Category Archives: Night Writer

Lesson learned

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by the Night Writer

One time, years ago, a bird flew into our garage and expired. When I found it I was about to throw it in the dumpster and then I thought of how our large, slothful cat would sit at the window watching the birds in the backyard, occasionally gnashing his teeth. I thought it might be fun to take the bird inside and give him a peek at the real thing up close. I was wearing a leather utility glove and had the bird resting on the palm; I walked into the kitchen and the cat was passing through. I lowered my hand, expecting that he would get a sniff and initiate a slow stalk. Instead, as soon as he saw or sensed what I had in my hand he moved with nearly blinding speed, snatching the bird in his mouth and racing off to find a quiet place to have his way with it. That was not to be, of course, as I pursued him around the main floor, finally recovering the “prey” and doing what I should have done in the first place and not risked a carcass surprise for my wife or daughters.

So, what brings this up? Well, Tiger Lilly is engaged in her annual Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month (50,000 words, minimum) exercise. In preparation she began squirreling chocolate and other creativity and energy-boosting comestibles around the house and her working areas a month ago. The other night I went to the store to pick up a few things and on the way out I picked up one of those long, flat Hershey bars of dark chocolate, thinking to encourage my daughter’s efforts with a surprise treat. When I got home I hatched a plan to surprise her, though I was surprised to see her taking a break by watching a DVD with the Mall Diva and Son@Night. Her back was to me, however, so I proceeded with my plan – creeping up behind her I quickly reached around and held the wrapped dark chocolate bar horizontally under her nose, intending to waft it side to side, expecting to hear delighted noises and cooing (yes, it’s Tiger Lilly, but that does happen – sometimes). Instead, her head instantly tilted and her jaws snapped down on the chocolate bar. With authority. I almost lost my thumb.

That would have been an expensive and really inconvenient lesson because if it had happened all my sentences wouldstarttolooklikethis. Countyourblessings.Andyourfingers.

Lady on the MTA (did she ever return?)

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by Night Writer

There was a remarkable incident in the Boston subway Friday night when two alert MBTA (formerly the MTA) employees — one on the platform and the other driving — brought a subway car to a screeching halt inches from a woman who had fallen onto the tracks.

Boston Subway Train Stops Short of Woman on Tracks

In this image made from a Friday, Nov. 6, 2009 surveillance video provided by the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, a subway train comes to a stop just before running over an unidentified woman who fell on the tracks at Boston's North Station. The woman suffered some scrapes and was taken to a hospital for evaluation. She told authorities she had been drinking. (AP Photo/Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority via AP Television Network)

In this image made from a Friday, Nov. 6, 2009 surveillance video provided by the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, a subway train comes to a stop just before running over an unidentified woman who fell on the tracks at Boston's North Station. The woman suffered some scrapes and was taken to a hospital for evaluation. She told authorities she had been drinking. (AP Photo/Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority via AP Television Network)

Unlike the classic Kingston Trio song about the man who never returned (follow the link and click the iLike.com mp3 at the top of the page) this one has a happy ending. Well done, MBTA!

Return from captivity

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by the Night Writer

Miles from home. Your foundation shaken. Your family at risk. Your past a curse, your future uncertain. Enemies await.

And yet, hope grows.

For the last six months or so I’ve been making the hour-long drive down to the Red Wing Correctional Center a couple of times a month. While it is primarily a juvenile facility they have one building for adult males, and I go to visit with the guys and conduct informal chapel services (actually more of a discussion). I never know what to expect: sometimes 10 guys will sign up in advance to attend chapel and then only three will actually show; other times three will sign up and 10 guys will turn up. There are a few “regulars” who I have gotten to know and a couple of these guys will be released in the next month or so. I was thinking about these guys as I prepared for last Sunday’s visit and my mind turned to the book of Nehemiah.

Nehemiah is a first-person account of a man returning from captivity in Persia to a ruined Jerusalem and how he was led by God to restore the city and the hope of the people there. He was welcomed by some, and there were some who were not so happy to see him return, and the men rebuilt the walls and their homes with a sword in one hand and a trowel in the other. There are a lot of parallels in the book of Nehemiah for men preparing to return to their home after a period of captivity. These range from Nehemiah’s reaction in Chapter 1 to the news from home (not just that he prayed, but what he prayed), to the plots of his enemies and resistance from his own people, to the way he went about his business, to the ultimate success of his mission and restoration of “his people.”

