The Rev. Mother does fine work, doesn’t she? It must be the inspiration.
It was a productive weekend and we finally got the new blog home up and running. I’m telling you, it was exhausting watching Kevin hammer at my keyboard for most of the afternoon Saturday as he managed to route nearly 1500 posts (and 3 hours worth of images) from Powerblogs, via Movable Type, to WordPress. Good thing he works for Schlitz and pizza.
Almost everything made it over from the old site to here, except for the categories and, for some reason, the appropriate author tags. I spent a good chunk of Sunday trying to fill in the blanks and playing around with the new features and widgets. There’s still a lot to be done, but at least we’re posting. The biggest thing I’ve yet to figure out is how to get the super-coolio new logo the Reverend Mother created for me up in the header where it belongs. Just about everything else in WordPress is pretty intuitive but I can’t get the image to appear yet or add the quote of the week. I’ve actually had to resort to reading the directions, but so far I haven’t come across the magic code (expertise glady accepted). Other things on the “to do” list include getting my blogrolls into the appropriate sidebar. That will be the first priority after the logo, then I’ll start going back through more than four years worth of posts to re-establish categories and authors.
Speaking of authors, we’ve officially added The Son@Night (aka Ben) to the family blog. I think he was concerned that Sly the Family Rat would get official author status before he did, but the editorial committee retroactively approved his application after the Diva carelessly gave him the password to the admin page of the old site.
Additional posting might be light here today as the team gets used to the new tool, but I hope everyone (including the Diva) will soon be back in force (which, come to think of it, is the only way Tiger Lilly does anything).
The Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and MD’s friend and singing-partner, Princess Flicker-Feather, are taking a hip-hop dance class once a week. I don’t know what hip-hop dance involves but since Easter is coming up I thought they might be working up some special choreography. Nevertheless, when the Diva said Princess Flicker-Feather was coming over to practice I thought they were going to work on their expanding repertoire of music for the Open Mic Circuit.
I was down in the Man-Cave working on something edifying when thumping bass and stomping feet started pounding above my head. “I don’t remember any of their songs sounding like that,” I thought to myself. I shrugged it off and kept working … until there was a loud crash. What in the name of This Old House is going on? I went upstairs, the beat getting louder each step, and swung into the living room … where the the three femmes were lined up doing unison steps to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)”. Apparently that’s the song they are dancing to in class. They had the music up so loud the walls were dancing too, though not in perfect sync, which is why someone’s hips had bumped into one of them, resulting in the noise that brought me upstairs.
“Put a Ring On It” is an admirable sentiment, but “Put a Cork In It” was more my concern. Even though modestly attired, the vibrations from that much hip-swing and shimmy were enough to trip the always sensitive tracking system of every teenage boy in a two-mile radius. If even one pheromone got through the thick walls we were going to have a riot on our hands. Great. It was a cold night and I was going to have to spend it on the porch with a rifle and a harpoon.
With Valentine’s Day coming up I thought I’d give you less romantic guys out there a good suggestion for a Valentine’s Day gift for your significant other. (I know, I know, you look at me and then you look at the Reverend Mother and you think, “Da-yum, that guy has just got to have some romantic secrets!”) Anyway, here’s what I did for my wife for last Valentine’s Day (take notes, kids): I recorded a CD for her!
No, not me singing. She may put up with a lot, but me singing goes way beyond “till death do you part” for her. Instead I used my iTunes account to hunt down and burn a CD of special songs that all described her (or the two of us together in some way). To give you a flavor of how this works, here are the songs I recorded (don’t try these at home, you’ve got to come up with your own songlist).
The title of the CD was Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress by The Hollies. In this particular case there isn’t much about the song that describes my wife except the title: she’s long, she’s cool and she wears black. A lot.
The first song is Oh, Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison. An easy and obvious intro that’s “pretty” fitting, but the particular lyric in this song that best describes my feelings is when Roy goes, Growwwwl. Mercy!
Another song is Dream Weaver by Gary Wright. You see, my wife gets prophetic dreams a lot. Not really the “see the future” type dreams, but dreams God gives her that tell what is going on in someone else’s life (so she can pray or know how to minister) or a sign in her own life. Unlike regular dreams that she forgets immediately, when she has a “God Dream” it’s very detailed and sticks with her until she writes it down.
