I…I feel like a better person

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I am loathe to fall prey to the hand-wringing and borderline (even self-fulfilling) panic surrounding gas prices. My main vehicle, a ’98 pickup, doesn’t get the greatest gas mileage but it is paid for so, on an operating cost basis, it’s fairly economical. It’s certainly not worth plunking $300-$400 a month down on a new car payment in order to save $150 in gas. Furthermore, while I’m as concerned about the environment as much as the next guy (if the next guy is Hamilton Lux), the thought of doing anything remotely “green” just for the sake of being “green” makes me, well, green.

Still, when our monthly fuel bill starts to approach my first mortgage it does make me rub my neck a little. I know there are those who love the idea of high gas prices because they misanthropically hope this will force behavior change on the mindless driving public (just as it mindlessly forces a change in the cost of groceries and quality of life for those least able to afford the lesson), so I purposefully stay cheerful when filling up my truck just to annoy those folks. I wouldn’t mind being cheerful a little less often, though.

Like most folks, I’ve not been too inclined to trade the convenience of having my vehicle at the ready to fit my schedule and whatever immediate needs might come up in order to live my life on the bus company’s schedule. This is especially true since a bus commute from where I live requires at least one transfer and twice the commuting time. I swear, I think Frodo and Samwise Gamgee had a more direct route to Mt. Doom than me trying to get to downtown Minneapolis by bus. Given the hours I’m already working that’s just not an attractive option; there’s more to being “cost efficient” than just price.

I can, however, drive from my southeastern suburb to the light rail (LRT) Park & Ride at Fort Snelling and take the train downtown to within four blocks of my office. I decided to conduct a little experiment by doing just that and comparing how many fewer miles I drove and how much longer it took to get to work, then calculating the difference in cost between my monthly parking bill and a Metropass (unlimited ride). I could have done this on a lovely summer (what passes for summer anyway) day, but why not get a taste of the elements as well? Therefore, I set off yesterday in the pouring rain for the Park & Ride (I brought an umbrella).

Total time to get to the lot: 15 minutes; distance 8 miles (compared to a 12-14 mile drive to downtown Minneapolis, depending on the route I take). The Park & Ride, however, may more accurately be described as a “Park & Walk” as I had about a quarter of a mile jaunt to the depot from my vehicle. I got to the station as a train was pulling up, but the credit card reader on the ticket machine wasn’t working. By the time I’d made a couple of attempts and finally resorted to sliding a fiver into the machine and getting my change (oh, so that’s what they’re doing with all those Sacajawea $1 coins) the train had pulled out. I waited 8 minutes for the next one and it took another 22 minutes to get to my stop downtown. From there I walked the four blocks to my office. Portal-to-portal, it took just under an hour. Driving to work in rush hour takes 40-45 minutes unless there’s bad weather or a traffic accident. The LRT also runs every 7 – 10 minutes during the “rush” hours (roughly 6 – 9 a.m. and 3 – 7 p.m.) so there’s not too much of a time penalty for “missing” a ride.

How about mileage? Four miles one way isn’t much of a savings in distance, but that equals 8 miles a day. Since my truck gets 16 miles per gallon, that’s a gallon of gas every two days, or 2.5 gallons in a typical work week. At $4 gallon, that’s $10!

As for other costs, I pay just under $80 a month to park downtown, but this will be going up an as yet undetermined amount at the end of the year when my employer stops subsidizing the cost. I can get a Metropass through my employer for $39. So, that’s about a $40 a month savings for “infrastructure”, plus $10 a week on gas. The net result is that for an extra 30 minutes a day in total transit time I could save $80 a month. I know, I could donate it to the Sierra Club, or to the schools – they never seem to have enough money! (NOT!). Yeah, I know the LRT is heavily subsidized by the State, so the fares are not a true reflection of the actual cost to operate it, but since my tax dollars are already going to support the choo-choo, perhaps I can feel as if I’m getting a little of my money back.

