart defect in his bed at Clemson. A stunning loss to all who knew him. Terry Goodenough died suddenly at the age of 52 in 2010. I will never forget the lanky image of him with short curly hair and wire framed glasses. I was trying to find him since social media had matured to the point that the remaking of lost connections was possible. He had made a great impression on me with his friendship and geniality when I was at Clemson in the early ‘80’s, and I felt this need to locate him. It was probably back in late 2010 the year he died that I found he had passed. I discovered from that internet search that he had lived up to and far beyond his potential. Google him, you will find him as amazing as all the others whose life he touched. The point being is that I can pick apart my memories to the smallest atoms on any of these people and state what a positive difference they made on a young man from Orangeburg. I can go on about the difference some of them still make. But my memories though special to me are unimportant to the larger scheme of things. What is important is that Clemson is bringing about the end of an era of touching people’s lives with a sport consisting of a relatively small number of athletes. What is important is that in a sport that promotes individual abilities, there is an inherent connection among them as a team, an inherent force that keeps them forming deep friendships over shared passions. What is important is in turning its back on the men’s Cross Country and Track programs there is a loss to much more than the athletes, there is a loss much more than the connections those athletes form outside the sport, there is a loss to the future. And I cry over that along with the ties that bind me to those that are part of my past and present and future.

The Wages of Sin - A Lenten Tale

This morning, I went out to sample the new breakfast served by Wendy's. En route I was breaking for the light at Wasatch and Platte when I saw what looked to be a young girl on the corner waiting to cross. When I pulled to a stop, I noticed that it was a man with long hair and he was sitting not standing. And he was sitting on the curb in shabby attire clutching a thin crocheted afghan about his shoulders. He appeared to be nodding, or shifting from time to time. And then before the light changed he stopped moving, perhaps settled in.

As I turned into the Wendy's parking lot, I saw paramedics leaving Wendy's to climb into their ambulance which faced the sad figure. They got in, belted up, and drove away. Not seeing him at all, or perhaps simply not caring. From my seat in Wendy's where I ate in relative comfort I could see him across Platte from me. Still, sitting, feet in the gutter, head hunched forward hiding his face and his beard. I worried that he could fall forward and into traffic. I worried because he was likely not asleep but either on drugs or alcohol or both. I worried if I should do anything. Should I go to the 7-eleven which was behind him and get him coffee and something to eat. Should I talk to him? Should I take him somewhere? If so, then where?

My worry was eased by a pair of twenty-somethings that stopped and sat by him, trying to talk to him, but then they just went their way, continuing to walk down Platte. The world passing by in the form of dogs being walked, people on bikes, the ever present traffic, and my eyes that kept going back to him and my thoughts along with my stares. This worry and growing concern did not hasten my meal or make it impossible to continue reading The Name of the Rose by Umberto Echo. No, I finished at my normal pace and even refilled my drink before leaving.

Still, the man was locked in my thoughts. I drove my car not home but over to the Marian House - the Catholic Charities building that fed and helped the all too many homeless in our city. Though the parking lot held several homeless men standing or sitting about, their possessions in hand/cart/backpack, the place was not open. I turned myself and my thoughts then to the police, the guardians of the peace.

The police station downtown was not far so I went there instead of calling. The officer working as attendant behind the thick bulletproof glass gave me a non-emergency number to call and ask for a wellness check. Which I did, in the process of which I gave a description of personage and condition. They promised to dispatch an ambulance and firetruck to check on the man. Which they did. I verified this on the way home as I pulled up to the same stop light but driving in the opposite direction. I witnessed uniformed men question and probe the homeless man. When the light turned green, I held back my tears and took it as tacit permission that I could go home.