Pretty women out walking with gorillas down my street…Is She Really Going Out With Him? by Joe Jackson. Yeah, she is. What of it? (I told you earlier, big secrets of romance).
I also put Travelin’ Prayer by Billy Joel on there. This one is included because of all the times she’s traveled abroad on missions trips, whether the Philippines (twice), China or Romania while I’m back at home thinking, Hey Lord, take a look all around tonight and find where my baby’s gonna be; Hey Lord, would ya look out for her tonight ‘Cause she is far across the sea; Hey Lord, would ya look out for her tonight; And make sure that she’s gonna be alright; And things are gonna be alright with me. There’s even a line in there about making sure all her dreams are sweet!
Another song that has great personal significance is Seven Bridges Road by the Eagles. One day when we’d been dating for about three months we took an autumn day trip up to Duluth, MN and the North Shore. There’s a road that leads up away from Duluth and Lake Superior known by my wife as “The Road to Seven Bridges.” It cuts through the forest and over streams (and seven bridges) and you see a lot of beautiful scenery and finally you can look down on the city and the lake like a panorama. It was a great day and that night when we got back to town I asked her to marry me — and she said yes and did so about a year later!
The next song really ties in with the previous one, but I didn’t realize it until just now. It’s Unbelievable by Diamond Rio, which, as just occurred to me, has the lyric: She’s so elegant, intelligent, heaven sent, all my money spent; I put a big down payment on that itty bitty diamond ring. The part I like best is that She’s so kissable, huggable, lovable, unbelievable!
Despite what you might think of a guy who proposes after just three months, I tend to over-think and over-analyze things. Think Too Much by Paul Simon was on the cassette we listened to driving back from Duluth as faith and reason tumbled over and over in my head as Paul sang “Maybe I think too much for my own good; Some people say so; Other people say no no; The fact is You don’t think as much as you could,” and Paul and I both said, “Hmmmm.”
Back when we first fell in love I would have walked 500 miles and then walked 500 more just so I could be the man who walked 1000 miles fell down at her door. Yes, The Proclaimers and I’m Gonna Be (500 miles), assuring her that When I’m lonely, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s lonely without you; And when I’m dreaming, well I know I’m gonna dream; I’m gonna Dream about the time when I’m with you. More dreams! I’d still walk that far, but it would take so long these days that I’m not sure she’d wait for me.
The next song on the CD is You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate, and that’s all I’m going to say about that. Except…I believe in miracles!
If you love a woman, you’ll do anything for her. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, fight a grizzly bear, let her have the last doughnut, etc. You’ll even, when you know she’s a Barry Manilow fan, download Barry’s version of Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You, even though you know it’s going to go on your permanent record somewhere.
My favorite song on the CD is She by Elvis Costello, from the Notting Hill soundtrack. It’s a love song not burdened or blinded by sentimentality but all the truer for the deep realization that this is it for you: Me, I’ll take her laughter and her tears; And make them all my souvenirs; For where she goes I’ve got to be; The meaning of my life is…She.
What better way to wrap things up but with Joe Cocker singing You Are So Beautiful:
You are so beautiful to me
You are so beautiful to me
Can’t you see
Your everything I hoped for
Your everything I need
You are so beautiful to me
Such joy and happiness you bring
Such joy and happiness you bring
Like a dream
A guiding light that shines in the night
Heavens gift to me
You are so beautiful to me
Back in the day, when we were closer to the land, people could predict weather or gauge temperature without thermometers or technology by observing the behavior of animals, insects, clouds or clairvoyant joints. We don’t rely on natural observation that much anymore, but I have observed one way, in this recent cold-snap, to tell just how cold it is.
There’s an electronic alarm bell at the Fort Snelling Light Rail station that clangs at high speed whenever a train is approaching or departing. It’s a loud, hyper ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding when temperatures are, say, above 10 degrees. When it drops below 10, however, the bell is muted and lower in pitch and makes a steady ng-ng-ng-ng-ng growl like a chihuahua passing a cheeseball.