Other trade-offs: not as much opportunity to listen to my favorite radio programs, but more time to read; being perceived as an enviro-weenie when I’m really a rank capitalist; having to admit that money can change my behavior, but also having more money available to buy things that will increase my carbon footprint. Decisions, decisions! I suppose I should also look at the modest exercise benefit of having to walk a little farther in my daily routine vs. the “character-building” experience of getting to walk that extra distance in the potentially arctic temperatures the other 11 months of the year thanks to our “warming” environment.

I don’t know, I think I’m coming down on the side of saying “All aboard” and keeping more money in my pocket. Just don’t tell my kids (that I’ve got more money in my pocket)!

A real “man’s lady”

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You may have heard a guy being described as a real “man’s man”, but a regular and insightful contributor — wise in the ways of manliness — to the weekly Manivals is actually a woman. Hayden Tompkins at Persistent Illusion lays things out in a direct and refreshing manner. As to why she spends so much time on this particular topic, well, I think I’ll let her explain it:

People wonder why, as a woman, I am so dedicated to topics of ‘manliness’ and being a man.

Chances are if you aren’t a man, then your life partner is a man. Whether you want to be a better man – a more inspired husband, an involved father, a successful businessman – or be with a better man, you are probably aware that there is a lack in this country of material on what it means to be a man.

As being a 50’s era breadwinner and head of household is no longer what it means to be a man, so too is retreating from responsibilities and letting the woman of your life handle everything. Being a man today means strength coupled with flexibility; self-knowledge, without ‘forcing’ this self on others or sacrificing it for the sake of your partnership; and fully experiencing life with an open heart, authentically, without cutting your beloved out.

Support of the ‘menaissance’ is critical in creating the breathing room needed for men to take chances and transform their lives and their relationships.

And with better men come better women and with better women come better men and with better men come better women and with better women…

Amen.

Motels, salesmen and alcohol don’t mix

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An AmericInn in Moorhead, MN ended up unexpectedly hosting a “convention” of cleaning products salesmen who thought, perhaps, that they were rock stars. From the St. Paul Pioneer Press:

Moorhead motel boots 40 salesmen for ‘very, very rude behavior’
Associated Press

MOORHEAD, Minn. — About 40 traveling salespeople were thrown out of a Moorhead motel for “very, very rude behavior,” a motel manager said.

The salespeople, mostly in their mid-20s, were peddling cleaning supplies, but they sure left a mess behind, said Derek Crockett, front desk manager at the AmericInn Lodge & Suites.

Crockett’s staff started getting complaints about the guests less than two hours after they checked in Monday night. The guests were drinking, partying and smoking in nonsmoking rooms, he said.

When staff told them to leave, they “just started getting a little irate” and made threatening comments to housekeepers and security staff, he said.

Police were called but just went there to keep the peace and made no arrests, Deputy Chief Bob Larson said.

Crockett said the guests also punched holes in the walls, ripped a toilet paper holder off the wall and pulled out a couple of window screens. The rooms were still closed off Tuesday so the staff could assess the damage, he said. The guests will be charged for the rooms and the damage, he said

“It’s going to be over $1,000,” Crockett said.

It kind of reminds me of a true story my grandfather wrote involving a couple of salesmen, the Hotel Madison in Madison, WI, too much alcohol and a strong-willed goose. Not for the squeamish.

Manival #7 is up

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The 7th Manival is up and running this week at The Simple Marriage Project. There are four categories this week, and there are several very interesting sounding posts under each. The categories are Fatherhood/Parenting (which includes my own “Dad to the Bone” post), Marriage/Relationship, Recreation, and How-to Guides for Men.

I haven’t followed any of the links yet, but how can you resist titles such as “You Don’t Mess Around with Dad”, “The ‘I Don’t Want To’ Trap”, “Things You Don’t Scrimp On” and “7 Vital Characteristics of a Man”?

These past seven weeks have been very encouraging and enlightening for me as I’ve seen the depth and wisdom of men are pouring into the blogosphere. Just when you think the culture, and perhaps even yourself, have become totally self-indulgent and gratuitous you discover that there is a well-spring of wisdom, humor and a desire to serve if only you know where to look. I suggest you go take a look at the Manival series.