During our discussion I shared the part in the scripture where prominent people and officials in the area — who were presumably finding the present situation much to their advantage — were not pleased to see that “a man had come to seek the well-being of the children of Israel.” (Chapter 2:10). As I read that I was moved to look around the table to each man, and one by one say, “they were not pleased to see that a man had come to seek the well-being of the children of Jerry…of Tim…of George…” and so on. At first I only meant to say it to one or two guys, but as I saw each reaction I simply had to go around the table. Physically, each man twitched or rocked back or shivered when I spoke to him and each face shifted…not in anger, but in something else that shifted the hard planes and tight jaws, loosening them as their eyes unavoidably focused on some spot ten feet behind me. Even the ones I came to last in the circle, who knew it was coming, had the same reaction. One young man, B., looked as if he might even be ill.

B. and I have talked a couple of times about his situation and the mistakes he’s made; not the ones that landed him in Red Wing (I don’t know, and don’t want to know why any of the men are there) but in relationships. He has a young infant son who he’s barely seen. After the meeting we spoke one-on-one for a few minutes. B.’s going home soon and knows he’s going to have trouble with the family of the mother of his child. Previously we’d talked about love being wanting the best for someone else’s life even if it cost you something and how his actions didn’t always put “best for her” in first place. I asked him about his son: “Do you love him?”

“Yes, with everthing that I have.”

“Why? How can you love someone you hardly know when he can’t do a thing to benefit you right now?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I want to protect him, be there for him.”

“That’s because love is a choice you make, it isn’t a feeling,” I said. “If you go by your feelings you’ll change your mind every day. If you remember your decision and hold on to that, you can change the way you act, even the way you make decisions.” He nodded, reset his jaw.

We spoke a little longer about things we’d talked about before, about actions, not words, showing that there’s been true change and about outliving your mistakes one day at a time. I told him a true story of how I’ve seen that happen very close to me, and it appeared to give him confidence. B. may be gone before I return. He extended his hand, thanked me for coming and then said, “…and thanks for, you know, taking an interest in my life.”

During the group discussion the men and I had also talked about how Nehemiah had organized the reconstruction and defense of the city, about how he had instructed the men to “rally to the sound of the horn” when there was trouble at some spot, and how each man worked with a sword in one hand and a trowel in the other. Today, however, for these men going home, fighting with a weapon is a sure ticket back to Red Wing or someplace worse. We shifted then, to the scriptures that say, “the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh” (2 Cor 10:4) and that we “wrestle not against flesh and blood” and what our true weapons and defenses are (Eph 6:11-18). I suggested that if our weapons are not carnal then likely our tools are not, either, and that they can trust the word of God (the sword of the spirit) and as they do so, God will be using his trowel to patch and restore the walls and replaster the gaps in their lives.

Finally we talked about each of them finding a place to fellowship with believers, where you can stand with other people; people you can trust to “rally to the sound of the horn” when you are in trouble and people who could expect you to rally, in turn, when needed. Driving home I thought about that a lot, and about how I didn’t have to “go to prison” to learn that lesson, but how doing so really helped me to appreciate it.

Mrs. Worley, et al. Goes to Washington

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By Reverend Mother

Last night at approximately 10:30 Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly, Princess Flickerfeather and a good friend of the family, whom we will call Mrs. Lotti, left So. St. Paul headed for Washington. Monday evening Faith heard a radio interview in which Michele Bachmann urged citizens to gather a group and be at the National Mall Thursday noon for a rally to protest health care “reform” and then visit their congressmen to make their wishes known concerning the upcoming vote. Faith rose to the challenge by gathering her usual suspects, plus one, and driving off into the night. They will arrive in Waynesboro, PA tonight, crash at the house of a cousin and head for DC in the morning. Nightwriter has urged them to speak truth to indifference. They left their guns at home.

UPDATE:
Just received a text message from the (National) Mall Diva: “We’re going into the Capitol!” (Thursday, 1 p.m. CST).

I wonder if she got the pitchfork through the metal detector?

NW

UPDATE UPDATE
I texted the Mall Diva to see how things went at the Capitol and whether I needed to send “lawyers, guns and money.” Her text reply:

Send lawyers, guns, money and men in white coats! These politicians are crazy! But I got my pic taken with Michele Bachmann!

