On camping and commandments

I’m working on a longer post on another topic that I hope to finish tonight. In the meantime, a couple of interesting news stories (click the links to read the entire article):

“Camp Reality” sets up across from “Camp Casey”

Military families disturbed by a sea of crosses erected by anti-war protesters near President Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas, have removed crosses bearing the names of their fallen children and transferred them to another site to show support for American troops in Iraq.

Anti-war protesters “never asked for my permission to put up a cross for my son for their cause,” said Gary Qualls, whose son was killed in Iraq. “They are not respecting our sons and daughters.”

… Also, starting today, about 500 yard signs that say “Support Our Troops” and “Bush Country” will be placed on property directly across from Camp Casey by a group called GrassFire.org.

“We will also unfurl a huge American flag” to fly at the site, which is being called “Camp Reality,” said Steve Elliott, president of GrassFire.org. He said his group has collected 400,000 petitions supporting both Mr. Bush and U.S. troops.

Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals rules 11-2 in favor of Nebraska town’s Ten Commandments display.

PLATTSMOUTH, Neb. (BP)–In the first major Ten Commandments decision since the U.S. Supreme Court had its say, a federal appeals court Aug. 19 upheld the constitutionality of a large granite Decalogue monument that has stood in the city of Plattsmouth, Neb., for 40 years.

The 11-2 decision by the full Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals comes nearly two months after the Supreme Court issued a split decision in two separate cases, allowing a Texas Ten Commandments monument to stand but ordering the removal of a Kentucky Ten Commandments courtroom plaque. The ruling by the Eighth Circuit reversed an earlier 2-1 decision by one of the court’s three-judge panels.

There’s also this:
Anti-war protestors target wounded at Walter Reed

Washington (CNSNews.com) – The Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., the current home of hundreds of wounded veterans from the war in Iraq, has been the target of weekly anti-war demonstrations since March. The protesters hold signs that read “Maimed for Lies” and “Enlist here and die for Halliburton.”

The anti-war demonstrators, who obtain their protest permits from the Washington, D.C., police department, position themselves directly in front of the main entrance to the Army Medical Center, which is located in northwest D.C., about five miles from the White House.

Among the props used by the protesters are mock caskets, lined up on the sidewalk to represent the death toll in Iraq.

Crunchy beets: cargo ship crashes into wall of Duluth ship canal

The Duluth Shipping News has a series of photos of an incident this afternoon where the Dutch ocean-going ship Vlieborg veered into the canal wall while approaching the Aerial Lift Bridge. The Vlieborg was departing Duluth with a load of beets. No injuries have been reported, though there were a number of tourists near the wall when the crash occurred.

For some time now I’ve enjoyed looking in on the Shipping News site periodically. The editor, Ken Newhams, keeps a running log of the ships in port along with folksy news of what’s happening in the vicinity. The best part, however, is his excellent photography. He does an terrific job of capturing and communicating life in and around the harbor in all kinds of weather. The people, the ships, the storms, the tourists are all there and he has extensive archives you can browse. I find his slide shows from the November 2001 and 2003 storms especially fascinating.

Go check out the site, but keep your eyes peeled for runaway beet boats!

Seen any coupons for cardiologists?

“Hello, this is ABC Cardiology. How may I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking to have a little work done, and I’m calling around to find out what it costs to see one of your doctors and have a couple of tests?”

“What kind of tests?”

“Oh, you know, EKG, stress test, enzyme test, whatever it is you folks do to figure out if something’s wrong with the old ticker.”

“Um, I don’t know what that costs. Let me transfer you.”

“Ok.”

“Hello, Coding Department.”

“Yeah, could you please tell me how much a visit with one of your cardiologists costs, and what kind of tests I might expect and how much they cost?”

“Well, I’m not sure I can tell you…”

“Look, it’s like this. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to have someone take a look at me, but I have a high deductible health plan so that means I’m paying for most, if not all, of any visit out of my own pocket and I’m just calling around trying to get some prices for a comparison.”

“Well, let’s see…a consultation is $334 to $432, depending on the amount of time spent.”

“Yow! Is there anyone in town who charges less?”

“No, that’s pretty much the standard Usual, Customary and Reasonable cost accepted by the health plans.”

“So, uh, do you have any coupons or specials this week?”

The above is a composite of the discussions I’ve had recently as I try to follow up after my ultimately innocuous visit to the ER recently. I’m taking this approach for two reasons.

Licensed to thrill gophers by the government of the United Nations

One time a gopher climbed into the outdoor vent for our dryer and wound up falling down the exhaust tube and meeting its end inside the works of the machine. The dryer had to be turned on its side and almost entirely disassembled before we could get to the source of the smell and by that time the little carcass was…well, it was pretty awful.

