Overheard: Teaching Moment

Abe was channel surfing earlier today and stopped on a sports channel. He realized in an instant he had a teaching moment at hand and bid me to look at the TV. A hurdles race was about to begin at a track meet.

“See those women, how they’re setting up for the start? That’s how I want you to be, when you hear my call."

“I see. Coiled and ready to spring into action when you want me.”

“Exactly.”

The starting pistol rang out. “Birdie!” He demonstrated his call and pointed to the leader of the race.

“The one in front, that’s you.”

“Nothing gets in my way to reach you when you call me.”

“That’s right. That's how to be a good wife. Well, that’s all for now.”

I love my husband. He’s always thinking of me.

The Beauty Of Growing Older

An article and a picture from Father Tony got me thinking about the benefits of growing older. Most in that group of handsome men are close to my own age. No doubt they have a wealth of knowledge between them about many diverse subjects. More than that, they have wisdom that most often comes only with time.

Wisdom, if you choose to heed the outcome of knowledge, is the great payoff for aging. Knowledge and time are on a inverse continuum; one increases as the other decreases. You can beat the odds if you are willing to learn from others’ mistakes. It takes a lot longer if, like I did, you insist on making those mistakes on your own. Youth has all the time in the world to make use of its limited knowledge; age has great knowledge but limited time in which to apply it. It’s why we see people in midlife suddenly change their circumstances, jobs, etc., and re-establish their commitments to the core philosophies which may have lain dormant in the busyness of life.

It’s usually around age fifty that most people in Western civilization have a wake-up call and realize their mortality is looming on the visible horizon. (I have to wonder if the same is true in other societies that value the aged.) A midlife awakening need not be a crisis unless you make it one. And rather than bemoan the regrets, rejoice in what gift of days you have remaining, to use them wisely and with love.

It is evident in the picture that the men are enjoying the company of good friends who share their culture, their hopes, their experiences and their fears. Most have reached the age where foolishness falls away and the clarity of what is real and important is a jewel without price. Mistakes are an accepted part of life and easily forgiven. One great thing about growing older is that each mistake is statistically less significant; what’s one more in that ever-growing list?

You can reach that midlife awakening any time you wish. The sooner you choose to take control of your life and its outcome, the more time you will have to see its fulfillment. Take the knowledge and wisdom you have and find a purpose. What circumstances in your life right now are an arena for your influence? Share your wisdom and its resultant peace with as many as will hear. Some will not listen; they are not your audience. Be the change you wish to see in the world.

The Power Of The Internet

You know that annoying word verification process that makes it harder for spambots to plant their evil ads? A young professor at Carnegie Mellon has decided to use it for the common good, taking the original Captcha program and retooling it into "reCaptcha."

Whenever you log onto Twitter, Craiglist, Ticketmaster, Facebook and more, you are now faced with two words instead of one. The first is the original Captcha word, twisted so that machines cannot recognize it and mimic it. The second word will look like very old text—because that's exactly what it is. reCaptcha is using the power of the Internet to translate old text that scanners are unable to recognize. The New York Times and the Internet Archive are slowly being digitized, and we're helping by translating words that computers can't read.

The Optical Recognition Program cannot always translate what it sees, and humans are far more capable at recognizing patterns in letter shapes and word forms. So as a public service, which is free for anyone to use on their website, reCaptcha is archiving the past. This opens the door for all archived materials to eventually be digitized and thus available for public access via the Internet. Awesome potential, don't you think, for three seconds of your time.

Overheard: Guacamole

My husband Abe recently spent some time in southern California. He was enjoying the homemade feast his hostess had made. In case this conversation doesn't make it clear, she is a native Californian. She's sweet and brilliant, but living in California has its drawbacks.

Abe: "This is amazing guacamole!"

Penny: "Do they have guacamole in Indiana?"

Steven's Father

Steven of "Sooo-this-is-me" is grieving the loss of his father this past week. If you know him, please stop by and offer your condolences.

Stranger On A Plane

He was in his 30s I’d guess, fit and tall, wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. By the time I took the aisle seat next to his window seat, he was already plugged in to his iPod with his eyes closed. We were on our way to Indiana from the Denver airport.

I had attended a church conference in Denver, staying a few extra days to visit with friends. The conference had really struck a chord with me and challenged me to act on what I already knew my purpose to be. I was overwhelmed with the sense of mission about bringing my church into line with the loving God I knew, to welcome the LGBT community with genuine grace.

I had no idea how I would do this. I didn’t know where to start. I tried to read the book in front of me, which reinforced with every paragraph that I had to act on what I knew was right. I was reeling with the thoughts racing in my head about this new feeling. I knew what it was. It was a call. My heart was pounding and my eyes were starting to tear.

I had no one with whom to talk. I looked up from my book after staring blankly at the pages for who knows how long. I glanced at the man next to me, who still seemed fully absorbed in his music, eyes closed. But that’s when I noticed that his leg was pressing against mine. Not just touching; gently pressing, thigh and calf. It had happened so gradually that I didn’t notice until then.

This was not a come-on or a mistake. Perhaps he'd glimpsed my distress. His touch felt like reassurance. He stayed still and quiet but continued to press his leg to mine, and he stayed that way for the duration of the trip until the plane landed. That connection calmed me. It was like someone was holding my hand. This stranger gave me comfort that I could easily have rejected, but I needed it.

When we landed, the man gathered his few things together and sat up. When I looked at him, he was looking elsewhere, and he left without speaking when we deplaned. It was an unusual experience, clearly one I’ve never forgotten.

The stranger on a plane is the person to whom we’ll unburden our souls, the one who takes a small part of our worries with him when he leaves. This man did the same, without a single word or glance being exchanged. I have no idea if he intended what I inferred, but he gave me what I needed at the time. I pray that I can be that stranger on a plane for others whenever I travel.

Stop

Really. Stop.


This street is in Muncie, IN. Image from Facebook.

Poor Sophie Makes Three

We're getting ready to go to St. Louis for the weekend. Today I got most of my work done, but one of the office machines quit working. I'll finish it by hand tonight and take it in tomorrow morning. No problem, huh? That would normally be the case, but now there's another detail to take care of before we leave. I need to take Sophie to the boarding kennel.

I took her there this afternoon. She loves this place and has been attending there for years. They have chaperoned playtime several times a day, and you can watch online with their "doggiecam" (which operates only during daycamp hours). She has a blast.

We arrived amid a number of drop-offs and pick-ups. Sophie squealed and barked her delight. I knew it was going to be quick and easy because I had checked both at the kennel and at the vet to make sure she was current in all her innoculations. After she was taken back to her "dorm," they looked at their records and said she was due for her distemper shot. They verified with the vet that, yes, she was due. She had to come back out and be taken 25 minutes away to the vet for that shot and then returned. Great.

On her way back out to me, another dog was being brought in. They passed in the hallway—both on leashes—and had what the trainer called "an altercation." The other dog apparently really nailed Sophie with puncture wounds in her neck and ear. Now I really needed the vet.

The vet examined her and glued one puncture closed. The other wounds will have to close on their own. She got all of her shots, including painkiller and antibiotic, and they released her in my care with more meds. She's staying home tonight just to avoid more stress, and we'll see how she feels in the morning. This is when I wish I had family in the city to take my pet.

I trust the kennel to watch her carefully. These things happen when dogs meet dogs, and it's our first such occasion in the five years she's gone there. But the Sophmeister shakes her head every so often to try to make it feel better. My poor puppy.

(In case you're thinking "these things come in threes," Sophie's plight is number three. Abe is in CA visiting family before joining us in St. Louis. But most of his time so far has been spent with the dentist and endodontist. His toothache turned out to be a serious infection, and he spent his third day in CA getting a root canal. I'm counting the office mishap as number two, so we're good to go. I'm sure of it.)