Story here.

So, how are the books coming?

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by the Night Writer

I’ve been a bit disconnected from the blogosphere the last couple of weeks and haven’t posted much here. Anyone who cares or was paying attention might assume I’ve been working hard on my book and on editing Tiger Lilly’s book. That would be a wonderful excuse if it were true but the fact is my Day Writer job has been a whirlwind lately. It’s been crazy (and will be so through the end of the year and beyond) but it’s a good and rather satisfying crazy having to do with the sale of the Division I work for.

This is really good news for us and something we’ve been working for since last spring. We’ve always been a profitable and capital-efficient business but our current parent decided we were outside their “core” business (which I thought was to make money) and they put us on the market. To our great satisfaction we were spotted and acquired by a company that views our business as core to their own and sees us as a turn-key operation to get them in to a new market. As such they’re leaving us where we are, with staff in place, and told us to keep doing what we’re doing — except now we’ve got some capital to work with. It’s really the best of all possible outcomes for us so everyone is pretty stoked.

In my position, however, I was involved in developing the internal and external communication plans for making the announcement which was made even more interesting by the fact this was supposed to remain a secret with as few people as possible being involved (I don’t know who successful we ultimately were, but there weren’t any leaks on my part). As much fun, and as much work, as that was the real fun and work are really just beginning as we start to transition our business to the new owner. Branding, media relations, advertising and marketing communications, website and reams of internal communications are all on the plate of me and my crack staff of … one other person. Nevertheless, I’m happy and excited because given the way things are in the economy right now I could be trying to craft messages that aren’t so pleasant!

Anyway, with all of these things going on I’ve been feeling pretty tapped out mentally and physically by the time I sit down at my late evening computer so it’s been hard to do much web browsing or commenting or Facebooking. I’ve managed to add a few things to the outline of my book and stuff some notes and extended thoughts into the appropriate buckets but most of my free time is going into Tiger Lilly’s book right now. My objective is to get this one finished in the next week or so because TL’s already pawing and snorting at her keyboard in preparation for the beginning of another National Novel Writing Month contest (Nanowrimo) beginning this Sunday. She’s been squirreling away chocolate and other mind-altering and spirit-lifting consumables around the house and in her “studio” in preparation for her next 50,000+ words in 30-days challenge.

The first book, meanwhile, is a delight to work with. It’s savage, endearing and funny all in turns with some great characters and situations and I can’t wait to see how it turns out. My editing function is to read it with an eye toward continuity and verisimilitude and anywhere I’ve pointed out a scene that needs bolstering or more exposition she’s plunged back in with alacrity and enthusiasm and a re-write. You’ll want to stay tuned for the finished product — coming soon, I hope!

I will taunt you a 1,000th time!

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by the Night Writer

Earlier this week a group of ruffians high-jacked a comment thread at another blog with Monty Python and the Holy Grail references completely unrelated to the topic (perhaps the group thought it was time for something completely different). While I think any time is always a good time for a Monty Python digression, this particular frolic presages IFC culminating it’s week-long Python-fest with a broadcast tonight of the lads’ crowning glory, MP&THG at 9:00 p.m. CST.

Holy Grail Group

I’ll probably watch at least part of it, even though I own the special edition anniversary DVD of the film (it’s a real hoot to watch the Lego version of the movie, or the version in Japanese with English subtitles that are hilariously inaccurate). I first saw this movie when I was in high school and then over and over again while in college, back before there were such things as VHS and seeing a favorite movie meant taking advantage of a midnight screening or some such. I did go a number of years without seeing the film, however, and when I did see it again I was amazed to see how many pieces of my daily (or almost-daily) vocabulary came from this movie; phrases such as “Nii!”, “Run away!”, “It’s just a flesh wound”, and “Let’s not bicker and argue over who killed who.”

I’m also pleased to report that, while my tastes in many thing diverge greatly from those of my wife and daughters, this movie has been a family favorite from the first time the girls watched it and were turned into giggling newts on the sofa (they got better). They quickly absorbed the dialogue and made it their own which makes me quite the proud father — though the Mall Diva’s mad skills did result in us getting thrown out of the Tower of London back in 2006.