The previous Manivals can be found at the following links:

#1 @ The Art of Manliness
#2 @ A Good Husband
#3 @ Schaefer’s Blog
#4 @ The Art Of Manliness
#5 @ The Care & Feeding Of Man
#6 @ Building Camelot

The violence inherent in our systems

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Tonight my thoughts are turning to violence.

No, not that I desire to wreak any such thing on anyone, it’s just that there seems to be so much of it in the air. I mean, you’ve got Ben talking about being in tune with his Spidey-senses and calculating the most destructive way out of the scenario if the Girl Scouts in front of him on the street turn out to be a ninja hit squad in disguise (must be the weight-lifting and all the red meat he’s eating); you’ve got Gino talking about he and his sister standing back to back to teach some rowdies a lesson; and you’ve got KingDavid in turn reminiscing over getting his own adolescent male ya-yas out and ending up in the principal’s office.

I’m not dismayed or appalled. In fact, it all reminds me of a lesson my father taught me when he said, “You don’t have to win, but you do have to fight.”

And then I laugh as I remember the time somebody, and I can’t remember who, thought it was a good idea to give my brother and I boxing gloves for Christmas when I was in my early teens. These weren’t the big, pillowy 16-oz. gloves, either, where you had a better chance of suffocating from a punch in the face as being knocked out. No, these were 8-oz. demolition specials of bright red leather, packing a little padding and quite a wallop over the knuckles. I’m sure they were probably banned from toy stores about the same time as Jarts.

In those days we lived in a neighborhood full of boys and we marked the passing seasons by the games we played. Football in the fall, basketball all winter long (shoveling the snow off the asphalt driveways and turning our hands black in the dribbling), baseball or some mischief in the summer. One summer day of boredom and too many boys we remembered the gloves. Tired of whacking one another around, my brother and I brought them out for the group. It was actually pretty structured. We marked out the corners of the “ring” with lawn chairs in our back yard and matched opponents up by age and weight class. I was far from being the most graceful or athletic but I had a simple yet effective style: absorb the incoming shots as I waded into range and then, Whammo! The matches usually didn’t last very long.

One of the younger boys, a wiry and athletic sort who was one of the fastest runners in the neighborhood, and also the biggest trash talker, was offended by my pugilistic style, or lack thereof. His name was Albert. He may have preferred just “Al” or “Bert” but he was the type where we just had to hang the full name on him. Anyway, his own matches in his “weight class” were marked by fancy footwork and flashy flurries, and he’d roll his eyes at me from the sidelines and talk about the “sweet science” as I’d stagger another opponent. He kept talking about how useless I’d be against someone who knew what they were doing. I suggested that, perhaps, he was thinking of himself? He said that, well, as a matter of fact, yes.

“Oh, come off it, Albert. I’ve got two years and 25 pounds on you.”

“But you’re slow. You’d never touch me.”

And so it was on. Albert laced up and started circling, jumping in and out, throwing leather into my shoulders, or glancing off the top of my head. I turned as well, tracking him like the turret of a battleship surrounded by torpedo planes. A couple of my left jabs came back empty, touching only his laughter. He came in again, and this time I timed it and decided to see how the right hand might fare. Fairly well, actually, as my straight overhand going out met his forehead square as it was coming in. I could almost hear for myself the pinball bells that started ringing inside his head. His forward progress immediately reversed and he was flat on his back, somewhere in the middle of next week. And he wasn’t moving.

Ho. Ly. Crap.

Nothing to do for it in that case but to invoke the Diety, or in this case, my mom. Actually, both of my parents were home at the time and my brother ran in and brought them out, no doubt trying to gasp out the hyperventilated words, “boxing”, “Albert”, “dead”, and “It wasn’t my fault.” They came out briskly and with concern as Albert started to regain what little sense he had before he challenged me. I thought we were all going to get yelled at, but instead my parents were very concerned and solicitous of young Albert, touching his head, patting his shoulders, asking if he was all right, even bringing him a cold glass of lemonade. I’m sure they were thinking thoughts like, “We are going to be so sued,” and “I’m going to bury those boxing gloves, preferably with my kid still in them.”

