Sunday morning I found myself inspecting a pair of jeans, trying to determine if they were clean enough to be acceptable for church. As I slipped them on, it occurred to me that I should really focus my efforts on the backside. This wasn't because I suddenly remembered having sat in something, nor was I just looking for an excuse to look at my bahooney. No, I needed to check "back there" because church is one of the few places where people spend significant time staring at one another's backs and behinds.
If we were just sitting there, it wouldn't be much different than being at a concert or a play. But in our service, we're standing much of the time. And I know, when I'm standing, someone is staring at me, analyzing what I've got on and how it fits. I know it happens because I do it myself. It's so easy to stare at someone when they're not looking back at you. I once counted seven cat hairs on the back of a woman sitting in front of me. It was no easy feat, counting those hairs - the sweater she was wearing was similar in color to the cat she apparently lived with. She could have had a hundred cat hairs on the front and I would not have known it. After all, that would have required staring at her front, which would have been impolite. But her back...well, it was hard not to stare at. It was positioned directly in front of me, just a couple of feet away. I tried to just sit there, listening to the sermon...but then I noticed the first hair. I stared at it for awhile, trying to decide what mammal it came from. Part of me was still listening to the sermon but the hair debate was clamoring for attention. I succumbed and an analysis was soon underway. Color, length, coarseness all were considered. Feline seemed the likely source. Ah...now I could return my attention to the sermon. But wait, was that another one? How many could I find? The search was on. I found five on her shoulders and, when we stood for prayers, I noticed two more on her lower back. This happened a couple of years ago, but I still recall it. I have no idea what the sermon was about.
So, after I dressed, I twisted at the mirror and tried my best to shore up my back side. I'm sure I've gone to church with plenty of cat hair stuck to me. Hopefully, the person behind me was not so easily distracted.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Time Travel
I saw B reading a book the other night and I asked if it was any good. It was a book from a series that he's been reading for quite some time so I assumed he was enjoying this one as he had the others. I was correct, he did like the book. Usually, at this point, he tries to convince me that I should consider reading it as well. This time, however, his response was, "I don't think you'd like this book, Dad." I could sense he was waiting for me to ask why so I complied. He grinned and replied, "It's got time travel." He knows me well. He's heard me spout off more than once about how much I detest books and movies with time travel. Apparently, he's somewhat amused by it.
It's not the theoretical possibility of time travel that bothers me. I won't pretend to understand any of that. I just don't like it injected into a story. It either makes my head hurt as the plot falls into weird chicken and egg scenarios where the future drives the past back to itself or it just cheapens everything. How can any character ever truly be in danger if there's always a chance someone from the future will come back to save him? How can you have a mystery? Let's just go back in time and watch the butler do it. Or better yet, let's go back and stop him.
I'd rather not live my life thinking that the current moment exists ad infinitum, availble for perusal should someone be interested. I need my moments to cease as the next one begins. Like a flame burning down a candle's wick, my life moves ever forward at a steady, constant pace. There is no jumping ahead or jumping back. This is not to say that I don't consider the future or the past. I have dreams and plans for what may yet be and cherished memories of what was. But I live only here, in the present.
Sometimes, I can remember something so acutely that it does almost feel like I've traveled back in time. The other night I was out walking and the sound of the snow crunching under my boots reminded me of walking across the farm yard at night as a kid. For an instant, the details were crisp. I was maybe eleven or twelve, carrying an empty bushel basket. The trip was fleeting, but I guess, in a sense I did travel back in time.
It's not the theoretical possibility of time travel that bothers me. I won't pretend to understand any of that. I just don't like it injected into a story. It either makes my head hurt as the plot falls into weird chicken and egg scenarios where the future drives the past back to itself or it just cheapens everything. How can any character ever truly be in danger if there's always a chance someone from the future will come back to save him? How can you have a mystery? Let's just go back in time and watch the butler do it. Or better yet, let's go back and stop him.