I am an observer in both my work and my passion to writing and thought. Being an observer carries wages much as the sinner does. The wages of the observer for my part are often in the coinage of guilt. I may also be accumulating more than my share of sin because isn't doing the bear minimum or often nothing at all a sin of omission? What I did today was something at least, but it amounted to turning a problem over to someone else. So here I sit in confession to those who may read this. It is a confession without expectations of absolution. It is not made in a church. It is not made before a priest. I am not allowed to pass go, there is no $200 for me. This entry amounts to no more than public self-flagellation. And now I worry, isn't public self-flagellation a sin of pride?

Eighteen Years Gone

This morning I walked into the backyard. The sun was newly up giving that special light that both starts and ends each day. It’s difficult to described. Golden, muted, I don’t know. I don’t know many things, which may not be a good way to start a day of thought and reflection on the 18^th anniversary of 9-11. Anniversary? My wife and I celebrated our 23^rd anniversary this past weekend. It's been a good 23 years. Shouldn’t there be a different word for dates of disasters and horrors, to mark the passage of time for things that are not good?

Many of us have our 9-11 stories. I have mine. I was not at home to hold my wife to protect my kids. I was out-of-town on work with my friend and boss Rob. We were in Philadelphia prepping for an over the road train test. We were at the Amtrak yards just starting to set up our instrumentation car when we were called to the break room.

As we entered that shabby room with scattered tables, a tattered sofa, I wanted to know what was up. Somebody pointed at the TV with the image of a single World Trade Center tower with heavy smoke pouring from the uppermost stories. He said I think something is happening.

Something was happening. A passenger airliner had crashed into a tower of the World Trade Center. The news reporting was chaotic. The first thought was some terrible accident had occurred. The screen switched to a reporter in some New York high rise. You could see the city spread out behind the reporter and as we watched, the blur of a second airliner going past the window could be seen. At least that is how I remember the coverage. Perhaps that memory is simply apocryphal and fits my internal narrative well. Add that to the list of things that I don’t know.

I do know that coverage switched back to the towers in time to witness the unbelievable, the second plane plowed into the second tower. In an instant, the possibility of an accident changed into the probability of a terror attack. The break room was silent save for the television. Everything was unfolding rapid fire, not slow motion. We sat there and watched the flames, the smoke, listening to reporters babble none of it making sense – none of it, not the images, not the words, not the reality of it.

Slack jawed I watched as the first tower collapsed, then the other. Coverage switched to street level to capture people fleeing the dust and smoke from the collapsing towers that boiled out of the canyons of New York City. It is all a blur. I don’t know how long any of that took (another item in the pile). At one point a panicked woman paused in her retreat to scream at a reporter, It’s 9-1-1! This is happing on 9-1-1!!!

My most tangible memory of that day was walking the streets of Philly and being stunned by just how much silence there was. I could hear the cars going by, I could other city sounds, but I never realized how much air traffic there was over a major city until there wasn’t any. The sky was shut down. The trains were shut down. I came upon a news stand and purchased the afternoon special editions from Philadelphia’s two dailies. Both had screen captured pixelated pictures of the twin towers billowing smoke. The stories reported already began to provide information about terrorist links to this attack. The government was moving fast. I kept those papers until our recent move. I paused to look at them while cleaning and packing, and I thought I didn’t need them. I wouldn’t ever forget.

I mourn those that lost their lives in New York, Pennsylvania, and at the Pentagon. But I also remember not only the sad of that day but the good as well. The acts of heroism of a plane filled with hostages turned heroes flying over Pennsylvania. The individuals who risked their lives and, in many cases, sacrificed them saving others. The first responders who are still giving their lives because of what they endured. I honor the soldiers that went to the middle east (where we still have a presence) following 9-11 to put themselves in harm’s way. All selfless acts that define the best of humanity.

In contrast, I was struck watching the news this morning as they mentioned that the first generation to be born following 9-11 will be entering our military. I guess the same could be said of newly minted first responders as well. The youngest of the military, of the first responders knowing of 9-11 only in the abstract and not the visceral. How will that shape things? (and a blanket is draped over my pile of things I don't know)