Update: Sophie squealed and roorooed her happy bark a quarter mile from the kennel this morning. She was glad to be back! The staff there is so mortified about the whole incident that they practically rolled out a red carpet. They're good guys. So: we're off to St. Louis! Check out doggiecam during the day. I know I will.

Update II: I've been following Sophie's progress on the doggiecam. At first she stayed near the human chaperone when she was in the playroom, but today she was hanging with the gang and holding her own. We pick her up tomorrow morning.

Beautifully Bad Writing

"Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor'east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the "Ellie May," a sturdy whaler captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests."

David McKenzie of Federal Way, WA won the grand prize in San Jose State University's annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest with that awful opening to an imaginary novel.

My personal favorite is from Eric Rice of Sun Prairie, WI, the winner in the “detective” category:

"She walked into my office on legs as long as one of those long-legged birds that you see in Florida the pink ones, not the white ones except that she was standing on both of them, not just one of them, like those birds, the pink ones, and she wasn't wearing pink, but I knew right away that she was trouble, which those birds usually aren't."

The contest is named after Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton, the author of the 1830 novel Paul Clifford. It begins with the now-famous phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night..." But please enjoy the entire opening sentence to a novel many consider one of the worst ever written:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

Payback Is Heck

We all have those moments when we picture the jerk that cut us off getting pulled over or suddenly going up in a small nuclear detonation. Usually that’s as far as we get in our revenge. And, generally speaking, I’m not a vengeful person. But sometimes it’s just because I can’t think of something that won’t get me in trouble. However, I had one small sweet victory years ago when on vacation with the family.

We were in Laguna Beach, California, in one of those diminutive beach hotels that stacked units here and there in odd configurations that accommodated older buildings and tight topography. Like most places in perpetually mild climates, all of the units opened to the outdoors; there were no hallways.

Our first night there was pleasant until our sleep was broken at 2 a.m. by the occupants of Room 231, the unit just behind us. They came in slamming doors and cabinets, shouting and laughing. Even children were a part of the considerable racket. Abe and I and the two kids woke up and eventually went back to sleep. It took me forever, though, because I didn’t have the option of my usual routine of reading or watching a show or two to get sleepy again. It was torture lying there in the dark for hours, waiting for sleep to find me. Exhausted, I finally fell asleep at about 6 a.m. and slept for a few hours.

The next day we toured around town and fell in love with the place if not the prices. We were pretty beat when we went to bed. Sure enough, Room 231 came crashing in while laughing and shouting at 3 a.m. Abe was so angry he banged on the wall. We were greeted with loud obscenities. Abe called the front desk, as apparently did two other rooms. Room 231 was warned. But I was miserable as I lay awake in the dark once again.

I finally rose and dressed and grabbed a book. I couldn’t read in the room, and the office was closed for the night. So I sat just outside the room in a beach chair immediately behind the air conditioner, using its exhaust to stay warm. I looked up from my pages occasionally to watch the opossums raid the garbage cans to my left. I had lots of time to think. Slowly, ever slowly, the sky began to lighten.

At 6 a.m., the office opened. I left my book on the chair and went to the lobby to get one of its brochures. The bakery next door had just opened as well, so I sat at the counter and ordered a bagel. I found the phone number for the hotel and rang it up.

“Room 231, please."

Whoever answered the fourth ring didn't speak.

"Good MORNing!” I was smiling and practically shouting into the phone with unbearable glitter-filled cheerfulness, the kind for which no stranglehold is tight enough. “It’s time for breakfast! I’m already here at the bakery!”

“Whuh?”

“It’s time for breakfast! Aren’t you up yet?”

“Mmmmmmhhhh…”

“This is Patsy, isn't it?” Pause for dramatic effect. “Oh my gosh, do I have the wrong room? I’m SO sorry.”

* Click *

The bakery barista looked concerned. “Did you get the wrong room?”

“No. I got exactly who I wanted.”

And again at 6:30.

Petty, childish, yeah. But it felt really good.