I'd rather not live my life thinking that the current moment exists ad infinitum, availble for perusal should someone be interested. I need my moments to cease as the next one begins. Like a flame burning down a candle's wick, my life moves ever forward at a steady, constant pace. There is no jumping ahead or jumping back. This is not to say that I don't consider the future or the past. I have dreams and plans for what may yet be and cherished memories of what was. But I live only here, in the present.
Sometimes, I can remember something so acutely that it does almost feel like I've traveled back in time. The other night I was out walking and the sound of the snow crunching under my boots reminded me of walking across the farm yard at night as a kid. For an instant, the details were crisp. I was maybe eleven or twelve, carrying an empty bushel basket. The trip was fleeting, but I guess, in a sense I did travel back in time.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What's It About?
"What's your blog about?" I'm grateful to only have been asked that question once or twice. I don't have a good answer. It's about this and that, random stuff. When I started the blog, it was going to be about our family and that still is a primary topic. But, somewhere along the way, I strayed from that path and allowed myself to blather about just about anything. I thought not having a definitive topic would make it easier to come up with posts but sometimes I think just the opposite is true.
I do have a few guiding principles that I apply when writing for this blog. I avoid using profanity. I try to respect people's privacy as best I can. I try not to be mean or derisive. The only person I'm absolutely comfortable making fun of is myself (I should have plenty of material). I continually remind myself that my kids are very computer savvy and could easily find their way to this blog. I write, therefore, with the expectation that they will one day read what I've written.
You may have noticed the "Next Blog>" link at the top of this page. It's something that Blogger provides. It's supposed to take you to another blog similar in language and content to the one you are currently reading. This concept has intrigued me. Perhaps the best way to figure out what my blog is about is to see what Blogger thinks it's similar to. As a test, I tried clicking the Next Blog link from my blog's home page. I then returned to my home page and clicked the Next Blog link again. I tried this five times and got blogs with the following topics:
I'm note sure what to make of it other than that the Blogger Next Blog algorithm could use some work. I'm pretty sure I've never written about any of these things (the last one I had to look up just to find out what it was). I guess I'm stuck with the only thing those five sites seemed to have in common with mine:
"What's your blog about?"
"Well, it's written in English."
I do have a few guiding principles that I apply when writing for this blog. I avoid using profanity. I try to respect people's privacy as best I can. I try not to be mean or derisive. The only person I'm absolutely comfortable making fun of is myself (I should have plenty of material). I continually remind myself that my kids are very computer savvy and could easily find their way to this blog. I write, therefore, with the expectation that they will one day read what I've written.
You may have noticed the "Next Blog>" link at the top of this page. It's something that Blogger provides. It's supposed to take you to another blog similar in language and content to the one you are currently reading. This concept has intrigued me. Perhaps the best way to figure out what my blog is about is to see what Blogger thinks it's similar to. As a test, I tried clicking the Next Blog link from my blog's home page. I then returned to my home page and clicked the Next Blog link again. I tried this five times and got blogs with the following topics:
- Living with asthma
- Rap music and the recording industry
- Battling obesity
- High-lighting other blogs of note
- Aspergillosis
I'm note sure what to make of it other than that the Blogger Next Blog algorithm could use some work. I'm pretty sure I've never written about any of these things (the last one I had to look up just to find out what it was). I guess I'm stuck with the only thing those five sites seemed to have in common with mine:
"What's your blog about?"
"Well, it's written in English."
Friday, February 5, 2010
As I Wait For The Paper
The paper was late being delivered this morning. It's snowing and I suppose that may be the reason it hasn't arrived yet. Not having the newspaper at this moment disrupts my usual routine but today I'm okay with it. I know full well that the weather may make me a few minutes late to work today and that no one will have a problem with it. I'm willing to pass that understanding along to the person delivering my paper.
Normally, I'd be at the counter reading and sipping coffee. Instead, I move to a wing-back chair near a window in the living room. I pull the shade halfway up and settle into the chair with my coffee. The lights are off and the room is dark enough that I get no reflection off the window glass. From this vantage point, I can look out across my front yard. I watch for my newspaper. I watch the snow fall. The house is quiet and calm. I consider adding this ritual to my routine, even on mornings when the paper arrives early.
As I gaze out the window, I notice the trees. They stand out dark against the snow. We have a couple of young trees in our front yard, a maple and a crab apple. They are the smallest of the trees I can see from my chair. My neighbor directly across the street has a couple of medium-sized trees. One is older and likely as big as it will ever be. The other one, the one closest to the street, is still growing, an adolescent in tree terms. I've watched that tree grow over the years. I remember when it was as skinny as ours are now. My former neighbor, T, doted over the tree, making certain its bark was amply protected in the winter and that it was adequately watered in the summer. He attached ropes, encouraging alignment. The tree responded, growing straight and tall.
To the left of the tree, along the driveway, is a basketball hoop. I remember when T installed it. It was a weekend affair and his son could hardly wait for him to finish. The height was adjustable and initially needed to be set low. Over the years, the height was raised as T's son grew. The hoop was a gathering place for T's son and his friends. I remember seeing them out there, shooting baskets and talking. I couldn't hear their conversations but I could imagine the content - mostly superficial, sports and TV probably, but every so often a revelation, a brief glimpse of who they were. And then back to the superficial. That's the way boys bond, in small guarded doses. It's a slow process but its results can be incredibly strong.
I can't say that we were really close to T and his family. He and his wife, J, were friendly. We'd wave if we saw each other or chat if we happened to both be in our front yards. It was the sort of relationship we have with many of our neighbors, not particularly deep but not unpleasant. We would sometimes go days or weeks even without seeing T or J. Their son, shooting baskets, was the only evidence that anyone was around. Because we saw them infrequently, it took us awhile to realize that J had left. T and his son continued in their routine with hardly any noticeable changes.
One change I did notice was that it seemed T stopped caring about the tree. Maybe it's just that the tree had grown large enough that it no longer needed extra attention. Or maybe T realized his relationship with the tree was not going to be as long lasting as he'd assumed. After his son finished high school, they moved away. It seemed to me like they left quickly and efficiently. One day they were there, the next they were gone.
I don't know the woman who bought T's house. I'm quite certain that if she walked up and shook my hand I would not recognize her as a neighbor. I doubt she owns a basketball or realizes the care that was given to the lovely tree in her front yard. As I look at it now, I wonder about T. I wonder where he's living and if he's dared to care for another tree. I hope so.
Oh, there's the paper.
Normally, I'd be at the counter reading and sipping coffee. Instead, I move to a wing-back chair near a window in the living room. I pull the shade halfway up and settle into the chair with my coffee. The lights are off and the room is dark enough that I get no reflection off the window glass. From this vantage point, I can look out across my front yard. I watch for my newspaper. I watch the snow fall. The house is quiet and calm. I consider adding this ritual to my routine, even on mornings when the paper arrives early.
As I gaze out the window, I notice the trees. They stand out dark against the snow. We have a couple of young trees in our front yard, a maple and a crab apple. They are the smallest of the trees I can see from my chair. My neighbor directly across the street has a couple of medium-sized trees. One is older and likely as big as it will ever be. The other one, the one closest to the street, is still growing, an adolescent in tree terms. I've watched that tree grow over the years. I remember when it was as skinny as ours are now. My former neighbor, T, doted over the tree, making certain its bark was amply protected in the winter and that it was adequately watered in the summer. He attached ropes, encouraging alignment. The tree responded, growing straight and tall.
To the left of the tree, along the driveway, is a basketball hoop. I remember when T installed it. It was a weekend affair and his son could hardly wait for him to finish. The height was adjustable and initially needed to be set low. Over the years, the height was raised as T's son grew. The hoop was a gathering place for T's son and his friends. I remember seeing them out there, shooting baskets and talking. I couldn't hear their conversations but I could imagine the content - mostly superficial, sports and TV probably, but every so often a revelation, a brief glimpse of who they were. And then back to the superficial. That's the way boys bond, in small guarded doses. It's a slow process but its results can be incredibly strong.