Today when my youngest daughter, Patience, and I came home from church she opened the door from the garage into the kitchen just in time to see our cat coming hard from the living room in high speed pursuit of a brown streak. Said streak made it to the dining area and underneath a free-standing jelly cabinet, whereupon the cat set up a seige. My daughter scooped the very annoyed kitty and closed him in the basement and came out to the garage where I was still getting things out of the car.

“Dad, Felix chased a chipmunk under the jelly cabinet!”

“Good,” I said, “let him earn his keep by keeping the varmints under control.”

“Daddy, we can’t let Felix get him,” she said in some distress, “and besides I’ve already locked him in the basement.”

This was not good news. We don’t see many chipmunks around our place, so I was thinking gopher. Which of course reminded me of the last time a gopher breached our perimeter. I had also been thinking a dead, rotting gopher in the dryer was about the worst thing we ever hoped to experience as homeowners, but now I started wondering if a live, excited gopher could be more destructive – and a lot harder to remove.

I went inside with Patience to scope out the situation. She announced she was going to try to trap the beast using a shoe box and some hazel nuts from the cupboard; an idea I thought would be spectacularly unsuccessful. Still, it was an idea, and since my thought of letting the cat retrieve the interloper (and then retrieving the neutralized rodent from the cat) was in disfavor I figured it was useless to suggest the Carl Spackler options of flooding, shooting with a high-powered rifle, or plastic explosives shaped like the gopher’s “friends”.

The situation seemed stable for the moment, so while Patience assembled the elements of her scheme I went outside to see if I could find a gopher-sized opening into the house; hopefully one that didn’t already have a gopher-sized sign advertising “free high-speed internet.” Minutes later Patience came bounding outside as well.

“I tried to force it out from the cabinet and toward the box with the food in it,” she said, “but it ran into the kitchen and under the stove. And I think it’s a gopher and not a chipmunk.”

“Ah, Mr. Gopher, we meet again,” I thought. I was not surprised that the trap hadn’t worked because – in order to defeat my enemy – I was already thinking like my enemy and I sensed that a gopher on the run in strange surroundings would not be thinking, “I’ve got to get out of here – but first, a snack!”

I was thinking again of unleashing the cat, but my daughter was thinking strictly in terms of an exit strategy. “If only we could get him to run outside,” she said. I was about to say, “Oh yes, perhaps if we asked him nicely…” when it started to dawn on me. The stove is opposite of a door that leads directly to our driveway. Both are located in a narrow neck of the kitchen that leads to the larger part of the room. If we could just establish a barricade to prevent any flight deeper into the house, and if we could hold the door to the outside wide open….why, yes, it could just work!

Quickly we laid chairs on their sides, perpindicular to the front of the stove. Next my daughter selected a broom, and I positioned myself in the threshold, holding the inside and outside doors open as widely as possible. Patience then started to probe gently under the stove with the broom. Almost instantly the gopher shot out from under the stove, crossed the narrow strip of floor between us and was out the door in front of me and launched itself off of the stoop. It landed in stride and crossed eight feet of pavement faster than you can say “great gobs of” and flung itself into a hedge with a last exultant leap. I choked up like at the end of “Free Willy”.

But do you want to know what the best part of all this is? The cat still thinks the gopher is under the jelly cabinet, and is camped out. I plan on breaking the news to him in the next day or two.

Sweet 17

The summer of ’88 was a summer of heat and drought, which my pregnant wife and I weathered in an unairconditioned garden level apartment. Wednesday night August 17 was as steamy as the rest, made even more unpleasant for my wife because she was more than a week overdue with our first child. We went to Wednesday night service at our church that evening and our pastor had me, and the rest of the congregation, pray that the baby would come soon but not before service was over.

About midnight that night the heat wave broke and the temperature dropped by about 20 degrees in two hours time. My wife, and apparently nearly every other full-term pregnant woman in St. Paul, went into labor. When we arrived at our hospital early on the morning of August 18th every bed in the Labor and Delivery area was already full. It turned out to be a day of complications that kept our prayer chain busy as we waited for space in L&D to open up, waited for an anesthesiologist to show up and administer an epidural (which didn’t take), waited an hour and a half for another anesthesiologist to come and try again while I tried to be as calm and comforting as I could be while my wife went through contraction after contraction. When she rested in between I would step out of her line of sight and lift whatever piece of furniture or heavy equipment I could get my hands on to vent my own frustration. I think the nurses were ready to call another anesthesiologist to bring a tranquilizer dart. At 4:33 p.m. it was all worth it.

A hard lesson

This is the beginning of a much more in-depth education program, in which we tell our members why and what Wal-Mart does — not just to small towns, but to workers,” said Louise Sundin, president of the Minneapolis Federation of Teachers. (Strib: Twin Cities teachers unions push Wal-Mart boycott)

Honest, Mom, I wasn’t doing anything. I was sitting in my American History class and Ms. Wolverton was talking about the founding fathers, and when she got through telling us about the first president — Samuel Gompers of the American Federation of Labor, that is, so you know I was paying attention — she told us to take out our Diversity Journals and write about what it would feel like to be beat up by cops employed by fatcat capitalists and to not have health insurance besides.

So I was opening up my backpack when it slipped – honest! – and everything spilled out on the floor. Well, not everything, because I was able to catch my iPod, you know, and then the Wolf, I mean, Ms. Wolverton points at the floor next to me and says, really mean-like, “What’s that?”

Well, I look down and I say, “Nothing Ms. Wolverton, that’s just the condoms they gave us in third period today.”

“No,” she says, “What’s that?”

Then I say, “You mean this flyer about what time Tuesday morning we’re to catch the school bus to take us to the state capital to protest for higher education spending?”

“No!” she says, and now she’s really mad. “That looks like one of the new Trapper Keepers that Wal-Mart is advertising in the newspaper! How dare you bring something like that to school?”

“Hey, it’s not mine,” I said. “Someone must have stuck that in there just to get me in trouble, probably during Conflict-Resolution class!” Really, Mom, that Billy Swedberg is sooo passive-aggressive.

So anyway, now Ms. Wolverton is all, “shopping at Wal-Mart is the first step to economic servitude, and how buying a Trapper Keeper seems innocent enough now but, like, the next thing you know I’ll be listening to talk radio and voting Republican,” you know? Then she says something like, “someday when you’re working 70 hours a week for $1 you’ll wish you’d paid more attention in class.” Well, I didn’t really know what to say to that, but she gave me the idea, so I said, “I’m sorry, my ADD is acting up – what was the question again?”

Well, that seemed to calm her down and I thought it was all going to blow over when she says, “I don’t know what people are looking for when they go into a den of iniquity and social injustice like Wal-Mart.”

OK, Mom, I knooow I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wasn’t really thinking because I was still so nervous, so I said, “Good values?” And that’s when she went ballistic and told me I knew I wasn’t allowed to use that kind of language in school and that I had to go to the principal’s office and they were going to call you to come and get me.

So, am I in trouble?

Update:

For more informative and serious insight, read this post from Bogus Gold. Be sure to follow the links in that story to Craig Westover and Swiftee.

Varifrank’s first blogiversary

I somehow missed this, which is strange because I rarely go a weekday without visiting his blog, but Varifrank’s one year blogging anniversary was August 15. His post on the subject is an interesting story on why he started and the lessons he’s learned (some fun and some not) in that time, as well as describing some exciting opportunities that have opened up for him as a result.

His is one of the most distinctive and informative voices in the blogosphere and if you’re not clicking him regularly you really, really ought to.

Happy Blogiversary, Varifrank!

“Illustrious” new blog

A co-worker pointed me toward a new Minnesota-based blog, Cedric’s Blog-o-Rama.

Cedric is a young, soon-to-be-married, freelance illustrator and artist. His site is a breezy take on the fun and challenges of his job and the joys of his faith and being engaged. I’m not sure of his politics, but he is liberal in his use of illustrations on the site. His art is bright and cheery, and you may even recognize some of his work from displays at the Mall of America.

Here’s a post he offered to comic book fans about Fanboy radio:

One of the great things about freelancing is that you get to work at home and be your own boss. One of the not so great things is that it can get quite lonely. You miss having other artists around to talk to, joke around with, and be inspired by. So I was really excited this morning when I stumbled upon Fanboy Radio. It’s a two-hour radio program dedicated to discussing comics and interviewing people in the industry. Airings have included interviews with Mike Wieringo, John Byrne, and Stan Lee just to name a few. For only 75¢ each you can download episodes as podcasts. For me It’s like a breath of fresh air to hear such accomplished artists discussing their work, sharing their ideas, or just kidding around. It’s not the same as having a live person to talk to, but at least I get to hear the voices of other artists in my studio (even if it is through my computer speaker). And not just any artists, but accomplished professionals whose work challenges and inspires me. So if you love comics and you’re looking for something fun to listen to, check out Fanboy Radio.

Check it out!

A Beast in the Night

It’s two a.m. and the beast slides in under the bedroom door while I’m sleeping, a darkness deeper than the dark. I feel his weight as he sits on my chest and the tingling sensation of the tips of his talons as he takes my head and turns it slightly to face him. “Let’s talk,” he hisses.