So, fair warning, watch tonight at your own risk. If, however, you think you may ever need to know the air-speed velocity of European vs. African swallows, or what may be found in the Book of Armaments, or the ways of identifiying a witch, you’ll want to tune in.

Fool’s gold

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by the Night Writer

Fall is my favorite time of year, and this year it looks as if it will be fleeting. Snow for the second time this week this morning and we’re not to Halloween yet.

pumpkin

Buffy reminded me:

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.

-Carl Sandburg

When I got off the train at the Nicollet Mall this morning the pavement was wet, the sky was gray and almost everyone had their head down. On Thursdays the mall is lined with booths from the Farmer’s Market, but today the sidewalks featured only wet clumps of leaves and hurried footsteps.

I thought of a poem I read last week entitled “Harvest”, the positive-sounding name given to a season beautiful and bittersweet. We focus on the harvest and try not to think about the reaping involved.

Harvest

It’s autumn in the market—
not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
They’re beautiful still on the outside,
some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth—

Inside, they’re gone. Black, moldy—
you can’t take a bite without anxiety.
Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
still perfect, picked before decay set in.

Instead of tomatoes, crops nobody really wants.
Pumpkins, a lot of pumpkins.
Gourds, ropes of dried chilies, braids of garlic.
The artisans weave dead flowers into wreaths;
they tie bits of colored yarn around dried lavender.
And people go on for a while buying these things
as though they thought the farmers would see to it
that things went back to normal:
the vines would go back to bearing new peas;
the first small lettuces, so fragile, so delicate, would begin
to poke out of the dirt.

Instead, it gets dark early.
And the rains get heavier; they carry
the weight of dead leaves.

At dusk, now, an atmosphere of threat, of foreboding.
And people feel this themselves; they give a name to the season,
harvest, to put a better face on these things.

The gourds are rotting on the ground, the sweet blue grapes are finished.
A few roots, maybe, but the ground’s so hard the farmers think
it isn’t worth the effort to dig them out. For what?
To stand in the marketplace under a thin umbrella, in the rain, in the cold,
no customers anymore?

And then the frost comes; there’s no more question of harvest.
The snow begins; the pretense of life ends.
The earth is white now; the fields shine when the moon rises.

I sit at the bedroom window, watching the snow fall.
The earth is like a mirror:
calm meeting calm, detachment meeting detachment.

What lives, lives underground.
What dies, dies without struggle.

“Harvest” by Louise Glück from A Village Life. © Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2009.

Imagining a wild rumpus

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by the Night Writer

It may be hard to believe, but I initially didn’t like to read when I was a boy. I don’t know why, but it just didn’t catch my fancy despite encouragement by my mother and grandfather. And then one day — I think in the third grade — I checked a book out of the school library, the classic by Maurice Sendak, “Where the Wild Things Are”. From the opening lines and drawings I was captivated. Who could forget, “On the night that Max wore his wolf-suit, and made mischief of one form or another, his mother called him ‘Wild Thing’ and sent him to his room without any supper.” How cool would it be to have a wolf suit? I always knew my bedroom walls could turn into a forest! And those beasts with huge eyes and feet — they had to have stepped right out of one of my dreams!

I think the book was what connected my imagination to my adrenal gland. I don’t know how many times I checked that book out of the library before I got a copy of my own as a gift but I would read that book and feel myself walking into the forest just as Max did. And then, coming back to find his supper waiting for him after all…there was something about that last line that so simply, yet eloquently, demonstrated the power of fantasy and how deftly it could be turned back into reality: “And it was still hot.” Shivers, to this day when I think of the perfection of that last line.

Naturally, WTWTA was a staple around our home as the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly grew up. Both loved to be read to, and Tiger Lilly was especially taken with Sendak’s book. For a time her two favorite night-time stories were “Lawrence the Hedge-hog” and “Where the Wild Things Are.” Both were fabulous, but it did get a bit old to see her toddling toward me, holding one or the other book in her arms, wanting to be read to. One night, when she was two or maybe just turned three, she climbed up next to me on the couch with “Wild Things.” She wiggled in next to me and put the book in my lap and settled back. Upon opening the book, however, instead of reading, “On the night when Max wore his wolf suit…” I said, “If I were a brave hedge-hog,” thought Lawrence, “I would be at the Grand Hotel right now enjoying a piece of coconut-cream pie.”