I can't say that we were really close to T and his family. He and his wife, J, were friendly. We'd wave if we saw each other or chat if we happened to both be in our front yards. It was the sort of relationship we have with many of our neighbors, not particularly deep but not unpleasant. We would sometimes go days or weeks even without seeing T or J. Their son, shooting baskets, was the only evidence that anyone was around. Because we saw them infrequently, it took us awhile to realize that J had left. T and his son continued in their routine with hardly any noticeable changes.
One change I did notice was that it seemed T stopped caring about the tree. Maybe it's just that the tree had grown large enough that it no longer needed extra attention. Or maybe T realized his relationship with the tree was not going to be as long lasting as he'd assumed. After his son finished high school, they moved away. It seemed to me like they left quickly and efficiently. One day they were there, the next they were gone.
I don't know the woman who bought T's house. I'm quite certain that if she walked up and shook my hand I would not recognize her as a neighbor. I doubt she owns a basketball or realizes the care that was given to the lovely tree in her front yard. As I look at it now, I wonder about T. I wonder where he's living and if he's dared to care for another tree. I hope so.
Oh, there's the paper.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
My Pants Feel Wrong
Malls can be such noisy places. A couple of months ago, I was at a mall doing a little Christmas shopping. I suppose the place might be quieter now, but at the time it was busy. I don't generally like crowds, but when I'm browsing I like at least a few other people around. If there's no one else around, there's a better chance a sales clerk will interrupt my browsing by trying to be helpful. I don't need much help when I'm browsing, I'm pretty good at it all by myself.
That day, I was browsing. As is often the case, I forgot exactly what I was shopping for as soon as I entered the store. The crowds, the displays, the music...it all worked to disorient me. I began browsing, hoping that as I acclimated, I would remember why I was there. Slowly the clouds thinned. I was shopping for something for my wife. Something, but what?
I wandered around the store a bit longer, hoping to happen upon something that would spark my memory. As I walked, I was suddenly aware that my pants felt wrong. "Different" might be a better way of describing it. It was subtle, but something had definitely changed. My pants felt less secure. Perhaps my zipper was down, it kind of felt like that. I immediately turned my back to the crowds and took an intense interest in some plates displayed against a back wall. Before I could check my zipper, the sensation passed and I felt normal again. I checked anyway - the zipper was fine.
I left the store and started to make my way to another one. Before I could get there, the sensation returned. This bothered me enough that I decided to just go home instead. As I walked back to the car, things returned to normal once again. Before starting for home I decided to call my wife and let her know I was on my way. After failing to find my phone in my coat pocket, I remembered that I'd slipped it into my front pants pocket before entering the mall. I'd put it on vibrate since I knew I would never hear it inside. Oh, look at that, I missed two calls.
That day, I was browsing. As is often the case, I forgot exactly what I was shopping for as soon as I entered the store. The crowds, the displays, the music...it all worked to disorient me. I began browsing, hoping that as I acclimated, I would remember why I was there. Slowly the clouds thinned. I was shopping for something for my wife. Something, but what?
I wandered around the store a bit longer, hoping to happen upon something that would spark my memory. As I walked, I was suddenly aware that my pants felt wrong. "Different" might be a better way of describing it. It was subtle, but something had definitely changed. My pants felt less secure. Perhaps my zipper was down, it kind of felt like that. I immediately turned my back to the crowds and took an intense interest in some plates displayed against a back wall. Before I could check my zipper, the sensation passed and I felt normal again. I checked anyway - the zipper was fine.
I left the store and started to make my way to another one. Before I could get there, the sensation returned. This bothered me enough that I decided to just go home instead. As I walked back to the car, things returned to normal once again. Before starting for home I decided to call my wife and let her know I was on my way. After failing to find my phone in my coat pocket, I remembered that I'd slipped it into my front pants pocket before entering the mall. I'd put it on vibrate since I knew I would never hear it inside. Oh, look at that, I missed two calls.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Larpenteur Avenue
I was driving along a stretch of Larpenteur Avenue this weekend and I was reminded of the first time I can recall making that drive. It was over twenty-five years ago. After a summer as a camp counselor and a fall of doing not much of anything, I came to the Twin Cities to visit my sister and her husband and to look for work. My brother-in-law was finishing up at Luther Seminary and they had a small apartment in student housing. They invited me up, graciously offering their home. For me, it was a wonderful opportunity to reconnect with family who also happen to be friends. Their daughter was just a toddler at the time and I enjoyed the chance to get to know this new relative.