When it’s below zero, however, its clamor is restricted to a choked and tortured ng………..ng………..ng…………ng every few seconds.
Granted, it’s not a very useful way to gauge the temperature if you’re not near the bell, but it’s a handy confirmation if you happen to be walking past it, shivering and wondering if it can really be as cold as it feels. And this gives me the opportunity to run another of O. Winston Link’s steam engine photos from the 1950s that I love so much.
Besides being an inventive and talented photographer faithfully recording the images of a passing era, Link also had a passion for recording the distinctive and fading sounds of the old steam engines as well. These recordings are a lot more pleasant and evocative than the sound of a freezing electronic bell these days, and have a way of taking you places in your mind that the trains themselves never could. You can listen to a few of these recordings here. You can also go hear the Fort Snelling LRT bell for yourself without going back in time, but you’ll want to bundle up.
Brrr. On these cold days we’ve been having I really appreciate a nice, hot cup of coffee. I will also admit that my coffee tastes have become more refined in my latter years. I actually didn’t become a coffee drinker until I was in my 20s and a girlfriend got me started. She also gave me my first gravity filter for brewing coffee, which is still my generally preferred method. Our all-time favorite method is using a French press, but this is for special cups or occasions as it’s a bit messier to clean up after — ah, but the taste! There’s simply no way to get a richer tasting cup of coffee.
I tend to favor the darker roasts though my wife likes to mix in the lighter roasts as well. The Mall Diva goes for the much lighter blends, or “wienie” roasts as I call them. Nevertheless, we all love “A Proper Cup of Coffee” as performed by Trout Fishing in America in the video below (don’t worry, the Abba album is just one of the visuals and not part of the performance).
I was wearing my dark charcoal-colored suit at church Sunday and at one point as I reached my left arm across my chest I could feel a stiff piece of paper in the inside pocket of the jacket. I didn’t need to reach into the pocket to see what the strange weight over my heart was; I already knew it was the notes I had written to myself for delivering the eulogy at my father’s funeral. The notes have been there every time I’ve worn the suit in the past year and I just haven’t gotten around to taking them out.
My father died on October 29 last year so we didn’t have to wait too long to start marking the significant passages: first Thanksgiving without him, first Christmas without him, first wedding anniversary, first golf season, first Father’s Day, first birthday — all without him. The holidays early on weren’t too weird. Sure, they were strange, but his passing was still so new and close to mind that we were still in the bubble of grief and relief that surrounds you in the aftermath of a wasting disease. The December wedding anniversary would have been their 51st and as the day passed it was amazing to think how blissfully unaware we were of what was in store while we celebrated the 50th.
The other times during the year I didn’t dwell so much on the thoughts as they came, other than to take a deep breath. This past week, however, has seemed to crawl by and many times I have stopped to think, “last year at this time, I was answering my cell phone in the middle of an office party” or “at this time on this day last year I was in an airplane” or “I was at the hospital”.
And on Wednesday it will be one year and I will think of the hectic day I spent 365 days ago trying to tie up enough loose ends at work, knowing that I was likely going to be gone for a few days. I will not be able to remember what it was that I was working on that was so important, but I will remember laying back in my recliner at home, wondering if I was ready (and not for the office) and I will think about the phone call that came that evening, and of Faith coming home and me not being able to say anything to her, and not having to say anything to her because she could just tell.
And I will think about pieces of paper in the breast pocket of a suitcoat, and how sometimes even a casual movement will remind me of a certain stiffness over my heart that is likely to remain awhile longer.
It’s about the blood
banging in the body,
and the brain
lolling in its bed
like a happy baby.
At your touch, the nerve,
that volatile spook tree,
vibrates. The lungs
take up their work
with a giddy vigor.
Tremors in the joints
and tympani,
dust storms
in the canister of sugar.
The coil of ribs
heats up, begins
to glow. Come
here.
One of the people I always look forward to seeing at our annual Inside Outfitters men’s fishing weekend is big Don Steele. Don is originally from Jamaica and still has his delightful, lilting accent to go along with being one of the nicest guys you could ever meet. His, “Heeey, Brudder John!” greeting is one of the things that keeps me coming back. Next to God and his own wife and family, Don’s passion is fishing and he appears to have a special gifting for finding and catching messes of crappe. This year was no exception as he caught 20 crappe Friday night, then went out with a fresh stringer Saturday morning and came back with another haul (see photo).
I met Don seven or eight years ago at one of our outings. The first time I saw him he was hauling a long fat stringer full of crappes from the dock to his cabin, looking more than a bit like a Jamaican-piscatorial version of Santa Claus. It later turned out that his cabin was also my cabin, which we were sharing with three or four other guys. I took the couch in the main room/kitchen of the cabin to sleep on, while Don bedded his crappes down — still alive — in several rubber tubs of water in the refrigerator.
I was used to the sounds of snoring, but it was hard for me to tune out the near-constant crappe-flapping coming from the frig 10 feet away. I opened one eye when I heard the slapping sound of Don’s bare feet on the tile floor, in time to see him illuminated in the refrigerator light as he opened the door and leaned in. St. Nick-like he raised his finger to his face, placing it on his lips rather than the side of his nose. “Shhhhh,” he whispered. “Peeple be sleepin’!”
My belly still shakes like a bowl full of jelly when I think of this, in part because of the absurdity of the scene, but also because his admonishment worked!
Batten down the hatches! And yer sister! And any Bens that might happen to be wanderin’ around….
We’re about to go get some grub, and I’m sure there will be an opportunity to make ol’ Peg Leg (my Dad) right proud. Aye!
So go out there and be piratey! Yell ‘Avast!’ at each passing person! Scoff at their weird looks! Buy a sword and swing it about! Sail the seven seas! Don’t get caught by the police! Aah, so many pirate-ish things to do, not enough time.
Remember, people, this only comes around once a year, so make the best of it!
Ciao for now!
Wait…
Argh, do something productive and walk the plank!!!
Our internet service crashed Sunday morning and we were disconnected until mid-afternoon today due to a server problem in our area (and fortunately nothing expensive that we have to fix with our home set-up). It’s not like being chased out of your home by a hurricane or, say, having to pee in a bucket like some of the visitors to my city apparently chose to do over the weekend, but it was kind of surprising at how much the internet has entwined itself in our lives.
At any given time on a weekend we’re likely to have two laptops going and sometimes three, all connected to the ‘Net. It’s a handy way to look up a phone number, get directions to some place, reserve a tee-time or knock off a quick game of Web Sudoku while waiting for the charcoal to heat up. At least I didn’t miss it so much on Sunday … until I tried to find the results of the Twins’ game! I had to revert to the near-medieval practice of watching the ESPN crawler at the bottom of the high-def TV screen. Gadzooks! I also had an on-line coupon ($35 off!) that I couldn’t get to in my e-mail inbox that needed to be printed out and used by today; I went over to my brother-in-law’s and used his computer to do the deed.
Today it became a little more stressful. My wife is a police chaplain and is helping out at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul. With the RNC changing plans on the fly to cope with Hurricane Gustav, she was concerned that she was missing any emails up-dating or re-assigning her to a different location. Nothing a couple of phone calls couldn’t resolve, and she was able to show up for an interesting afternoon of supporting our local officers. Her group did such a good job today that they were asked to expand their role in order to support another group of officers as well.
She’ll likely have a report and perhaps some photos of her experiences after the event is over; for security reasons it’s probably best that she not talk too much about where she’s at and where the police units are deployed. It has been an interesting couple of weeks of training and orientation for the chaplains. A special “secret location” in downtown St.Paul was set aside for them and I got to see it for myself when we drove down there Saturday morning to deliver some furniture we and our church were providing to the command post. It was an amazing experience driving through downtown as at every intersection we watched a police cruiser go by. This morning we went to Jerubek’s Bakery for breakfast, not far from downtown, and drank coffee and ate our pastry out on the patio, despite the constant thwopping of helicopters overhead. It’s going to be an interesting week, but morale appears to be high. I plan to stay as far away from the convention as possible!
The Rev. Mother does fine work, doesn’t she? It must be the inspiration.