Albert revived, and the last thing he wanted to do was let his parents know what happened. Actually, as far as he was concerned, the fewer people who learned what had happened the better. I like to think that it somehow made him a bit wiser, though he continued to be pretty much the same obnoxious kid as our sports seasons continued to turn. Maybe, just maybe though, it was a lesson that took a little time to reach the surface.

It was a valuable part of my education, I know that. Those scrambling episodes in boyhood gave me some useful and — in the grand scheme — not too painful lessons. I learned that life sometimes comes at you pretty fast, and that you’re going to have to take some shots, but if you keep your feet and keep moving in you’re eventually going to get your chance.

And when you do — Whammo!

Ere the “surly bonds” were slipped…

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From today’s Writer’s Almanac:

Today is the birthday of the man who wrote the most famous inspirational poem about aviation — a sonnet about aviation — John Gillespie Magee Jr., born in Shanghai, China, in 1922, the son of missionaries. He was an American, but like thousands of other young Americans he served with the Royal Canadian Air Force before the United States officially entered WWII. He had a scholarship to Yale, but after high school he enlisted in the air force, and he was sent to combat duty in England. A month or maybe two months later, he wrote a sonnet, “High Flight,” and sent it to his parents on the back of a letter, saying “I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed.” Three months later, the U.S. entered the war, and just three days after that Magee died in a plane crash. The sonnet was widely copied and distributed, and it is still referenced in novels, television shows, and political speeches. All first-year cadets at the United States Air Force Academy are required to memorize and recite it.

High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

“High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., Public Domain.

Dad to the Bone, redux

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So many thoughts this week leading up to Father’s Day. It was Father’s Day last year when we first faced the possibility of cancer coming back into my father’s life. This morning I spoke for awhile with a father of two young girls who is struggling with their discipline, taking me back to the early days with my own daughters…and then naturally to my oldest, now casting major plans of her own for adulthood. So many things, tumbling around, I’m not sure what will come out here in the coming week, but I think I’ll start things off with one of the first “fatherhood” posts I ever did here.

Dad to the Bone

Every parent either knows – or feels – by heart the words to the “Sunrise, Sunset” song in “Fiddler on the Roof”:

Is this the little girl I carried,
is this the little boy at play?

When I hear this the memory that flashes in my mind is not that of carrying either of my two daughters up to bed, or of piggyback rides. Instead I think of a family photo a few years ago. In it my girls – then about 10 and 5 – and I have been wrestling. I am standing and in each hand I’ve got an ankle of one of the girls and I’m holding them both upside down and off the ground, not unlike a proud poulterer holding up a couple of prizewinners at the State Fair. Imagining the picture now I can still hear the shrieks and giggles.

At this point in their lives – and for this moment now permanently frozen on film – I am Dad the Undefeated and, in their eyes, larger than life. Meanwhile, in the moments that I write this, the next line from that song is passing through my mind: “I don’t remember getting older, when did they?” If asked to reenact the scene today my response would have to be, “One at a time.”

As I flip through my mental photo album the girls seem to grow suddenly in a series of jerks and jumps. Of course I know they are really changing everyday, judging by the continuous trips to the shoe store and cries of, “But I just bought you those pants!” I also can’t help noticing in this album that as they are getting bigger, I seem to be getting – perhaps ever-so-slightly – smaller.

Once when my oldest was very little and concerned that we might be imminently attacked by bears in our own front yard, she was greatly comforted when I assured her that if any bears came near her I’d grab them and twist their noses. Today the same promise still stands regarding boys, not bears, but it’s clear that my powers are coming more into perspective. While there are times when it may seem, in my daughters’ eyes, that I can still rise up and blot out the sun, I cannot stop it from moving across the sky. I am shade, however, standing between them and the heat of the world. I will continue to do so as long as I can stand.

Of course, brute force has always been of limited application. To be a proper protector my defenses have had to be – and must remain – more subtle. Jesus once told his disciples that it was better for them that he go away. His meaning was that his power both in their lives and in the world would ultimately be much greater by his living in them rather than with them. I don’t construe this to mean my girls are better off without me, but rather that I must devote my time with them to preparing them to live on fruitfully, just as Jesus did in his three years with the disciples. The time together already seems all too short.

When they were little, their well-being depended on instant obedience to my authority and that of their mother. It was not expected or accepted of them to ponder whether or not we meant what we said or whether our instructions supported their personhood or hurt their self-esteem. “No,” “stop” and “don’t” could keep them from a boiling pot, a busy street or a strange dog. As they get older they are still at risk from natural forces, careless strangers and unpredictable animals interested only in their own gratification. “No,” “stop” and “don’t” might still have an effect, but it’s better to teach them the underlying reasons and standards for moral conduct so they can also work out the “Yeses,” “do’s” and “go-for-its.” In that way my influence can carry on a lot further than my authority will ever be able to.

For my influence to be effective, however, I have to keep learning and examining myself both for my own benefit as well as theirs. Like it or not, my life will be a standard that my daughters will use to judge men on in the future and I want to set the bar pretty high with no apologies to the young fellas coming along. Perfect or not, it is mine to carry. On one level my girls may see me as “Dad of Dads, Keeper of the Remote and King of Rude Noises,” but they should also know at a deeper level that I have laid and will lay down my life for them. As they grow older I hope that they will not settle for any man who will not do the same, even though the kind interested only in the “lay down” part may be all too common.

If you have daughters I think you know what I mean, and I hope you, too, are preparing yourself and them to live by your influence and that of Jesus while submitting to the authority of God. If you have sons, I pray that you are preparing them to a similar standard and helping them grow into their own responsibilities.

And if you have sons that may be hanging around my daughters, you might want to warn them about that nose thing.

Brothers in Arms

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“Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits is one of the most haunting songs I’ve ever know. I bought the album because of the “Money for Nothing” song when it came out back in, what, 1985? I really liked the song, but it was cemented for me when it was used in a memorable episode of Miami Vice entitled “Out Where the Buses Don’t Run” (back when using popular songs to help illustrate a TV show was ground-breaking).

I’d never seen a video for “Brothers In Arms” until I stumbled across this. Today, the anniversary of the D-Day invasion, the tone and look of the video seem especially appropriate.

My Friday for a Cupcake!

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by the Mall Diva

I’m sorry I missed last week. There were too many other things going on, and cupcakes were not high on the list of priorities.

The Queen joined me again this week for the baking of cupcakes, and there was a certain recipe I wanted to try. This one, in fact, so I went to the store for my ingredients. I found out a couple things: #1- You shouldn’t go to the store to buy pears the same day you need to use them, if ripe-ness is important to you; and #2- One vanilla bean costs $10. Yep. “So did you buy it”, you might ask?

Heck no! I’m no snob, I’ll even substitute imitation vanilla! And as for the pear, I bought a can of sliced pears in syrup, then drained the syrup and followed the recipe the same way. I know, I’m a genius!

Stop drooling. It's gross.

Do you see how cute the frosting on that cupcake is? That’s because my own dear mother bought me an icing piper! It is so awesome! Using it makes me feel like a real cake decorator!!!

They were pretty yummy, but super crumbly. That just means I get to practice more! But the problem with practicing more is that I end up with a bunch of cupcakes that I really shouldn’t be eating. The way I solved that problem this week was by bringing a bunch to work with me. The ladies there mostly know about my new hobby, and for the most part are willing to support me by eating the results.

Mmm, pear filling!

And now I’m sad to say that Chockylit, founder of the Cupcake Bakeshop is closing up shop. I’ll be waiting for your next site, and thanks for the recipes!