When I first got to their apartment, I didn't venture out much. If I did, it was as a passenger, riding with my sister or her husband. When I rode along, I tried to pay attention to the route. I really did. But each block looked so much like the last, and none of them looked familiar. Gradually, I did learn a few landmarks - a mall here, a church there. Still, for the most part, I was in a strange land. I remember finally deciding to take that trip to the mall on my own. The directions were simple enough, take Larpenteur to Snelling, turn left and drive until you see the mall on your right.
I thought about this as I drove on Larpenteur Avenue last weekend. Many of the houses and landmarks are essentially the same now as they were then. Now they are as familiar as my home town. I guess they are my home town. My drive twenty-five years ago was a tentative one, full of uncertainty and apprehension. I had no idea that one day I would bicycle on this street. I didn't know that the corner I was so worried about missing would end up being three blocks from the house where I would live with my wife and sons. It's funny to think how alien the neighborhood felt back then.
This past weekend, I visited my niece in student housing at Luther Seminary. As I pulled onto Larpenteur Avenue, I decided not to go straight home. Instead, I went to the mall.
When I first got to their apartment, I didn't venture out much. If I did, it was as a passenger, riding with my sister or her husband. When I rode along, I tried to pay attention to the route. I really did. But each block looked so much like the last, and none of them looked familiar. Gradually, I did learn a few landmarks - a mall here, a church there. Still, for the most part, I was in a strange land. I remember finally deciding to take that trip to the mall on my own. The directions were simple enough, take Larpenteur to Snelling, turn left and drive until you see the mall on your right.
I thought about this as I drove on Larpenteur Avenue last weekend. Many of the houses and landmarks are essentially the same now as they were then. Now they are as familiar as my home town. I guess they are my home town. My drive twenty-five years ago was a tentative one, full of uncertainty and apprehension. I had no idea that one day I would bicycle on this street. I didn't know that the corner I was so worried about missing would end up being three blocks from the house where I would live with my wife and sons. It's funny to think how alien the neighborhood felt back then.
This past weekend, I visited my niece in student housing at Luther Seminary. As I pulled onto Larpenteur Avenue, I decided not to go straight home. Instead, I went to the mall.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Well, this just stinks
I feel that my nose is working particularly well today. It's either that, or my world is just extra smelly today. I wish this meant that I was perceiving all sorts of wonderful, subtle, pleasant fragrances. But, alas, it does not mean that at all. No, the scents I'm picking up today are all unpleasant, foul even. The stairwell at work smells like the bathroom across from the Dairy building at the State Fair. The air in the office has just the slightest hint of death - as if a mouse crawled into some remote part of the heating ducts and died. Dead mouse has a smell all its own, putrid and nauseating with musty overtones.
Of course, the fact that I'm smelling bad smells everywhere I go has me paranoid that the odors are emanating from me. I've taken a couple of discrete sniffs inside my shirt collar and I've checked the bottoms of my shoes. I haven't stepped in anything and I think I smell okay. I haven't heard anyone else comment about the stairwell or the office. I seem to be the only one affected, as if I've developed some sort of new super power (I can smell evil wherever it lurks).
It's kind of putting a damper on my day, I must say.
Of course, the fact that I'm smelling bad smells everywhere I go has me paranoid that the odors are emanating from me. I've taken a couple of discrete sniffs inside my shirt collar and I've checked the bottoms of my shoes. I haven't stepped in anything and I think I smell okay. I haven't heard anyone else comment about the stairwell or the office. I seem to be the only one affected, as if I've developed some sort of new super power (I can smell evil wherever it lurks).
It's kind of putting a damper on my day, I must say.
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