This implies conversation, but it is one-sided. Doom seems to be the theme, oppression the objective, but I’m not paying too much attention to specifics as I sort through and catalog the degrees of my awareness. The house is quiet and still. No strange lights from outside, no smell of smoke through the screened windows. My wife rests peacefully beside me. There is just this…thing, hunkering down, pressing on my thorax. My breathing seems shallow; does it have to be? I fill my lungs several times, deeply. Breathing is good, the weight remains. I experimentally try shifting my position.

“Ah-ah,” says the beast, “does it hurt when I do this?”

Actually, no, nothing hurts. I easily move my arm and place my hand below my collarbone. The river courses deep and wide and steady beneath my fingertips in a familiar rhythm. My skin is cool and dry and yet I know the beast has found something, deep within. A tiny flame of fear, like a pilot light, and now he breathes on it and his very breath is combustible – the flame roars, seeking more fuel, wanting to consume me. In the light of day I hardly notice the steady but small flame; now in the dark every flicker seems to cast an ominous shadow. This is beyond reason, but reason I must: there is money in the bank, we are whole, the jobs are good, the basement will be dry again. I am fine and no weapon formed against us will prosper.

The beast is unimpressed, and answers each thought with a “But…” of his own, his own butt and haunches squeezing against my ribs. The debate goes on quietly for an hour. I should get up. I should get some water. I should change the scenery, but I feel trapped. “Yes…trapped,” the beast says, “trapped, trapped, trapped.” This is going nowhere. Reason is not sufficient, and argument is ineffective. If he won’t listen to me, then I won’t listen to him. I deliberately turn my mind to the old songs, the songs of deliverance and praise, I repeat them to myself, sometimes running verses together or in different order, simply using what comes to mind, from another pilot light, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, replacing fear with power, strength and a sound mind.

The darkness in the room changes perceptibly. It’s nowhere near dawn, but it seems lighter somehow. Peace returns, if sleep does not. At 4:00 a.m. I’m aware that my wife is awake, lying quietly in the dark. I speak softly, “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Why are you?”

I tell her what happened. She draws closer, hooks one of her legs over one of mine, her arm brushes the last traces of the beast from my chest.

“I’m feeling better,” I say.

A thought, embedded in a dream, wrapped in a fantasy

One of the most interesting parts of home educating my oldest daughter was when we worked on creative writing and composition. The textbook I used was Alan Lightman’s Einstein’s Dreams. It’s a mind-bending book that imagines that Albert Einstein had a series of dreams leading up to the publishing of his theory of relativity, with each dream a view of a world where time operated in a different way, such as a world where the higher above sea level you went, the slower time moved; or a world where time moved like currents of water and where a person could be accidentally caught up and deposited in his or her past.



The way we approached it was for her to read a dream (they were generally only a few hundred words each) and then answer three or four essay questions I’d ask based on that dream, usually along the lines of how she’d cope with certain situations in that kind of a world. One of our favorites was the dream dated April 19 where a man tries to decide what he should do about pursuing a woman he has just met. Three possible futures are described, and the kicker is:



These three chains of events all indeed happen, simultaneously. For in this world, time has three dimensions, like space. Just as an object may move in three perpendicular directions, corresponding to horizontal, vertical and longitudinal, so an object may participate in three perpendicular futures. Each future moves in a different direction of time. Each future is real. At every point of decision, whether to visit a woman in Fribourg or to buy a new coat, the world splits into three worlds, each with the same people but with different fates for those people. In time, there is an infinity of worlds.



Some make light of decisions, arguing that all possible decisions will occur. In such a world, how could one be responsible for his actions? Others hold that each decision must be considered and committed to, that without commitment there is chaos. Such people are content to live in contradictory worlds, so long as they know the reason for each.



Inspired by Lightman’s imagination and my daughter’s answers, I offered a composition of my own in the same style as the original essay. I reproduce it here as an example of the objectives and pay-offs of home educating. And because it was fun to let the horses run.




It is a cold morning in a Minnesota winter, and a man sits in his basement wearing a loud rugby shirt colored as if attitude alone can defy the chill. He is staring at the white eye of a computer monitor, at the blank page in the screen that is ready to receive his typing. He knows that the blankness is an illusion, that what he sees is only the smooth representation of a myriad series of complex miracles that harness electricity, electrons, protons and light waves and leave them ready to be directed by his fingertips. He is not sure exactly how it all works, he only knows that with the knowledge he has he can put words and thoughts on the page and generally make them do what he wants.



In a way, the whole thing reminds him of his daughter. Fresh and unlined on the surface while beneath miracles even more complex and astounding than those that went into the creation of the machine course through her; here combining, there splitting, following a program he barely has wit enough to understand, let alone predict. He is pondering a series of assignments for her in the hopes of adding a catalyst to the program that may somehow improve or tune the instrument she is becoming. Should he do it? Should he do it?