In Memoriam

Patriotic Americans exist in all walks of life and socio-economic classes -- the highly educated and the undereducated, from inner city neighborhoods and urban sprawl subdivisions to rural communities.

People find many ways to express their allegiance to our nation and the freedoms it has symbolized down through the generations, since our founding fathers first conceived and gave voice to the principles that guide us today.

This Memorial Day weekend, many will take time to honor those who gave their lives in service of our country and its ideas.  Cities, communities, neighborhoods, and families across the nation will pay tribute to fallen members of our military in individual acts, intimate gatherings, and grand ceremonies.

Some of us will place small flags on veterans' graves, while others attend crowded assemblies, sing the national anthem with flags waving over local memorials, or pause for a quiet and reverent moment of remembrance and prayer.

If you are grilling steaks in your backyard, frolicking at the beach, or simply enjoying the day off by taking in a matinee and eating at a favorite restaurant, it only takes a few moments to consider our forebears and those who have fought, undaunted, for our nation and its citizens.

allegretto vivace

Because I've been enjoying audio books during my commute, I've collected a backlog of my regular podcasts.  So, it was just the other day when I finally heard a recent episode of This American Life that had a brief segment near the beginning wherein a father was teaching his young daughter how to ride a bike.

I can remember teaching my daughters the essential art of bicycling.  It seems like just the other day, instead of so many years ago.

Tonight, our oldest daughter graduates from high school -- another milestone in what is proving to be a banner year for her.

During a single week in February, she had her 18th birthday and received her acceptance letter from the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in Manhattan's Chelsea district.

Both of those figurative Acme anvils landed squarely on my head.  It's hard to believe she's 18 -- that she's legally an adult, a young woman.  And it's difficult for me to process the fact that she's NYC-bound.

Her fashion industry dreams are best served by her pursuit of a degree at FIT, which can be an important boon on her resume and help her connect to significant internship opportunities.  So, I’m trying to temper my anxieties and apprehensions with the intellectual argument that children will grow up and pursue their own lives.

Do we want her living in New York City, where she will arrive knowing no one?  Do we want her to learn what it is like to be far away from family and get sick or injured, when you are still learning what it is like to be on your own?  No and no.   But, we’ve every confidence she will thrive and achieve, and we’re happy she can follow her dream.  (I just hope I can afford it!) 

Later in life, I want her to be able to look back and say that we supported her dreams -- that we were not naysayers, but rather yaysayers.

It seems only a matter of weeks ago that I was teaching her to ride a bike, running along side her, willing her to succeed, and hoping to be there to rescue her at the last minute from scraped knees or bruised elbows.

On The Road (Again)

More road offerings...

When is the last time it happened to you?

It seems a surprisingly frequent phenomenon.  The lone shoe.  Lost or discarded without its mate.  Often left on a roadway somewhere for further indignities of multiple crushings from traffic -- passersby who also disregard the shoe.

It has a story.

And no one who squashes it with their tires will ever know who wore it, what it looked like when it was new, the places it traveled, the miles it walked wrapped around the foot that bought it -- doing what it was meant to do.

It's likely that typical drivers will not even acknowledge the lone shoe.  At most, it exists only in their subconscious, unregistered, unremarked.

Did it come to an untimely end?  Or had the course of its purpose concluded under the orchestrated hand of Providence?  Was the certitude of its fate controvertible?  Is this where it was meant to be all along, waiting for me to take its picture?

Spectator's Lament

In my youth, I scoffed at essays and documentaries, casting them aside as mere instruments of academia that amounted to nothing more appealing than obligations of study.  But, through the years, I've found myself seated at the other side of the table.  I think it is fair to say I'm sometimes exuberant over a collection of essays or unexpectedly finding particularly well phrased composition by a favorite essayist.  Likewise, I'm on the perpetual quest of the knight-errant seeking the next documentary that might otherwise slip by in the clutches of obscurity.

I generally monitor upcoming broadcasts of Independent Lens on PBS.  They often show terrific documentaries, and I've been able to TiVo some that are among my favorites.

If I think someone has the proclivity toward it, I will drown them in praises of Helvetica, a history and evaluation of the font, with a look at typeface design -- which I've previously discussed in this journal.   Wordplay reveals people passionate about constructing and completing crossword puzzles (something I was never interested in until I saw the documentary). Most recently, I watched Between the Folds, which is a fascinating documentary about origami and people who've accomplished great works of art and found lessons of life in the simple act of folding paper.

I see a documentary about crosswords, and I'm compelled to do them and create them.  I see a film about origami; I'm desperate to fold paper.  I reckon I need to steer clear of those History Channel programs about serial killers.

I see a Chuck Close exhibit, and I want to paint again.  I'm inspired to take the stage again after attending a terrific night of theater. 

And there's this odd episode: one day, after listening to the beautiful songs on a Yo-Yo Ma CD, I lamented the fact I never learned to play the cello.

Being inspired by others' creativity and talent sounds like an uplifting experience.  But, there's a darker side, too.  I'm repeatedly confronted by my role as spectator, when considering how many people are doing amazing things.

Patterns of Misfortune

A gas station not far from my office often has a better price  than most other places I encounter on my usual routes.  In these times of elevated gas prices and length commute, I stopped there one evening  after leaving work.

There was a truck parked on the opposite side of the pump I was using to top off my tank.  And a conversation caught my ear.

A kid (probably 10 years old) walked up and stood at the driver's window.  It sounded like he said, "They don't have 100s."

Though I'm not a smoker, I did have the colorful experience of working as a clerk at a convenience store while in college.  So, I was aware of the soft-pack/hard-pack/100s/menthol-type options available to purchasers of cigarettes.  And this seemed curious to me, because I figured the kid was too young to purchase cigarettes anyway.

"What are you talking about?"  The large woman behind the steering wheel practically berated the boy.

A teenage girl leaned over from the passenger seat and joined in: "Did you check the other side?"  She was also yelling in the unpleasant tone of someone both entitled and annoyed, though I would perfer other adjectives to describe her.

The boy was trying to get in a word of explanation, but he was interrupted by the bumpkin who was driving. "Did - you - check - the other side!?"  I could practically hear the interrobang fall out her window and explode on the asphalt.

Still, amidst the barrage of questions from the truck's uncomprehending occupants, the boy tried to explain himself.  The hefty woman driver cut him off again with her venom:  "Just go pay for muh damn gas!"

I knew the unspoken part of that imperative was to come back and pump the gas, too.

And here's the thing:  this boy was mentally retarded.  I'm not sure the acceptable way to phrase that, but the bottom line is some condition or disorder or accident left him with very low functioning skills, i.e., his mental faculties had been retarded in their development.  Speech problems.  His lurching walk suggested he had a problem with motor skills, too.

This kid reminded me of a friend's son who'd ingested some ant poison as a toddler.  After several intense and uncertain days at a hospital in Dallas, my friend's son pulled through to the point that they knew he would survive.  But, the doctors explained there had been irreversible brain damage, and they would have to wait to get a better idea of the extent to which the damage would effect his development.

So, the boy at the gas station not only had to endure the complications of his diminished capabilities, he had to fumble through life with that belligerent beast as a mother.  Sometimes burdens seem insurmountable.

Sigh.

Commute Canticle

A highway that stretches through rural towns in my part of the state carries me most of the distance to my job.  The cattle and fields and hay and pastures and farms and ranches and creeks and ponds and small town businesses constitute much of the scenery I see each day on my commute.  Sometimes I see stranded motorists in need of help, or on some occasions, I’ve encountered an accident scene.  

One morning, I had the opportunity to engage in a rescue mission.  I spied a hardback book on the side of the road as I sped passed.  I saw the telltale white square on the spine that told me it was a library book.  After doubling back to check it out, confirmed it was an errant library book, abandoned so close the speeding traffic.

I hopped out of the Jeep and discovered Anne Rice’s Blood Canticle, an apparent confluence of the Mayfair Witches and the vampire chronicles. It was from the public library in a nearby town.

The stamp on the card inside the book’s cover indicated it was due back to the following Monday.  I wondered what circumstances conspired to leave it on the shoulder of a highway. 

I returned it.

The Emperor of Ice Cream

Last month, Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee's The Emperor of Maladies: A Biography of Cancer received the Pulitzer Prize for general nonfiction.

Back in November, Dr. Mukherjee was interviewed by Terri Gross on NPR's Fresh Air.  They re-broadcast the show in the wake of the award.  Terri really did her homework and brought many well informed questions that pierced the medical jargon and targeted the most crucial insights. And Dr. Mukherjee is extremely articulate and carefully answered the questions in a very instructive way that didn’t disregard the laymen listening. 

The book seems thoroughly fascinating and worthy of the Pulitzer.  It traces the history and understanding of the disease, as well as some of the development of many modern treatments (including dramatic new treatments).  In the interview, Dr. Mukherjee briefly discussed research done to examine how cancer evades a patient's immune system and what can be done to assist the immune system in engaging the disease.