Tiger Lilly immediately leaned forward, looked at the book, looked at me, and said, “NOoooo! Not Lawrence! Wild Things!” Another fan for life.

So there I was in a movie theater a month or so ago, about to watch the latest Harry Potter, I think, and suddenly one of the unmistakable wild things was larger than life on the big screen in front of me! My heart skipped a bittersweet beat. Immediately it was as if I was seeing an old friend, yet just as quickly cold fear set in as to what “they” might have done with “my” story. Was it a preview of a coming attraction or of coming angst? “Lord of the Ring” purists had nothing on me, except they were worried about what would be cut out of the bazillion page epic while I wondered what would have been added to the 40-some page touchstone.

Right now, that is unknown. But isn’t the unknown an essential part of any adventure?

I STILL don’t want to go on the cart

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by the Night Writer

Okay, I’ve done this I Don’t Want to Go On The Cart post before and received some pretty interesting responses (and about 90% of the spam captured by my Akismet plug-in is aimed at that post). Now, via James Taranto and the Lumberjack, more tales of the “undead” just in time for Halloween:

Daughter saves mother, 80, left by doctors to starve
AN 80-year-old grandmother who doctors identified as terminally ill and left to starve to death has recovered after her outraged daughter intervened.

   Hazel Fenton, from East Sussex, is alive nine months after medics ruled she had only days to live, withdrew her antibiotics and denied her artificial feeding. The former school matron had been placed on a controversial care plan intended to ease the last days of dying patients.

   Doctors say Fenton is an example of patients who have been condemned to death on the Liverpool care pathway plan. They argue that while it is suitable for patients who do have only days to live, it is being used more widely in the NHS, denying treatment to elderly patients who are not dying.

   Fenton’s daughter, Christine Ball, who had been looking after her mother before she was admitted to the Conquest hospital in Hastings, East Sussex, on January 11, says she had to fight hospital staff for weeks before her mother was taken off the plan and given artificial feeding.

   Ball, 42, from Robertsbridge, East Sussex, said: “My mother was going to be left to starve and dehydrate to death. It really is a subterfuge for legalised euthanasia of the elderly on the NHS. ”

   Fenton was admitted to hospital suffering from pneumonia. Although Ball acknowledged that her mother was very ill she was astonished when a junior doctor told her she was going to be placed on the plan to “make her more comfortable” in her last days.

   Ball insisted that her mother was not dying but her objections were ignored. A nurse even approached her to say: “What do you want done with your mother’s body?”

   On January 19, Fenton’s 80th birthday, Ball says her mother was feeling better and chatting to her family, but it took another four days to persuade doctors to give her artificial feeding.

   Fenton is now being looked after in a nursing home five minutes from where her daughter lives.

   Peter Hargreaves, a consultant in palliative medicine, is concerned that other patients who could recover are left to die. He said: “As they are spreading out across the country, the training is getting probably more and more diluted.”

   A spokesman for East Sussex Hospitals NHS Trust, said: “Patients’ needs are assessed before they are placed on the [plan]. Daily reviews are undertaken by clinicians whenever possible.”

   In a separate case, the family of an 87-year-old woman say the plan is being used as a way of giving minimum care to dying patients.

   Susan Budden, whose mother, Iris Griffin, from Norwich, died in a nursing home in July 2008 from a brain tumour, said: “When she was started on the [plan] her medication was withdrawn. As a result she became agitated and distressed.

   “It would appear that the [plan] is . . . used purely as a protocol which can be ticked off to justify the management of a patient.”

   Deborah Murphy, the national lead nurse for the care pathway, said: “If the education and training is not in place, the [plan] should not be used.” She said 3% of patients placed on the plan recovered. !

Three percent of patients placed on the plan recovered…but they were very hungry!

It’s that time of year again

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by the Night Writer

The Twins are once again in the play-offs and my wife and I are celebrating our anniversary. 22 years since the Twins made their first unbelievable run to the World Series and since we started a miraculous, have-to-be-seen-to-be-believed run of our own. Happy anniversary to my all-time best free agent acquisition and MVP!

Typically I run some handsome photo of the two of us smiling at the camera. This year I’ll use a different perspective in showing one of the great accomplishments of our marriage: