Max Kathleen

Oh I'd Love to Be an Oscar Meyer...

2011-06-11T15:48:00.000-05:00

Weiner?!

My business plan is going to make me rich, rich rich! Forget Ragg Mopp - this is a sure Weiner!

Step One: Family and friends phone the Weiner Mobile (sub contracting details to be worked out) and that embarrassing phallic shaped yet kosher vehicle pulls up outside your home or government office building and picks up the adulterer, porn king, sexter, maid molester - any Weiner who should be branded (literally, hot poker) with a scarlet A but who has somehow avoided prison.

Step Two: The Weiner Mobile transports them to the rehab center where they THINK they can hide until the media finds another, bigger Weiner and they can Gringrich-up their reputation and resume their creepy lives. Ahhh but SURPRISE...

Step Three: this rebab center is staffed entirely with women who have been victimized by Weiners and let's just say the therapy sessions are NEVER touchy-feely.

Any investors?!

Fade Away

2011-05-08T15:58:00.000-05:00

She told me over lunch at Panera that last week when she told her boss she wanted me as a mentor he laughed and said “Why do you want her, she’s only a first level.”

Until four months ago he was a first level manager.

This morning I was dusting the bookshelves in the den when a photo fell gently to the carpet. It is an old photo framed by hand embroidery. I think the woman in the picture is my maternal great, great grandmother, but I am not sure. Her name might have been Maude or Chip, but I am not sure. I think her husband took a bunch of photos in the late 1800’s in Central Park but I am not sure.

I picked up her photo, wiped it with a windex cloth and replaced the photo on the shelf.

Someday my photo will fall, off a shelf or wall or maybe it will appear electronically on a screen. And a yet unborn future being will look, not recognizing, not knowing who I am.

I am sure of this. When you are “only a first level” you are already cloaked.

Never got the Memo

2011-05-05T08:37:00.000-05:00

The fellow traveler in front of me at airport security was so ordinary he was almost invisible: white male in his early 20’s, hair a bit too long, height a bit short, carrying one nearly empty duffel bag. I overheard him tell the TSA agent that he was joining the military and the TSA agent asked which branch. I didn’t hear the reply but my hunch was “Army.”

While I scooped up three bins for the xray machine (one for each of my laptop and one for shoes), the conveyor belt stopped. I looked up to see the TSA xray inspector removing family sized bottles, a can and a tube from Army Dude’s bag - Head & Shoulders shampoo, Crest toothpaste, Scope mouthwash, Gillette shaving cream.

“You can’t bring these in your carry-on.”

“Oh”

“Only 3 ounce bottles.”

“Oh”

“You didn’t know?”

“No”

The Army dude didn’t appear upset, just confused by this alien world and it’s baffling rules. The TSA agent was sympathetic.

“Did you check any luggage?”

“huh?”

“Suitcases, do you have suitcases you checked at baggage?”

“No.”

“Is your car in the lot?”

“No.”

“Because you have time to put these in your car.”

“Oh”

“How about family, is anyone seeing you off? You can give these to them.”

“No.”

“We have to take these, I know they are all brand new, but the rule is 3 ounces and these are all....”

“Oh.”

This interaction stopped the progress at security and the line behind me grew longer with every shrug of Army Dude.

Finally we made it through security where Army Dude met up with a fellow recruit. He told his buddy how all his new stuff was taken away. His friend’s eyes met mine and we shared an incredulous look while his buddy reiterated: “3 ounces man.” Army Dude shrugged again, “But nobody told me.”

I wanted to shake this kid to determine what stone he’s been living under to not know the liquid/gel rule.

Then I replayed the dialogue and realized this clueless kid was joining the army and nobody was at the airport to say goodbye.

I Go to Extremes

2011-04-17T07:10:00.000-05:00

It is absurd to run outside today. The wind gusts off the ocean are driving the icy, stinging rain sideways in sheets; at times they blow hard enough to make forward progress impossible other times they attack from the side nearly propelling me into parked cars and potholes. But I will run 8 miles in the dark in the storm, because that is my goal.

Visions of Cream puffs dance in my head, and stomach, as I run. Real and metaphorical cream puffs.. The real cream puffs, of which I consumed way too many yesterday, burble acidically queasing out my stomach. Je regret, je regret, je regret les manger. I long ago learned to forgo dinner to avoid RWI - running while ill- but yesterday I was unable to curtail my pastry eating and now I must suffer. The desserts from Fratellis Pastry Shop were too incredibly delicious and erased any semblance of self-control. Oh digest already, would you?!

The other cream puffs are also undigested shards, a long ago memory that should have been forgotten along with the dates of the Athenian - Spartan wars.

My paternal grandmother has her four oldest grandchildren sans parents at 547 Riverside Drive and asks what sort of outing we’d like. As eldest and most passionate about NYC adventures, I suggest we walk across the George Washington Bridge or go to Brooklyn (I’d just read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and declared it the best book I ever read - I felt it was quite sophisticated and adult - it replaced my previous faves: The Secret Garden and A Wrinkle in Time). But Grandma nixes those ideas and instead we began a long, pointless and boring walk around the upper West Side. After a few blocks I suggested we take the subway. Grandma turns to glare at me with loveless eyes and declares I am a cream puff.

I revert to my school face - the mask I wear when I expected to be taunted. From bullies and mean teachers I expected name calling, not from my Grandmother.

Grandma is dead. Now I am a grandma and two things I know to be true: I will NEVER call my granddaughter a mean name and I am so NOT a cream puff.

I Do Believe

2011-04-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

In London, England, not far from renowned department store, Fortnum and Mason, is the Burlington Arcade - an upscale covered, pedestrian walkway lined with posh shops. While Sarah was on a mission to find unique yarn, Jock, Ryan, Beatrix and I wandered the arcade. Actually Beatrix was asleep on Ryan’s chest in the front pack so one can’t honestly say she was wandering.

I frequently halted our progress for photos - click: the pastel pile of macaroons on display in Laduree, click: the sweetness of my sleeping grandchild. When I aimed the camera at the shoe shine stand, Ryan was mystified. A man getting his shoes shined? So Not photoworthy.

Jock looked, knew and nodded. Jock and I are old enough to remember - Little Rock, Boston, Watts, Detroit. We are old enough to remember when separate wasn’t equal and there was no equal. We remember when shoe shining was more common - not just in every airport but on city streets, and always, ALWAYS the guy shining the shoes was black, the guy getting a shine was white and although the guy shining was a man, he was referred to as a “shoe shine boy.”

That Ryan saw nothing odd, was good. May our grandbaby Beatrix never find this scene photoworthy.

Jimmer to Brandon in the paint no more

2011-03-03T08:41:00.000-05:00

BYU student and basketball player, Brandon Davies will no longer be Jimmer Fredette's BYU teammate. Davies broke the BYU Honor Code. The rule he broke? He had sex with his girlfriend.

BYU is an easy target. Sex, whether heterosexual or homosexual is not permitted as per the BYU honor codes and it was only a few years ago that BYU was convinced that their God told them not to admit Black students.

But athletes follow all sorts of illogical and sometimes downright dumb rules - college basketball players must shoot within 35 seconds of gaining possession, the offense only has 3 seconds in the key. Players follow these rules or risk known penalties which could hurt their team. Yet in college and especially in professional sports, ethical rule violations are often ignored. College students attending schools considered to be football or basketball powerhouses, know that the nearly all high profile student-athletes are less of the former and more of the latter.

At the 2011 NFL Combine there were potential draft picks who already have ethically spotty pasts including a drunk driving arrest and a bribery demanding father. Given the NFL's intentional ethical blindness (sexual harassment, domestic violence, multiple children by many women, steroid and recreational drug use and on and on) these infractions are unlikely to deter any team that needs talent.

Charles Barkley is not a role model, but our children are buying up jerseys of people who behave abysmally. The BYU stance of making ethical rules and enforcing them should be a role model for college and professional sports.

I would suggest a rewriting of the honor code to state that no student can engage in sexual relations while at BYU, unless birth control is used - married or unmarried.

Not the Hammer Throw

2011-02-07T17:52:00.000-05:00

Dictators have their own play book. There is a chapter on using the police and/or military to make dissidents or potential opponents disappear, quake in fear and suffer for their thoughts. There is a chapter on fomenting hatred (one of the earliest, easiest lessons) - foreigners are a popular target, but it is more useful to keep the population divided. Having factions despise each other is near the top of any tyrant’s “to do” list.

What about that shining light on the hill, what is our predictable response to these autocratic rulers? To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. We send in troops or, at the very least, not-so-secretly train the insurgents we like on how to be better soldiers. And then we wonder why, a few years later, they are shooting at us.

I am neither male nor particularly enamored of hammers, my background is teaching, training and education. When I see problems, I throw the book at them. The time has come to write the rebuttal to the Dictator’s Guide to Ruling the Universe. We need to take our book and courses and dispatch professors to instruct self-selected students on how to move from Demoralized to Democratized.

Chapters should include:
“What happens after the tear gas”
“You Say you want a revolution - but what do you really want?”
“How to Change ,rather than Torture, Hearts and Minds”

We might even persuade Jimmy Carter to teach the course on “Unmasking Election Fraud - preventing and detecting.”

FDR had his domestic revitalization programs, Kennedy had his Peace Corps, now it is Obama’s turn. Americans must give the oppressed people of the world the tools they need to create Democracies.

And when the courses are developed and being taught overseas, maybe we can save a few instructors to stay here in the US and teach our citizens, especially our children, Democracy 101.

A Simple Fold in the Fabric

2011-01-21T16:16:00.000-05:00

I zip up my black hoodie, the one from Ryan and Sarah and Beatrix, now I can be in both Maine and North Yorkshire. North Yorks: where I never have to stretch my arms very wide to touch people I love. I am wearing a family hug.

I take my very best sweatshirt to the Tailor on Congress Street.
He says yes, he can put Velcro on the pockets but not a zip since they are curved.
He stitches, I put on my glasses to better see the three old photos on the walls of this small cluttered shop. Above the bolts of many colored thread are black and white pictures of Beirut.
I know it’s Beirut because they say so, in English and in French.
These photos are older than I am.

I tell the Tailor I like his photos. He shapes his mouth into a sighing smile, his stoic New England eyes become a little wet, a little less dim. He thanks me.
I guess it is his home and ask when he was last there.
His face reverts to the shopkeeper mask and he shakes his head.
Oh, duh, these photos are from that last time.

“I can’t close the shop.”
He says it like it is so obvious.

Now I am wearing my favorite sweatshirt with new Velcro pockets, drop in my cell phones and keys, head to the lobby to check the mailbox.

I unvelcro one pocket to retrieve the mailbox key- tessering now not just from Portland to Knaresborough, but off to Beirut – Lebanese ground on which I have never trod, and my tailor is unlikely to visit again.

Once upon a time I bribed a director to land the role of a Witch in a play.

2011-01-18T16:51:00.000-05:00

Diane was the director. When I asked about auditions she said she already decided Vicky would have the leading role. How did she know Vicky would be the best Witch? She didn’t, but Vicky already paid her for it. How much? I will double it.

Bribery was not part of my usual repertoire. I preferred blackmail.

Diane needed money; I’d seen her home and it was a rural, ramshackled hovel. I’ve built better tree forts.

All of this happened so very long ago. I was a fourth grader at Simon Willard School.

Whatever happened to Vicky and Diane?

Maura-Gossip-Girl update # 1:.
Place: Peabody Middle School,
Time: Afternoon gym class, late Spring

After successfully getting hit with the Dodge Ball right off the bat, we stood in our maroon skirted gym uniforms and listened to Maura hold court about the thieves who broke into her house. One of the criminals was Vicky’s brother. He robbed her house and took their tv and even smashed her bank (she got all teary when she told this part which annoyed me – so much drama). She said he was a Heroin addict and she knew this because he drank their orange juice and now he was locked up in the Concord Penitentiary – the big prison by the rotary. I wasn’t sure how much of what she said was true, but I believed the OJ story since my grandparents were robbed and they quoted the police as making that same OJ-Heroin connection and besides, it seemed really weird that someone robbing your house would waste time drinking OJ (a beverage I’ve always hated unless it is fresh squeezed with the pulp strained out).

Maura-Gossip-Girl update # 2

In freshman year at Concord-Carlisle high school Maura breathily demanded our attention outside the cafeteria:

“Guess who I saw in Church Sunday?”

I didn’t answer – Maura’s Catholicism was an annoyance to me – since elementary school she not only assumed everyone shared her beliefs (“Kathleen what did YOU give up for Lent?”) but she also made it clear that if you were not Catholic you were NOT GOOD. Her recent rants had been about praying for unborn babies when the Roe v Wade decision was font and center in the Boston Globe. She’d start to tear up when talking about the church bells tolling for all those tiny murder victims.

Any sentence that referenced her church was suspect and meant I would have to dig deep to practice the tolerance my secular philosophy demanded.

“You will never guess WHO I saw in church!… Diane!”

Now Maura had my attention. Diane never ever made it to high school and the rumor was she ran away. I figured she went to San Francisco. Maura’s news meant Diane was back – wow, I hoped she’d be in school soon so I could ask about her about the whole California hippie scene.

But Maura knew more: Diane was in church Sunday and she was with… a baby – her baby!

Maura might have said Diane changed the water to wine. We all knew that somewhere there were girls in other towns who got pregnant, but not in Concord and not at age 13 or 14.

Diane didn’t even have a boyfriend? How old is the baby? Who is the baby’s father? How did she look? Is it a boy or girl?

But Maura knew more and waited for us to be quiet, enjoying the limelight. “You are so not going to believe this part!” WHAT WHAT ?! this was already a story we could barely believe. When we were all silent Maura made the announcement:

“Diane’s father is the baby’s father!”

It took us a minute to wrap our brains around this news. Huh? But how? Then horrified ewws of repulsion.

Diane ran away when she found out she was pregnant but she couldn’t take care of herself and her baby so she came back home to live with her baby and her sisters and her mother and her father.

********

My bribe did not pay off. I never got to be the Witch because Diane never produced the play.

Gretel’s nightmares were nothing compared to Diane’s own grim tale.

Which Game are You Playing?

2011-01-16T14:26:00.001-05:00

It is my first visit to the “new” Garden.

Like my spouse, who annoyingly laments the Disneyfication of Times Square, I am missing the gritty, parking garagesque ramps and stale air of the old Boston Garden. Some things don't change; I am still in the nosebleed section, but unlike when I was 14, these days I can afford better seats, I just choose to spend my hard-earned salary on other amusements (see air travel.).

Gee but its great to be back home. The cameras show that my adolescent idol is here too, old number four, Bobby Orr.

The crowd, like the building is cleaner, less edgy and younger. Aside from a few f-bombs and one episode of chanting “bullshit” there is no ref abuse, no vulgarity. Oh sure there is plenty of stupidity and IQs seem to plummet as the two fisted beer drinkers slosh their way up the aisle again and again.

The fans still cheer for two unrelated on-ice activities: one is the match against the Pittsburgh Penguins who, even without the Sensational Sidney are out-skating the Bruins. The other is for the glove dropping, fist slamming, game stopping punch fests. The JumboTron plays and replays the fights to the screaming mania of my fellow fans.

I am on my feet shrieking to hoarseness for all our shots-on-goal and skillful puck handling (of which there is not nearly enough). But I feel estranged from my fellow fans when the fights break out. I am not upset or pulling the pacifist pose. Once upon a time a 9th grade English essay on “Why Fighting in Hockey is Good for Fans” earned me an A+. But now it seems an unnecessary distraction from the hockey game. A boring, silly distraction.

At the end of the night, The Boston Bruins lose the hockey game, 3-2, but they win every slugfest.

But I REALLY Need My Job...

2011-01-12T09:27:00.000-05:00

They speak to me in hushed tones, upset at what they have seen or experienced at work. They know The Ethicist would agree the behavior they cite is decidedly wrong, but in this economic environment who will risk blowing the whistle?

Not the editor who knows that the articles should be printed, but her boss openly hates the author of the articles so they are cut.

Not the super who knows his boss is telling the building owner that several apartments are vacant when actually they are occupied with tenants who are paying cash for their rent, under the table and never on the books.

Not the executive team who knows the HR department is at best incompetent and often unethical in hiring, firing, pay treatment and promotions; they try to work around them.

When unemployment is high, the unprincipled can play favorites, seek revenge, ply vendettas and stuff their wallets knowing that everyone is afraid to speak up. Fear keeps us silent and our silence empowers the corruption.

The Magic Won 86-78

2010-12-29T17:34:00.002-05:00

The Orlando Magic fans are pretty enthusiastic. Maybe it is their cool new Amway Arena. Maybe it is because they are all from somewhere else and don’t have a generational rivalry with other teams. Maybe it is because today is Christmas.

Before I sit down, I buy a bottomless soda in a souvenir cup and a pretzel so enormous it is served in a large pizza box. As a Celtics fan I am not thrilled to see the Magic put 13 points on the board without any response from Boston, but once the Celtics awaken, they quickly close the gap. The game remains tight with plenty of opportunities for cheering from both the blue and green contingents.

Except for the kid next to me.

He might be posing for the “tormented teen” centerfold. Sure he claps when the Magic score, but no smiles. Mostly he curses and mutters angry oaths about the Celtics. He commands “Sit Down” at the Boston fans a few rows ahead when they occasionally stand up to cheer. When Glen Davis, the Celtics forward knows as “Big Baby”, is shoved to the floor, Mr. Adolescent Angst sneeringly shouts: “Get up you Big Fat Piece of Shit.”

I am not a sports naïf – I’ve been to the Garden when the Bruins played the Rangers; I’ve seen Yankee fans threaten Sox fans and I’ve had the most unpleasant experience of attending a Bills game in a stadium filled with the ugliest, intoxicated fans imaginable, but in all these matches, the home team fans act HAPPY when their team does score. They cheer with exceeding great joy.

But not this kid on my right.

At halftime I stand up to get my bottomless soda refilled. Sir Surly semi stands and shifts his beefy nachos so I don’t rub against them. As I squeeze by the guy next to him who appears to be his father, the man doesn’t budge even when I try to reshape myself to be 2D. I try to catch his eyes to give him one of my well-practiced scolding stares and only then do I notice he is extremely obese and like his son, his expression is more Grumpy than Happy.

I walk up the concrete stairs clutching my plastic soda tumbler wondering whether the boy was really yelling at Glenn Davis or if his words were meant for someone else.

The Best Gift You Can't See

2010-12-16T09:32:00.000-05:00

12 days of vacation and over a thousand photos, some images defy digital capture.

Running on the ship’s 13th deck on a track that requires 5.5 laps to make a mile.

I am running before sunrise in the middle of the North Atlantic surrounded by the sea.
I am running as the sun rises and shimmers on the wind whipped white caps.
I am running in gale forces so powerful the running track was closed – but then I have never been obedient. The gusts across the deck try to stop me or propel me into the rail. The wind takes my breath but not my laughter at the absurdity and beauty.
I am running as we dock in Agadir, Morocco. With every one of my laps the view changes as I suck the African air and marvel at the surreal.

We are holding hands making our way along Las Ramblas toward the Mediterranean with what appears to be the entire population of Barcelona when somewhere a switch is pulled and millions of Christmas lights go on: snow flakes, spherical ornaments, trees that appear to have snow falling from their branches; every thoroughfare and meandering alley is festooned with illuminated decorations and signs imploring “Feliz Navidad.” And we are a part of the crowd that gasps then cheers with one voice of awe.

I hold Beatrix on our balcony and we look out at the sea; she reaches her hand toward the ocean as if to grab it, grinning and shuddering with glee.

I know her joy. I feel it when I awaken each day of this holiday knowing I share the same space and time with my husband, son, daughter-in-law and grandchild. This is a love and a gift I am wise enough to never take for granted.

Denard is Not Enough

2010-11-29T18:35:00.000-05:00

There has been a big deal made of Bloomberg’s choice of Cathie Black as Chancellor of New York City schools. OMG she doesn’t have a degree in Education. Horrors.

There is a problem here, but the problem isn’t that an exception was made for Cathie Black, the problem is the very existence of state regulations for Teacher, Principal and Superintendent Certification.

It is a game with many winners, but students are the big losers and as they lose, so do we all.

Schools of Education do not develop, teach, train or shape brilliant people to become the educational leaders of tomorrow. But they do map to the Education Certification laws in their state so that a graduate of their college can become Certified. It is a closed system that is failing our youth and imperils our future.

Now you are imaging a wonderful teacher who inspired you or your kids with enthusiasm, a love of learning and sheer brilliance.

Fact: that teacher is:

1) rare
2) amazing DESPITE the school of education s/he attended, not because of
3) like a talented quarterback on a losing team. When that QB runs with the ball it is awe inspiring, but if the team still loses the game, then one hero is NOT enough

Instead of sneering at the deals cut to allow Cathie Black to be Chancellor, it is time to take bold moves to eliminate state boards of education and come up with a new and effective way to evaluate and prepare teachers. The clock is running and we are are so far behind that a Hail Mary pass is our only hope.

The Anti-Puritan Ethic

2010-11-22T17:29:00.000-05:00

Man One
I want to make the most money now. I will exploit the resources – people environment, whatever, as long as I am rich and stay rich and get richer. Foreclosures, health care, lousy schools, unemployment and hunger are not my problem – those people are just lazy and dumb. Look at me, I am rich because I work hard. Don’t muddy the water with talk of inheritance, luck or unethical business practices.

Man Two
Nothing matters, I see no point in working hard – there are no raises or bonuses and they will fire me when it is expedient to do so. I go to work and try not to make any waves; take no risks. Good enough is good enough. I just want to go home at night and watch tv and drink alcohol and eat burgers. Don’t trouble me with the concerns of others who are sick or hungry - I go to work, I go to church, that is enough.

Opportunity Cost

2010-11-07T16:02:00.000-05:00

The article in the WSJ was about Disney vs Dora, The half-page color photo of Mickey boxing with the intrepid explorer caught my eye, but it was a statistic in the opening paragraph that made me stop eating my yogurt.

“Preschoolers aged 2 to 5 spend an average of more than 32 hours in front of a TV screen each week, according to Nielsen.”

Beyond the incredible waste of time, the correlation with obesity, and the commercial pitches, why is it a problem for young children to spend over four and a half hours a day watching TV? Think opportunity cost – what COULD these children be doing?

The parent, grandparent or other caretaker who turned on the television could pull up a stool and enlist the help of the child in preparing the next meal. The educational outcomes from cooking together beat the pants off Diego. Or the adult could sit with the child and read a book, build with blocks, play store or dress-up, dance and sing to music, paint or draw pictures. The child could go outside, to a playground, on a hike, to a park or the woods, ride a bike or even fly a kite.

Hands-on education beats educational programming hands down.

One could argue that the children already are doing all this and the 4.5 hours of tv is in addition to these activities. I don’t buy it, moreover there is no good ratio of passive television viewing to experiential learning. TV is not the best way to learn: to count, to read, to speak Spanish or to hear stories.

It does take a LOT more work and energy to entertain and play; it is much easier to turn on the TV. Raising a child IS work; whether the adult in charge is doing this work for money or love the focus must be “what is the best way to create a rich and stimulating environment for the child?”

Hofstadter was right

2010-11-03T16:47:00.002-05:00

If the midterm elections didn't persuade you that most American voters are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, look closer to home and recognize that a "good enough" education is neither good nor enough.

Reading the story of Britain and France signing a defense agreement, I wondered whether most American students would have any sense of the import of this event. So parents and teachers, click the link and quiz your kids:

1) Why is it newsworthy to mention that Britain and France signed a defense agreement?

2) Read the quote below and explain what these events have in common.

“Neither leader mentioned Agincourt, Trafalgar or Waterloo, or French victories that included the Norman Conquest in 1066…”

3) Who are these people and why do they matter to this story?

“For all that, the shadows of Nelson and Napoleon, of Henry V and Joan of Arc, seemed to hang over the occasion.”

4) Can you name the leaders of Britain and France?

5) Can you find France and Britain on a map?

Now for extra credit answer this:

Who cares and why does it matter to me since I live in the United States and I am far more concerned with who is an Idol, who gets off the Island, who gets Randy Moss and should I wear my jeggings tomorrow?

Germ Warfare

2010-10-31T13:50:00.002-05:00

My son was four years old when he indignantly informed me that I had been mispronouncing his friend’s name.

“Stop calling him Jer-e-my – his real name is: Germy.”

“And you know this because….?”

“MaryClaire is his best friend and she calls him Germy.”

“Do you really think Barbara and Roger would name their son Germy? Like a disease spreader?”

“I don’t know, but if MaryClaire says it then it must be right.”

“Next time you visit, listen to see what his parents call him.”

He did and surprise, surprise - his friend was indeed a Germ-Free Jeremy.

In the waning hours before election day 2010, every candidate is mobilizing to influence the “undecideds.” Fawning over those registered voters who have managed to not select a candidate despite months of information makes sense if your only goal is to be elected.

But is it good for our country?

Those people who are too confused, lazy, intellectually challenged or disinterested to have made an informed opinion about a candidate prior to November are best left out of the voting booth. Persuading them to cast a ballot dilutes rather than promotes Democracy. MaryClaire might be his best friend, but she can still be wrong.

But will it Feature the Famous Favre Photos?

2010-10-17T17:23:00.004-05:00

ESPN plans to launch a new website and network for women called ESPNW. Although 25% of ESPN viewers are females, only 1.4 % of ESPN’s SportsCenter airtime is devoted to women’s sports. ESPN producers apparently believe that women want to watch women’s sports, but men do not, unless of course we are talking NFL cheerleaders who are less athletes and more dirty dancers

ESPNW is a creepy idea, creepier than pink Red Sox t-shirts, creepier than vulgar JETS fans yelling “Show us your tits” and almost as creepy as Little League Teams that don’t allow girls - another step backwards for women – marginalize, separate and segregate.

But one day a woman will outrun a man in a marathon and one day she will best a man on the links, Hey ESPN, which of your channels will air those highlights?

What Kind of Fool Am I?

2010-10-10T14:47:00.003-05:00

When I was young, my mother landed a role in a community theatre production of “Stop the World I Want to Get Off.” The Waldwick, NJ theatre group was run by my music teacher, Mr. Umbach, who was also the highlight of my school week when he came to my first grade classroom every Friday afternoon with his guitar. We sang “Marching to Pretoria” and “He’s got the Whole World in His Hands.” As an ardent atheist even at age 6, I objected to the generally accepted identity of “He” who was supposedly holding this whole world and was only a little bit miffed that a church song was sung in my classroom (public school prayer having been declared illegal) because I loved the melody especially the verse about “itty bitty babies.”

There were some great benefits of my mother’s participation in the play beyond learning the music to a Broadway hit not aimed at children. When I asked what “Lumbered” meant as in “I’ve been L_U_M_B_E_R_E_D Lumbered!” my mother said it was when a woman tricked a man into marrying her by pretending she was going to have a baby. This explanation did nothing to clear up my confusion, but I filed it away as a possibly useful, but seemingly esoteric word. I did not have to ask about the song with the refrain “nag-nag-nag-nag” with its combined sarcasm and oxymoronic phrases such as “My wife’s voice is a symphony and I hate every bloody note.” My parents’ unhappy marriage provided a daily illustration of these concepts. I was thrilled to be able to stay up late to attend the final performance and afterwards I got to wear my mother’s costume for dress-up. Maybe the longest lasting benefit was the title of the play itself, a pithy exclamation that interjects humor into my thoughts as I prepare to face days with more items on the to do list than I can ever hope to accomplish.

Stop the World I Want to Get Off!

Patterns of Speech

2010-09-29T09:09:00.002-05:00

Facebook has become the ideal landscape for pattern sightseeing .

Two trends I have observed: Eeyores and Romper Room Religiosity.

Sociologists claim that Monday FB postings are the gloomiest and the FB status updates become more upbeat during the week. The fact that some people write updates that are predominantly woe-filled may not be proof they are Eeyores, but I am baffled to see some of my friends who don’t appear glass-half-empty in person, appear downright depressed on Facebook . Which is the truer self?

Besides the gloomsters, another eye opener is the number of friends who in face-to-face encounters politely avoid talking religion, but on FB these folks have gone all “southern” and not only feel it is appropriate to share their religious beliefs, but they write in the style of a Spencer Gifts Bumper Sticker Machine. I am not referring to the “click to like” statements that at times rally to be Hallmarkesque, but rather to the deep thoughts of Jack Handy style my otherwise articulate and pensive friends have adopted.

If the contact lists in our phones have diminished our ability to recall phone numbers, is Facebook dumbing down our social dialogue?

Portland 2010 is Not Queens 1964

2010-09-03T17:33:00.002-05:00

The screaming pierced though my sleep in a way sirens and the nightly bum fights never do. All the windows are open from the heat and fans are on high, but the woman’s voice 16 stories down is desperate.

“Somebody help me. Please somebody help me. I don’t even know him. Somebody help.”

I am at the window in a flash, cell phone in hand dialing 911; guessing at the location of the digits with sleep filled eyes and no glasses. But my cell isn’t a local number and it only makes a bunch of clicks. I hang up and lift the window screen to lean out and better see the street.

A large man is in the road holding a much smaller blond woman in the northbound lane. She is struggling and screaming. I could dress and run to the elevator, but it takes time. Should I shout at him, throw things?

I am thinking now of Kew Gardens.

Suddenly a car stops and another. The drivers get out and I hear them talking to the guy holding tightly to the woman. The good Samaritans are telling him to let her go. He doesn’t. My cell phone rings – it is the police dispatcher – my 911 call lit up their switchboard and they phoned me back. I tell her what I see and even as I finish my sentence I hear sirens.

The police arrive – the man releases the woman and she runs up the street toward an apartment house well known to the police. I lie down again but can’t find sleep. I keep hearing that woman’s voice shouting for help and I am transported back to the top bunk at my Grandmother’s house in Fayson Lakes, NJ listening to my parents, grandmother, aunts and uncles tell the story of the stabbing of Kitty Genovese.

Gee aren’t C’s Swell?

2010-08-16T16:40:00.004-05:00

One of the managers at work told me he met with his direct reports to let them know he doesn’t want them to be the worst team because that would get him in trouble, but he also cautioned them not to be the best – too much pressure.

Mediocrity - the new Meritocracy. We have a smart, cool president and the rabble in the streets cry for someone they can “relate to” because this guy is elitist. (see the August 23rd issue of Time, Joel Stein wishes for more elites.)

Teachers praise “well rounded” students – a euphemism for adequate at everything, great at nothing. Genius kids frighten average teachers.

And those kids who were once in the slow reading group (the ones who persisted in pronouncing “the” as “ta-hee”) are appointed and promoted to powerful positions based not on their education and experience, they often lack both, but because they are “nice guys” and loyal. Sort of like a dog. In the micro view this is sigh-worthy, but for a country it is death by dumbness.

The Right to Rights

2010-08-09T17:07:00.004-05:00

Do they even see the irony and hypocrisy or have they completely contracted out the hard work of thinking to Fox, Palin, & Beck?

They bellow about the need for strict constructionist judges who won’t interpret the Constitution.

But then they want to ignore the 14th amendment that says all people born in the US are citizens.

They LOVE the second amendment (guns guns and more guns) but they are looking for some whiteout for the first amendment clause regarding freedom of religion.

Not only are these positions in opposition to their simplistic and impossible desire to keep the Constitution sacred, these holier-than-thou ovines keep conveniently forgetting to ask one of their favorite questions: WWJD?

I do not pretend to know the thoughts of dead people, but I am pretty sure Jesus would not be cool with treating people as less valuable because they were born in a different land, speak a different tongue or worship God in a different house.

I Need Somebody To... Hate?

2010-08-01T17:07:00.002-05:00

The Past
The older man said he could never really trust any Germans, not after living through Hitler and all.

I asked Walt, the guy from whom we bought our house, whether the kid coming to spend a chunk of the summer with us would be accepted in our small town. Walt said no problem, the minister’s grandchildren were black and he hadn’t heard of any trouble. But…
But Walt said he did have a problem with those Chinese girls the family up the hill adopted. They looked too much like the kids he remembered from serving in Vietnam.

The Present
Terry Jones, the Pastor of the Dove World Outreach Center in Gainesville, Florida ,announced his church will hold a Koran burning event on 9/11 because he believes Islam is the devil. His facebook page promoting the event has over 1500 supporters.

The Future

Digital Morality

2010-07-21T17:03:00.003-05:00

Americans are becoming less moral, less ethical and less able to cope with abstract reasoning concerning questions of justice.

While Kohlberg’s stages of moral development have been criticized (Carol Gilligan voiced real concerns about gender bias), the social and political views expressed in the media and in the town square indicate our society is rushing downward on the steep slide of Kohlberg’s six levels of moral reasoning.

Fans of Fox News want only heroes and villains; it makes no difference whether the people they castigate are worthy of their disdain. If a sound bite taken out of context or a misquoted study is broadcast, viewers swallow it whole. Chewing is for liberals.

The lowest level of moral reasoning, stage one, can be defined as being focused on avoiding punishments and getting rewards.
The most important value is obedience to authority in order to avoid punishment. Fox News fans obey Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly. They like their morality plain and simple. Don’t confuse us with facts. In the past it was believed that people outgrew level one moral reasoning by age 16. Now an entire network depends on viewers stagnating at stage one to keep their ratings high.

There are some right wingers who have managed to claw their way into stage two. Kohlberg's stage two was once viewed as the most common stage for 20 somethings, but as adults gained wisdom they were expected to move higher to more sophisticated moral reasoning. Today social and fiscal conservatives of all ages are unable to progress out of this stage which can be defined as “self-needs.” A stage two person takes care of himself and only cares for others if they can see "money in the bank" from which they can make withdrawals. Think Tea-Party members and people who oppose health care because they personally don’t need it.

To achieve the highest level of Kohlberg’s moral hierarchy, stage 6, one much engage in reflection, meditation and be willing to reexamine previous beliefs about right and wrong. These folks are getting rarer all the time. On July 19th the New York Times quotes “Family Guy” creator, Seth Farland:

“People in America, they’re getting dumber. They’re getting less and less able to analyze something and think critically, and pick apart the underlying elements. And more and more ready to make a snap judgment regarding something at face value, which is too bad.”

The Ratio?

2010-07-19T07:04:00.001-05:00

I often leave Marriott hotels with a list of employees to thank.

Viv, the woman at the front desk who was unfazed when I wanted to check-in early at 11:00 am and was not only able to find me a room, but one with a strong wireless signal and an upgrade to a room with a balcony. Thank you Viv.

Morgan, the waiter who recognized me from previous visits, greeted me as I checked in and said he looked forward to serving me my two pots of coffee. Thank you. Morgan.

Mandy, the overnight clerk, who smiled when I left to run, and asked me about my run when I returned. Thank you Mandy.

Last weekend I phoned the Marriott International booking number to use my thousands of “points.” I did not speak with Viv or Morgan or Mandy, I got Brandon.

I told Brandon that I was looking at the Marriott website and could see that three rooms were available for three nights, but the website wouldn’t allow me to combine points and dollars, thus I was phoning him. Brandon said the rooms were only available for two nights. When I pointed out the discrepancy between what he saw and what I saw he replied, “I can’t make rooms magically appear.”

I told Brandon there was no need to be sarcastic with a customer. Then he told me I would need to give him a credit card number because he couldn’t apply the points and I would have to phone back in the morning.

As predicted by Customer Service 101- my encounter with Brandon annoyed me far longer than the encounters with Viv, Morgan and Mandy warmed me.

From Sweet to Sober

2010-07-11T17:07:00.002-05:00

We drove an hour on roads with no numbers to the woodsy part of Maine that knows no oceans. We went to pick the first ripened blueberries of summer. The map in the newspaper ad was useless, we were saved by the “U-Pick” signs marking the serpentine route on smooth, shiny, newly paved roads. It was drizzilng when we arrived, but we are not sugar mice so we took the plastic buckets offered by the proprietor (from his bumper sticker, a big Ron Paul supporter – rural Maine = Libertarians. I didn’t inquire as to who paid for the recent road paving or for the winter plowing.). We picked from berry laden bushes. In 15 minutes we had 8 pounds. (To be accurate I did pick about 2/3 more than spouse, but who is counting, I mean besides me).

Blueberry picking doesn’t require a lot of mental energy; my thoughts ricocheted bumping into scenes from past blueberry harvests. I am an adolescent on one of my first trips to Maine helping my preschool brother pluck wild berries growing between rocks all the while talking about Blueberries for Sal. I am a young mother holding the hand of my little son and plunking berries into a pail as we talk about the pies we’ll bake.

My free flowing memories take a sharp turn to the present and the new law in Florida that forbids children younger than 12 from working in the blueberry fields. Now I am thinking about all the children in my country who are not picking berries for fun or for pies; children who never heard of “Sal.” Images of young children who must pick blueberries in intensive and oppressive summer heat; children who pick so their family can eat.

The Drug

2010-07-05T10:05:00.002-05:00

It was different when she was 14. Then she could devote most of her conscious thought and a large chunk of energy to being a sports fan with no deleterious effects to obligations (school). Her passion for the Bruins launched her on a journey that drained her savings account, introduced her to the criminal underworld along with the requisite investigating detectives, not to mention vomiting before every play-off game. She rather thought or hoped this fanatical behavior was in the past, and it was until 2010 World Cup.

The woman in the pin striped suit, who shifts her laptop bag onto her shoulder as she politely nods to her neighbors in the elevator, had been transformed into a screaming vuvuzela blowing maniac. European Football is unrelated to the tedious soccer games to which she transported her younger brother a lifetime ago. Those games were more “kill the guy with the ball” than organized sport with no defense, no strikers, just a mob of children running up and down the field.

World Cup 2010 is all consuming and highly addictive. Whatever will happen after Sunday’s final match? Withdrawal, yes but fortunately the Red Sox are only a few games behind the arch enemy Yankees and the Sox are, after all, the first team she ever loved.

Puritan Ethic?

2010-06-29T02:56:00.003-05:00

I arrived in from my run about 5:30 am, but before I could shower and consume coffee, I was communicating with three coworkers - one IMing me, one phoning me and a third was rapid-fire exchanging emails with me. I also had a voice mail from a fourth who phoned while I was running. These were not idle, chatty communiqués, - all business.

And not at all unusual here in Portland, Maine.

Several years ago I was a Principal in Central Florida where early birds were decidedly not the norm. It was a challenge to get my teaching staff to arrive by 8:00 am and most of them believed 8:00 was an approximation that could be defined equally well as 8:05, 8:10 or even 8:15. Clutching iced-coffee and Cokes they defined the coffee mug cliche "I don't do mornings."

Of course there are sleepyheads in New England and early risers in the south, but as generalizations go...

The Girl from Uruguay

2010-06-22T09:41:00.003-05:00

Mexico is playing Uruguay in the World Cup right now and I am remembering a girl from Uruguay – Sandra Malgarejo.

It was 1978 - newly arrived in the US, Sandra entered in my 7th grade class in Jersey City, NJ unable to speak any English and since I only spoke English, helping her comprehend the lessons was another one of the many challenges I faced in that first teaching job at age 21. Sandra was sweet and eager to learn, I put her in the front row to better explain one-on-one. While her classmates helped her at every chance, the Principal, not so much.

On a chilly autumn day the Principal interrupted my class to make three announcements:

1) The bulletin board is blank and this is unacceptable.
2) It is not cold and all those with sweaters must remove them.
3) You can’t hold a candle to Mrs. Smee.

Clearly I was remiss in ignoring the bulletin board. Classroom décor was never my strength. But the Principal implied it was the job of my students and selected two meek girls to decorate the board. Whatever. Problem solved.

After making the sweater proclamation, the Principal proceeded to open the window, I guess to prove her point. The few students wearing sweaters removed them quickly. I was wearing one and I did not take it off, nor did Sandra. I of course understood the Principal's command, Sandra didn’t. The Principal stood between me and Sandra with her back to me and repeated the command to remove the sweater. Sandra didn’t understand and tears began to flow down her cheeks. The Principal repeated the command, in a louder voice. The other students were too frightened to explain to Sandra what was being asked of her. I managed to make eye contact with Sandra and slowly, deliberately took off my sweater. Her wet eyes lit up and she quickly removed her own sweater.

The Principal then launched into a tirade on respect and repeatedly uttered a phrase with which I was unfamiliar and not quite sure how to interpret: “You can’t hold a candle to Mrs. Smee.” I was pretty sure she meant it as a compliment, but it seemed creepily odd. What if you held a candle near me, would the black hole of my being snuff it out?

We were all relieved when this impromptu visit ended, but none of us more than Sandra, the girl from Uruguay.

Time Travel

2010-06-18T02:51:00.003-05:00

When the weather forecast threatened rain all weekend we decided to buy a device to digitally transmit our slides to the laptop. We began with the baggies labeled 1978- roll one of seven, our cross-country honeymoon trip. The panoramic views of Dallas are of little interest ditto the purchased slides from Disney World. But the shot of him on the beach at Galveston and the one of her leaning on the lamppost in New Orleans create a reflective silence as we each try to climb back into our 20 and 21 year old selves.

What was in our heads before we were parents or mortgage holders or employees or bill payers?
Why weren't we worried that we were traveling without a credit card or check book?
Why didn't we lie awake at night gnashing our teeth about not having a place to live or jobs?

Some things are Never Okay

2010-04-18T16:21:00.002-05:00

The coworker suffers from an Eeyore complex, he is all woe all the time. He was sitting in his boss’s office with his newest troubled tale. He held up his bruised and cut fist, a prop for today’s saga involving his thirteen year old son who was arrested yesterday for assaulting a teacher. This is the second incident. The injured fist? He beat up his son at the police station until a couple cops took him for a walk to cool down.

I usually just listen to his sad sack stories, but this time I interrupt..

“It is not okay to hit your son.”

“He deserved it, even the cops said so.”

Raise your hand if you wonder why his son assaults teachers.

Lat week The USA Today, a paper I am forced to read now that Courtyard Marriott’s response to the recession has been to cancel subscriptions to all real newspapers, ran a story in their “Across the USA: news from every state” section under the Florida heading:

Ocala, Florida – The Marion County school board has decided that area principals can no longer paddle misbehaving students as punishment. Board members voted to take the option out of the student code of conduct for 2010-2011. Principals previously could paddle students in front of a witness with the permission of a parent. Some board members cited liability reasons.

It is never okay to hit children. Period. No discussion, no exceptions.

So real you can touch it

2010-04-02T08:01:00.001-05:00

When I phone, my work day is drawing to a close and she is grazing through her fridge looking for lunch. We can feel space folding, erasing the gap from Maine to California as we flit from discussions of books we just read to adventures in England.

Then time joins space in the fold and we are on one of our outings hoisting our tots to our hips while simultaneously folding up strollers and springing up flights of steps, an older woman watching us comments “Ah to be young mothers.”

We dance inside that familiar and delightful crease watching as her 1981 baby girl grabs chunks of mango from a Tupperware bowl while my 1981 baby boy runs circles in the aquarium chasing a fish.

The fold can’t hold and we are here now, where her baby girl is completing work on her PhD and my baby boy just had a baby.

And we wonder how we became the old woman at the foot of the staircase.

Mediocrity by Design

2010-03-18T12:11:00.002-05:00

National standards for English and Mathematics are a start, but why dumb them down? Are the dreams of the children of Mississippi less worthy or less attainable than those of the children in Massachusetts?

Academics cite the Educational standards in Massachusetts as some of the best and most challenging. Why reinvent a square wheel when we have an excellent radial tire? High expectations beat excuses and fingerpointing.

“What the best and wisest parent wants for his own child, that must the community want for all of its children.” - John Dewey

The MOST Objectionable Thing

2010-03-08T14:56:00.003-05:00

There was a man walking on the best treadmill in our fitness room at 4:15 am today so I had to run on the defective mill.

But that was NOT the most objectionable thing.

The man smelled horrible – mostly cigarette smoke (Imagine the scent of the former Doonesbury cartoon Mr. Cigarette) mixed with an under note of eau de trois jours sans douche (as in shower).

But that was NOT the most objectionable thing.

The volume on the tv was turned WAY UP and was so LOUD I couldn’t hear my ipod.

But that was NOT the most objectionable thing.

The smelly man walking on the best treadmill was watching SPORTS CENTER which is dull at best and super boring when it repeats its 30 minute cycle. The only excitement was a dramatic NASCAR accident. After forty minutes I wanted to suggest we turn off the tv and I would recite who won and lost.

But that was NOT the most objectionable thing.

On SPORTS CENTER it was mostly basketball and two opposing players were chest bumping, trash taking and mixing it up. The announcer said “THEY GOTTA UNDERSTAND YOU CAN’T TAKE IT PERSONAL OUT THERE.”

PERSONAL?! Just how LOW is the bar for sportscasting?

YES! That was the most objectionable thing.

I fantasized about the mort hand of Bill Safire reaching from the grave to choke this moron until he no longer knew a three pointer from a foul shot.

Then the smelly man finished his third mile of walking and left. Before I changed treadmills I climbed on the weight bench to reach the ceiling mounted tv (remote permanently broken) and changed to channel 43, TNT, to watch Law and Order even though I prefer NUM3ERS (but it wasn’t on).

From Pataki to Patterson

2010-02-27T07:39:00.001-05:00

I worked for the great state of New York during the change over from the Cuomo to the Pataki administration. I was an Educational Coordinator (school Principal) in a maximum secure prison for juvenile felons. Once Pataki was in office, the director of the prison (Warden) asked me to do write-ups on the educational achievements of some of the inmates/students. I did so not realizing the commonality – all the kids were 16 going on 17.

One kid, “A” was our best behaved inmate. He had moved through the “level system” to reach the point where he was permitted to help shovel snow with the custodian outside (but still within the concertina wire rimming the yard). He was from Guyana and told stories of helping his grandfather remove bodies from the Jim Jones koolade murder site before moving to the US and getting involved with gangs and crimes including stabbings.

Another kid, “J” was the victim of sexual abuse (his father) and was arrested for raping his friend’s sister. He was a very slow learner and easily confused and exploited.

Shortly after I did the write ups, I found a doctored version of my report on “A” in the fax machine – it had been edited to omit any positive references and only mentioned some of his academic struggles with algebra. A week or two later, both boys were transferred to adult prison apparently in keeping with one of Pataki’s campaign promises.

I never heard from “A” again, but “J” wrote many letters to me,his former teachers and guards. He described being raped repeatedly in the adult prison.

When I confronted the Warden he reminded me he served at the behest of Governor Pataki and therefore had to move these juveniles to adult prison and support the moves with documentation.

With blood on my hands I soon resigned and began working for what was then NYNEX.

Pataki is long gone and so is the whore monger Spitzer and the cliché may be that we get the leaders we deserve, but surely New York deserves better than a governor who hires, supports and protects a man who chokes and beats up his girl friend.

Pataki used the power of his office to punish known criminals who had at least a slim chance of changing, Patterson used the power of his office to protect a known criminal who has very little chance of getting any punishment at all.

The False Simplicity of Tim Tebow

2010-02-04T07:24:00.001-05:00

It isn’t as simple as Tim Tebow says.

The so-called Pro-life movement (nb: they aren’t truly pro-life since most of them are also pro-death penalty, but I digress) is jumping for joy that a recent study of one Abstinence Only course appears to support their belief that to prevent abortions you must prevent sex. In a rational world this would be a no brainer. No sex = no pregnancies= no need for abortions.

News flash: humans are irrational.

The Abstinence Only course did cause 67% of middle schoolers to delay becoming sexually active for two years (as compared to a control group) and this IS a success, so pro-choice advocates should stop guffawing and take note. But what was KEY about this course is that it used a technique that has been shown to be VERY effective with teens in making all sorts of choices, not just about sex. The adolescents were asked to think, talk and write about hopes and dreams for their futures.

Unwanted pregnancies are typically not part of anyone’s ideal future.

We have an opportunity here to find the grey and stop the polarization.
Pro-Life advocates need to remember that IF the #1 goal is NO Abortions, then they need to stop protesting against mentioning birth control in sex ed classes. They need to remember that sex isn’t the enemy, unwanted pregnancies are.

Pro-Choice advocates need to remember that they are called Pro-Choice because really nobody is Pro-Abortion and they should roll up their sleeves and partner with the Pro-Lifers to design sex ed that works using every tool from advocating abstinence to talking birth control to envisioning future dreams.

Because really, isn't it much more fun to watch Tebow play football than to listen to him talk about being a mistake?

Naked Emperors

2010-01-31T09:34:00.002-05:00

No one can be genuinely surprised to read the study in Catalyst Inc that shows only 3% of CEOs and 13.5% of executive-officer positions at Fortune 500 companies are held by women. But the salt-in-wound moments are all about perception:

81% of men say opportunities to move to middle management are gender neutral (only 52% of women share this belief).

66% of men say promotions to the executive level are gender neutral (only 30% of women agree).

Men pay women less money and promote women less often all the while pretending this isn’t really happening. I guess men really aren’t very good at math.

Grateful

2010-01-17T13:51:00.000-05:00

In his new book, 59 Seconds, Richard Wiseman quotes studies that have been proved to yield measurable outcomes. One such study indicates that every day, writing down five things for which you are grateful, will increase happiness and optimism about the future and the grateful writers exercise more! Grateful statements aren’t meant to be big picture statements- rather they are specifics that happened that day. Thus:

Thursday
1) I am grateful that Donna and Sarah were at Starbucks when I stopped by the Kennebunk rest area at 6:40 am today. Their smiles and “welcome back” are as potent as the venti in making my four hour trip start on an upbeat note.
2) I am grateful it is not snowing and the roads are clear and dry. It is too cold for the snow on the ground to melt and create slush, thus the driving is easy, peasy.
3) I am grateful for the rest area on I-93 just north of Manchester. Enough said!
4) I am grateful for being alone in the car and thus able to sing aloud, loudly, to Sympathy for the Devil.
5) I am grateful that when I arrive in Burlington way ahead of schedule, the Marriott General Manager meets me at the desk and lets me check in.

Friday
1) I am grateful that today I can run on the treadmill without any ibuprofen for my ham-calf injury sustained schlepping my rolling bag up two flights of stairs at the York train station.
2) I am grateful that the waitress for the breakfast buffet gives me a large pot of coffee all my own.
3) I am grateful that the double team with whom I am working today is enthusiastic and receptive and their feedback forms include the sentence: This was the first FairPoint training that I actually learned something.”
4) I am grateful that my coworker, Dana, drives over from St.J to meet with me over lunch to plan future meetings.
5) I am grateful that the drive back to Portland involves no precipitation or speeding tickets even if I pull into the left lane at 80 mph in front of a state trooper.

Avoid Thinking

2010-01-06T14:16:00.005-05:00

I work in a highly unionized workplace. Philosophically pro-union, but distraught by the unintended consequences of a militant union, I count among my complaints the refusal by many unionized employees to think of solutions to problems. Blame management for believing that these folks are morons who need to be programmed like robots, but the reality is that when new challenges appear, many of the union members will not use their quite competent brains to problem solve. The knee jerk response: "I've never been trained on this."

Which makes me think of my first teaching job. The instructor editions of the text books were “idiot proof” complete with a script, questions to pose and acceptable answers. I hated to think of the curiosity that was lost in classrooms where teachers actually used these banal basals. And this hasn't gotten better - high stakes annual testing encourages mindlessness. We focus on the lowest level of Bloom's Taxonomy - "RECALL" since that is easier to test, and don't insist on skills such as analysis, synthesis and evaluation.

Blooms highest level, "Evaluation" calls for "making choices based on reasoned argument", which brings this match of word association football to the Underpants bomber. Once again we want to develop rules and procedures to follow. We expect these will either make us safer or fool us into feeling safer, but neither is true. Until we train people to think and expect people to think, we will remain unnecessarily vulnerable to terrorism. Gee isn't it odd that he bought a one-way ticket and has no luggage and paid cash. Not red alert odd, but odd enough to warrant a second look. Gee if I hear from a dad that his kid has been radicalized and I don't tell anyone in the airline business, how will they know?

Think about it.

It's a Long Long Way to ...

2010-01-03T08:08:00.001-05:00

This is our third Maine winter and we have never used heat. While we do consider ourselves hearty, we also live on the 16th floor and thus our neighbor’s heat helps take the chill off our apartment. However when we returned to Portland Friday night after two weeks in the North Yorkshire area of Britain, we couldn’t seem to get warm. Hot showers, extra blankets, we even ran the dryer to preheat the down quilt … still it took hours for our icy feet to defrost. The rational mind says that leaving our apartment empty for so long without the heat from lights, bodies and computers made it much colder than usual. But maybe our shivering was a function of the distance between us and three people we love: our daughter-in-law, our son and our baby granddaughter. You can hum “It’s a Small World” but it is hard to feel the coziness of a hug and the warmth of a baby’s smile 3,000 miles away.

We Need a Little.... Puritan Ethic

2009-12-16T10:00:00.002-05:00

Adolescents take more risks when peers are present, but what is the excuse for seemingly intelligent adults?

The choice seems like theatre-of-the-obvious to me; pick the pain of discipline over the pain of regret. Adults who jeopardize their careers and marriages for immediate, short-lived gratification (the coworkers who were recently fired for drinking at work, the adultery of Tiger Woods, John Edwards, Bill Clinton) need lollypops dipped in powdered sugar hung around their necks.

Or is it too late?

Welcome Beatrix Eleanor Smee!

2009-12-09T19:34:00.001-05:00

FOR SO THE CHILDREN COME

Poem by Sophia Lyon Fahs

For so the children come
And so they have been coming.
Always in the same way they come
born of the seed of man and woman.

No angels herald their beginnings.
No prophets predict their future courses.
No wisemen see a star to show where to find the babe
that will save humankind.

Yet each night a child is born is a holy night,
Fathers and mothers--
sitting beside their children's cribs
feel glory in the sight of a new life beginning.

They ask, "Where and how will this new life end?
Or will it ever end?"

Each night a child is born is a holy night--
A time for singing,
A time for wondering,
A time for worshipping.

Who Are You Calling a Shrimp?

2009-12-05T18:26:00.003-05:00

95% of the Maine Shrimp is cooked then shipped overseas.

I know what happened to some of the 5% remaining...

This afternoon we purchased a pound of raw Maine Shrimp
- caught right here in Portland.

Sunday Brunch is already calling my name.

The Best Part About the Thanksgiving Holiday...

2009-11-30T09:51:00.002-05:00

... wasn't the food, although Jock did make some incredible shrimp and avocado tortilla wraps.
It wasn't the chance to catch up on work, although I did quite a bit of that in anticipation of vacation in just over 2 weeks.
It wasn't the Black Friday shopping, although I did manage to snag the perfect baby snowsuit and a reflective running vest.
The best part about the last four days has been the gift of spending them with my spouse.

Which makes today a bit harder to bear as I head to Lebanon, NH then to Burlington, VT.

All Cleared for Drilling

2009-11-22T14:29:00.002-05:00

Today’s Sunday New York Times includes “T” Magazine, a Travel supplement. On the 9th page is an ad for Korean Air featuring their “prestige sleeper seat” with the motto: “Dare to dream of comfort this ultimate.”

The trouble is, this seat looks uncomfortably like a dentist’s chair. Maybe it’s the color scheme – turquoise and white (the Korean Air website depicts the seat in red), but the print version is all rinse and spit.

Before I turned the page to something less lydocainian, I had an idea so brilliant it competes with Ralph Kramden’s Ragg Mopp: Dental Care in the Air.

Air travel is incredibly uncomfortable and so are dental visits, combine the two, connect those oxygen masks to nitrous and voila, win-win!

Be Here Now

2009-11-11T19:29:00.000-05:00

The bright foliage and the tourists have left Vermont ceding the snow-free roads to me and a handful of locals. The interstate is so empty one could almost text while driving, but instead I eat - lunch from a rest area vending machine - and sing, loudly, as I whip down I-89 south. A license plate on an SUV says “exhale” but the land and I are holding our breath, waiting for what we know will come, for what might come. Preparing.

Listening to Hunters Brag about Bucks

2009-11-02T17:23:00.004-05:00

I am hardly a PETA member.

I frequently have fantasies of shooting dogs that annoy me on runs.

And I suppose, hypothetically, if I were hungry and no nuts and berries were around, I would kill to eat.

But if an animal isn't annoying me and I'm not starving with limited food options, why would it be fun to kill?

I like competition and I like being in the woods,

but to know the deer that one minute is running in the forest is now dead because I had free time and gun on my hands is

creepy.

The Ones They Pick

2009-11-02T17:19:00.003-05:00

The stereotypes are objectionable not because there isn’t some truth behind them
But that they slam doors and erect walls between people and their potential.

Our own abilities place limits on us we can’t always overcome – not everyone can throw like a Manning or paint like Hockney even with lots of practice.

Why shut more doors with thoughtless statements about how all ________ are?

(fill in blank with gender, ethnicity, race, religion).

We need to frame phrases to suggest a million possible futures.

Trapped in our own Context

2009-10-17T09:07:00.002-05:00

It is just after 6:00 am when I enter the parking garage to drive to Manchester. I hear a shuffling noise to my left and shift my gaze toward the garbage cans where I recognize a woman I frequently see after my morning run; I usually get on the elevator as she gets off, book in hand. Now she is squatting by the trash reading a book and smoking a cigarette.

The coworker was planning to see a Red Sox game for her birthday but when she found out not only is smoking forbidden in Fenway, but also outside the park, she cancelled her plans.

The coworker booked a trip for herself and her husband to go to New York City before Christmas to see the lights, the Rockettes and enjoy the holiday atmosphere. But when she found out they couldn’t smoke in their hotel room, she cancelled her plans. She explained that she and her husband start their day with a cigarette in bed and end their day with cigarettes in bed.

*************

The whiners have no problem finding new and different things to whine about. Woe is ME. It is so awful for ME. No one knows how bad it is for ME. Of course these whiners aren’t the people who really are experiencing seriously bad times, but they thrive on the negativity and attention their endless pity parties bring. They sap the energy and enthusiasm from all who have the misfortune of falling into their gravitational field – their black holes have powerful sucking power.

*************

I wasn’t sure I wanted to run an extra lap this morning, but I finally persuaded myself and as I began the fifth lap I barely noticed a homeless man in green fatigues struggling up the sidewalk with his black trash bag presumably full of empties. There are so many street people here who wander the sidewalks before dawn sorting through trash cans and dumpsters in search of containers they can return to Paul’s Market for deposit returns, I don’t give this man a second look… But as I approach he puts down his swollen trash bag, turns to face me and starts to applaud. Clapping his hands as I run by. Okay so now I am not regretting that extra lap, now I am grinning and now I am running a little better and a little faster. I wave a thank you to my newest fan.

Skimble, where is Skimble?

2009-10-03T07:55:00.004-05:00

I could almost feel my atrophied synaptic connections resprouting while on holiday in England for ten days. But the return to reality hit even before the plane landed and the goal is how to keep alive that vacation state of mind.

The box of chocolates we purchased helped a bit. Thursday night, after another 13 hour work day, we stood over the kitchen counter with a steak knife in hand surgically slicing each chocolate in half - the calvados truffle, the plum pannacotta, the black current & champagne - each taste brought back those delightful moments in Harrogate's Hotel Chocolat.

As we left Becky's diner this morning after a hearty breakfast and walked uphill through the steadily falling rain, I wished we could hop abroad a train - to Knaresborough or York or Carlisle.

Musings, Viewings and Eavesdropping in the UK

2009-09-25T02:34:00.003-05:00

The Railway Museum in York is like stepping into a Huck Scarrey book. Ryan’s childhood train favs are all here The Rocket, the Flying Scotsman….

In Manchester the billboard on the football field (soccer to Americans) advises the players to “Humiliate then Celebrate.”

There is another billboard in Manchester visible from the train; “How many fans actually live in Manchester?” (again for the "football" challenged – this is a reference to Manchester United.”

According to our Knaresborough tour guide, the reason we call it cow, sheep and pig, but eat beef, mutton and pork is due to the Saxons farming and the Normans eating.

Susie wants still water and her husband insists the attendant in the executive lounge at the Marriott ring up the Maitre D’ to bring more still water. Since all non-alcoholic beverages are free, this seems more than a bit cheeky. Still water? Without bubbles – non gassata.

After a coughing fit, the woman on the train continued chatting with her seatmate, "and we were outside puffing (pronounced Pouffing) away...

Two old men push the trolley down the aisle of the train on the Settle-Carlisle line. They are volunteers. “Do you require any refreshments?” they politely inquire of the passengers. After buying and regretting buying a large (really?) cup of “filtered coffee” (as opposed to instant) and finding it to be not only non-coffeeesque but too reminiscent of weak veg soup to drink, I overhear one of the trolley volunteers explaining to a passenger that he only works part-time and some days the trains are full, especially in the winter, but they sell very little coffee. What was I thinking?!... when in Britain... I should have ordered tea.

Of course one doesn't want to take the whole "When in Rome" adage too far - or in Leeds I would be throwing my trash on the sidewalk, or street or in the bus shelter. Yes the Bin Strike is in the 18th day, but the trash cans aren't overflowing - so that can't be the excuse for rampant littering.

I send an email to the Leeds Council suggesting an anti-littering campaign.
Cheeky Americans...

Let them Drink the Koolade

2009-09-13T13:14:00.003-05:00

Their thirst is unquenchable
And it makes no difference to them whether it is real (or artificially sweetened)
They lost, or perhaps never had, the ability to tell the two apart
They can’t be troubled with differentiating opinion from fact
They prefer the unexamined rhetoric and hyperbole.
The rants and slogans that stir their emotions.
They’ll jump on every bandwagon.
They are too far gone for logic and rationality.
The best you can hope for
Is to stir up a new pitcher
of another flavor
perhaps something less red.

Listen

2009-09-10T12:10:00.000-05:00

From the man wearing a tool belt in the manhole to the man in the suit in the boardroom, there are those who believe their piece of the truth is the whole truth.

When the hourly worker says it we hear ignorance and roll our eyes at his limited view of the big picture.

When our leaders say it, we hear arrogance and know their smug hubris will cause pain to all, including
the hourly worker.

My Labor Day Wish

2009-09-07T07:20:00.001-05:00

I wish today that “Labor” – unionized workers who enjoy generous medical benefits, would stop their opposition to providing this basic need to others. Many of my unionized coworkers rant orally and in writing that anyone who doesn’t have health insurance must be lazy and unemployed. These Fox Fans are unable or unwilling to rationally respond to statistics or logic, instead they shout socialism, an irony given their union contract that mandates no bonuses or rewards based on the quality or quantity of their work.

Ruminations from a Port City

2009-08-31T07:05:00.004-05:00

Watching thousands of passengers flow from the ship to shore with stickers on their lapels and credit cards burning in their wallets, I am gripped with a Ralph Kramden scheme: open a chain of shops called: "Crap to Prove You've Been Here." No need to ponder cutesie names for stores such as "Mainely Gifts" or "Seaside Sweets."

Each shop would sell the same spoons, coasters, t-shirts, barometers, salt water taffy and nautically inspired goo-gas. One template fits all:

"My grandparents went to _______ and all I got was this t-shirt."

"The best taffy is made in ____________"

Does anyone ever buy taffy except as a souvenir?

Summer's too short around here...

2009-08-27T12:32:00.001-05:00

It is easy to forget
That it snows here
When you are running past
Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod and purple clover
But the road reveals the past and portends the too soon arrival
Of the long, sharp claws of the Bangor winter
Potholes deep enough to twist an ankle and
Grooves and welts of frost heaves
Someone tried to fill the cracks with tar
But that only works for the scratches
Not the deep gouges that I dance around to avoid
Injury.

Endless Overture

2009-08-25T11:32:00.003-05:00

I used to think everyone had a soundtrack playing.
I expected the playlists would be different

Gloria mentions of leaving a job

Some might tap into Proud Mary,
others would channel Bruce’s “My Hometown”
And I might hear “”G L O R I A!”

It never occurred to me that for some people
There is only silence

I am lying upside down on the itchy brown couch with my talking Casper doll tucked under one arm and an album cover in the other.
My mother drops the needle onto Peter and the Wolf or Peter Percussion
Camelot, The Sound of Music, Oklahoma and My Fair Lady
I study the album covers while the music plays, searching for clues to the story.

Sometimes on weekends my father puts on his music
Music without words, but
the pictures on the Copland album cover almost make up for the lack of lyrics
Today when I hear the words and first few notes … “tis a gift to be simple”
I see that album cover

I have always heard the music.
But I learn to keep it to myself
As clear as the words and notes are to me,
my mouth can only get the words right
My melodies produce grimmaces

Today I drive
past cows grazing next to their future silage
I free the notes
And sing about corn that is as high as an elephants eye

And to think that I saw it on Congress Street!

2009-08-22T18:18:00.006-05:00

The artists are setting up their booths on Congress street before 4:30 am when I run my first lap. Each lap (Saturdays are five lap days) brings more metal tent poles and white canvas walls. These Gypsy artists prepare their temporary shops with grim determination. They lack the muscles and mechanical know-how to make the booth set-up look anything but challenging. Nearly all of them are quite thin – starving artists? Not your stereotypical roadies or roustabouts. Their sweaty struggles render them unable to smile or nod as I run by time and time again, I am thankful for my homeless pals - the Cleric gives me a thumbs up from his post by Olympia Sports while Jerry Garcia gives a big wave from across the street as I run by the firehouse. As the booths are stabilized, the artwork emerges from the backs of rented U-Hauls and out-of-state vans. Hopes and dreams wrapped in patchwork quilts or encased in wooden slats are unwrapped and hung from metal hooks on the white fabric walls. The images blur as I race by - a house in a snowy field, sailing ships and light houses even a flying hippopotamus.

Keeping it Real?

2009-08-18T18:05:00.001-05:00

The skinny black woman picks bottles and cans from the trash wearing plastic gloves. She doesn’t wave or smile, but sometimes she nods. She is a tiny woman and as I run toward her today I see her olive green t-shirt hangs to her knees. She turns at the sound of my approaching footsteps and I see her shirt has lettering.

“I’m listening to the voices in my head.”

Our State Fair is the Best State Fair!

2009-08-14T18:48:00.003-05:00

The Kennebunk rest area is teeming with pastel tourists chowing down on chunks of deep fried chicken in wafting distance of the bathrooms. The noxious fumes mingle until you can’t tell where the grease ends and the urine begins. I can’t get my Starbucks coffee fast enough. Am I the only person not on vacation today?

Many sips later, I am on New Hampshire route 101 heading west and letting my mind wander. I am driving nearly from border to border on this road, next stop Keene. On the single lane highway I am following a car with an Elvis license plate until he turns left into a Walmart.

A white Chevy blazer pulls in front of me – this too has a vanity plate (do they still call them that?) “Boatnik.” The speed limit slows to 35 miles an hour – slow enough for me to read and ruminate on a homemade mini-billboard outside of Dublin announcing the date and time of the next meeting of the “Live Free or Die” club.

A group dedicated to a license plate motto? Does every state have these secret Water Buffalo Lodges? In Jersey City and in Miami do people meet and high five “Oh yes, we ARE the Garden (or Sunshine) state!” Do these clubs ever face off against others? Tonight North Carolina takes on Ohio, let the chanting commence
“FIRST IN FLIGHT”
“BIRTHPLACE OF AVIATION”
“NO, FIRST IN FLIGHT!!:

Really these motto meetings sound dreary. Although the Missouri Motto meeting could get interesting. After all, they are the Show Me State.

The Opposite of Boring

2009-08-07T18:49:00.004-05:00

I drive away from the Courtyard Marriot in Lebanon, NH just after 4:30 am. The BBC is on NPR which makes me think of R&S and smile. The morning is chillier than I expected – Portland mornings have begun in the high 60’s this week, but now it is barely over 50 degrees. I put on the heat as I drive two miles to the track.

LHS, Lebanon High School, is quiet on this early summer morning. When I run during the school year bus drivers and janitors along with a teacher or two are often present. Today I am alone. The wet grass sogs my sneakers. Between the cold air and my damp feet, I am shivering by the time I hit the track.

Lebanon is in New Hampshire, but only a breath away from Vermont. Dartmouth College is up the road a piece. White mountains to the east and green mountains rise up to the west .

I love running on this track. The scenery changes with every lap. I start under moon lit skies with a few cirrus clouds, but slowly the sky in the east lightens while the clouds descend toward earth and finally congregate on the horizon. For a few laps, one cloud dangles over the high school like an illustration in a children’s book before it disappears. I am sad when the clouds thicken and hide the moon, but by then the lightening sky is changing colors as the unseen sun is broken into pinks and oranges (PINGE!!).

I long ago stopped shivering and as I count 32 laps, my new magenta ipod is the ear candy sound track for yet another beautiful daybreak. The run ends with the Talking Heads (Stay Up Late) and I am grinning all the way back to the hotel.

DWT- Driving While Texting

2009-08-07T18:31:00.001-05:00

The woman in front of me on I-295 is holding a notebook open on the steering wheel and typing on her cell phone and driving - poorly. I swerve to avoid hitting her as she weaves in and out of her lane. I entertain fantasies of cutting her off and dragging her from the car to knock some sense into her.

But I am still not convinced that having my cell phone on speaker mode (hands-free) and listening to a conference call – even participating now and then, is any more distracting than driving around with spouse in the passenger seat engaging me in riveting conversation on all matters pertaining to work, life and the best flavor of M&Ms (you have tried the cocoanut ones, right?!).

Special Interests vs No Interest

2009-07-30T16:10:00.001-05:00

I lived in a town in Florida where the elected School Board members know that since the poor people don’t vote, they don’t have to care about the poor when making policies, like suspending and expelling the children of the poor and condemning them to "discipline schools."

I live in a country where the elected Representatives in the House and Senate know that since the poor people don’t vote, they don’t have to care about the poor when making policies, like universal health care, so they go on holiday while poor people can’t afford to go to the doctor.

A Vote for Change - changing hearts and minds

2009-07-28T15:58:00.003-05:00

When you have power – as a parent, boss, teacher or yes, President, it is easy to stand on your soapbox of righteous indignation and heap shame upon your children, employees, students or citizens. And from your bully pulpit you feel a bit smug – for you have enlightened the misguided.

When you have power, this is easy, it is also ineffective and often counter productive.

The people you chastise and those who overhear you, will be ashamed and maybe they won’t repeat this particular behavior, but they also might decide they hate you for making them feel small and there is a risk you will strengthen their belief that while you may have the power, you are wrong.

You have failed the eureka test. You have not troubled the waters of their conscience, you have not enlightened them or helped them see why they were wrong.

I hope when Obama shares a beer with Gates and Crowley this Thursday, he will help these men see how it feels to stand in the shoes of the other and maybe, if he can get past the name calling ("stupid"?!), Sgt Crowely will leave with a mental discomfort – born not of public humiliation by our President, but from a genuine understanding of the disgraceful and ugly legacy of Police officers mistreating blacks in America.

Hail to the .... Squid?

2009-07-23T14:51:00.001-05:00

In the dream Jock was feeding fish to a giant squid
I was really grossed out and asked him why he was going this and whether he hoped to tame the squid.
Jock didn’t answer,
but the squid said “Go Blue.”
Then the alarm rang.

Invisible Capes

2009-07-18T12:23:00.004-05:00

I met with the coworker for three hours to plan a series of training sessions.
In between talking course curricula, office geography and training calendars, we discussed families.

She told me about raising 4 sons and her work/life balance - one week on the road, one week working from home.
She told me her work used to take her to Europe and she talked about pumping breast milk in airport bathrooms.
Her boys are older now - the oldest starts middle school this fall so her many hours of classroom volunteering will be in two school buildings.

About a year ago a friend of her grandmother phoned and explained she was unable to continue to care for one of her many foster children - a little girl, almost 2 but barely speaking, too weak to walk, with her scalp and skin covered with rashes.

The photo in her wallet now shows four grinning boys and a little girl, smiling ear to ear. After a year of therapies: physical, occupational, speech plus nutrition and love, the little girl is healthy and running and talking non-stop.
The adoption was final last week.

We kept working on the training sessions.
In between she told me about raising four sons and a daughter.

The Onus of the Oral Tradition

2009-07-14T16:02:00.001-05:00

Sometimes 40 years doesn’t seem so long ago

July 1969
I am in Concord, Massachusetts.
My cousins, Wendy and Jennifer are visiting from Kansas.
At dinner Wendy is surprised to learn that in our house it is okay to ask for second helpings. Her house has different rules. After dinner we are in pajamas sitting in front of the black and white tv watching men walk on the moon. A few days later, on my birthday, I ask for a telescope.

Sometimes 40 years seems like a really long time ago.

Growing up, parents and grandparents who mentioned “the war” were always talking about World War II. But forty years before I was born actually marked the start of WWI.

It is odd to think that for Beatrix, opening her eyes as 2009 draws to a close, the moon landing will be as remote to her as WWI was to me.

We Were All So Much Younger Then

2009-07-12T07:03:00.001-05:00

I run east along Fenner Road and take a right on Moraine.
I run past miniature donkeys and fields of corn and golden rod on streets littered with squashed frogs and tadpoles, a dead raccoon and other former mammals no longer identifiable in their current incarnation as chunks of bloody fur. Two deer pounce in front of me, criss-crossing Fenner.
I am running east, I am running into the past.
For years this was my daily run.
Now the once familiarly mundane landmarks prod memories.
They tumble with such vigor I barely register the songs on my ipod.
There is a risk of melancholy here as the faces of people and times past or gone remind me I can never again have what was.
But a sadness born of remembering former happiness is unworthy of tears.
Focus on the happiness and keep running.

....the Whole World Smiles with You

2009-07-09T08:19:00.002-05:00

It didn’t rain on my run today.
This summer in Portland, a lack of precipitation is worthy of comment.
I received a record number of smiles and waves today.
No doubt my early morning regulars were as happy as I was to see the moon unobscured by rain
Without the distraction of puddle hopping and raindrop wiping, my mind was free to ponder.
I thought about the joy I get from those pre-dawn smiles.
I thought about an email I got that said “Life’s too short to be unhappy.”
And I thought maybe, at the end of the day, as we gaze at our navels,
we’d be happier if we counted the smiles we generate rather than the wrongs and slights others inflict upon us.

While Standing Outside the Public Storage Facility

2009-07-06T10:03:00.001-05:00

I spoke with a white woman, about aged 60, from Oklahoma.
She was an army brat and spent some of her childhood in Ocala.
She said back then the town was divided, white and black.
Blacks lived on the other side of the railroad tracks and they were not allowed in the white section of town.
There was a billboard by the tracks that said “N------ keep out, go home.”
She said her uncle owned a hardware store and once a black man came in to buy something and the whole time he was talking to her uncle he looked at this feet and called him “sir.” And when he entered the store a second time a woman was in the store and the black man walked clear around all the shelves to avoid going near her.

I spoke to a black man, about aged 25, from Ocala.
He has never been out of Florida, only once to go to Atlanta.
He was married a year ago but they couldn’t go on a honeymoon because he was under house arrest. But he is off that now so they and their 9 daughters will go to Sea World.
He said 6 of the girls are his biologically and the others are his step daughters.
The youngest three are 3; the oldest is 11.
He said his father is 55 but looks 45.
I said maybe he should learn his father’s secret.
He said he knows his father’s secret and doesn’t want anything to do with it.
His father spent many years in jail.
He said he has never used a computer – doesn’t know how.
He asked me for advice so his marriage can last as long as mine.

Joy Like a Fountain

2009-06-30T16:29:00.001-05:00

On Sunday morning we had brunch at Scrambles.
On Sunday afternoon we had lunch (lupper?) at Saigon II.

Scrambles and Saigon II do not feature haute cuisine.

But because we brunched with Lissa and Mitch at Scrambles
And then dined with Paul, Linda and Lisa at Saigon II

Sharing smiles and laughter of these long missed friends
Seasoned our food perfectly.

What Became of the Monk?

2009-06-29T11:42:00.005-05:00

Today I washed the Fisher Price Circus Wagon.
I had to scour the plastic parts vigorously and with soft scrub to remove nearly 50 years of dirt.
I had to be really gentle with the wooden parts, they are covered in colored paper. If I scrubbed too hard, the animals would lose their clothes and faces.
As my fingers pruned up I wondered which animal Beatrix will like the best and whether she will find the clown as
creepy as Ryan and I did (and still do!).

Smiling Slumbers

2009-06-26T07:19:00.004-05:00

By evening, the fog rolls out to sea and the pale setting sun warms the city for the time in over a week. After work we walk toward the water. He loves the harbor with the yachts, tugs, ferries and fishing boats. He buys two slices, declares them tasteless (nothing is as good as real NYC pizza, preferably from Pugslies in the Bronx) and we continue our trek. As we draw nearer we walk faster until he stops abruptly in front of Mexicali Blues with its racks of merchandise lining the sidewalk. His eyes are on a tiny red hooded sweater knitted in Peru with colorful farm animals dancing around the front and back.

I make the purchase since he can't go in with the pizza.

All night a little red hooded Beatrix romps through my dreams.

City by the Bay

2009-06-26T07:15:00.002-05:00

The fog horn vibrates as we eat our lunch with the NY Times
I am working the crossword
He is reading the business section
It is a rare treat, both working in the same city and having time to eat lunch together.
The fog horn sounds again we look up and smile
remembering another ocean and long ago fog drenched days.

The Paths Not Chosen

2009-06-25T08:06:00.002-05:00

“On July first I'll celebrate 30 years here; I think that is quite an accomplishment,”
she announces to anyone listening as she grabs her smokes and heads out back.

I think that if I had to
work at the same job
at the same company
living in the same town
for 30 years

I’d want to kill myself with something faster acting than nicotine.

Nothing Fair about Health Care

2009-06-23T16:38:00.003-05:00

I eavesdrop on their conversations before I start the training. Some of the employees are “temps” and thus, among other minuses, they don’t have medical benefits. A 20 something woman says her doctor diagnosed her eye as infected from her contact lens and prescribed medicine, but at the pharmacy last night she learned the prescription was $70 and decided to skip it. I look up from my computer to see her eye is bloodshot and drippy.

I go to the CVS on Congress to get my prescription filled. I take two cards out of my wallet. My prescription coverage card and my credit card. It turns out I need neither – my coverage info is in the CVS computer system and the cost to fill my prescription? 62 cents. I hand the pharmacist a dollar bill.

$.62?

Lost in the Flood

2009-06-20T07:21:00.003-05:00

I sort of like running in the rain, especially when it's not too hot. It makes my run a challenge, an adventure. This is true even when my body parts not covered by my LL Bean windbreaker are getting really, truly soaked.
Like today.

Rounding the corner onto Congress, I check my watch and notice my time is way off
Maybe it‘s my heavy, wet feet or I’m slowed by having to wipe the rain from my eyes
As my sloshing sneakers run I try to think of words to describe this rain
Words that aren’t overused; phrases that aren't clichés.

Cats and dogs, teeming, pouring, steady, coming down in buckets, gushing, downpour

I can’t think of anything new but however I describe it, the street people are out in it.

They don’t have LL Bean rain gear or even hoodies. All the regulars are all here, dripping, drenched, slogging along their usual routes, stopping at trash cans in their unending search for empties. When I run by, the one I call the Cleric gives me a thumbs up, and a block later, the one I call Jerry Garcia gives me a smile and wave as he stumbles his way through the flood.
I wish I had ponchos to throw to them. So they could appreciate this box of rain.

Sacrifice the TV for the Kids' Sake

2009-06-19T09:34:00.004-05:00

A recent study again supports what should be theatre of the obvious to educated parents: when you turn on the tv you turn off conversations. The University of Washington study found that every hour the tv is on, even if not actively viewed, babies and toddlers hear an average of 770 fewer words from their adult caretaker and they themselves speak less.

The challenge is to enlighten and motivate the uneducated parents to let them know their children reap HUGE benefits from:
1) talking to them a lot about the world, not just to discipline
2) reading to them at least an hour a day
3) keeping the tv off

Of course educated parents already know this but often neglect to keep the tv off, so how do we inspire those parents who don't see the connection?

Not Quite Mayberry

2009-06-19T02:36:00.003-05:00

I am surprised when the elevator stops on the 15th floor.
At 4:40 am I usually ride down alone.
But at 15 they get on,
The tall Dad
And his two sleepy eyed daughters
And two really long fishing poles.
As I listen to their muted morning musings I guess he does not have custody, just visitation.
They head to the parking garage while I run up Oak St.
I hope to catch more than fish today.

31 Years

2009-06-17T12:16:00.003-05:00

Running in opposite directions
Sometimes we meet

Like this morning
As I finished up; he was heading out
We extend our hands – fingers stretched to do a not-so-high-five

And later over oatmeal and coffee he marvels aloud at my “fans”
The cabbies – cops – garbage collectors – street people – fishermen – newspaper deliverers
who smile, wave, nod and beep at me

and he says,
“You know of all of them
I am your biggest fan.”
And my whole self smiles
because I am the luckiest person ever

Pink Slips

2009-06-15T08:00:00.002-05:00

Last week a friend and business associate was fired.

He planned to retire a year ago but his rapidly diminishing 401K changed his mind.
Too bad he didn’t retire.

It is hard to be outraged about his termination. He didn’t work for my company, I had nothing to do with his firing.
Still there is no good time to be fired and right now seems about the worst.

Several times over the past year I suggested he stop putting his anger into emails.
Too bad he didn’t stop.

I phoned and left him a voice message, but he didn’t pick up or return the call. Maybe he is still too angry and upset.

I will miss working with him and his sense of humor.
I won't miss his angry emails.

The Most Objectionable Thing about this Public Bathroom

2009-06-11T06:51:00.002-05:00

The mad dash is on when the conference ends and by the time I nudge my way into the women’s bathroom there is already a line.
The instructor who teaches Labor Relations is mid-sentence as she departs the bathroom explaining that her son phoned her during the conference very upset and that her first thought was that he was injured but it turned out he lost his iphone. Good news, he found it. Oh, her son is 32.

With that punch line she departs.

One of her listeners finishes washing her hands, but before she too departs, turns to me and loudly proclaims that if HER son did that she would “bitch slap” him.

Swallowing my revulsion, I calmly suggest “That won’t help.”

“Yeah, but it’d make me feel better.”

And with that she leaves, fortunately before she can decide that “bitch slapping” ME might also make her feel better.

Furry Fans

2009-06-09T10:15:00.001-05:00

Running up Mountain Drive on a June morning
under a sky with cumulus clouds slowly heading to
the dark side of nimbus
With just enough gaps for the rising sun
To beam pinge in the east.

The display glows off the mirrored Bose building
Nearly empty at dawn
A deer seems to emerge from nowhere
Did she come from Bose building?

At the thudding sound of my running feet,
She runs across the parking lot, her white tail up in alarm
Afraid of me.
I keep running, all the time watching her
Afraid of her

I don’t want a collision
She doesn't want to be shot

Across the road she stops on the grass, turns her eyes locked on me
Her tail is down
She looks at me
I look at her
Until we both know there is nothing to fear here.
She stands still as I run by
then disappears into the brambles
while I keep running

Morning Meditations

2009-06-08T17:32:00.001-05:00

He doesn’t show up until my third or fourth lap
Sitting calmly on the brick wall in front of the plaza next to Thai Chef Buffet.
I think of him as The Cleric – maybe it is the beard and hair.
He always gives me a thumbs up as I run by.
I return the gesture with an added finger point, sort of a non-verbal, “no you.”
A shared smile with a stranger.

Pre-Roids

2009-06-05T14:11:00.000-05:00

The crossword puzzle reminded me
That once upon a time the worst thing in Baseball
Was that Pete Rose gambled.

Promote This Employee!

2009-06-05T14:09:00.001-05:00

At work I was training two dozen managers on how to work effectively as a team.
One activity involves selecting cards printed with words that describe you.
All the employees focused on which traits they have,
except one guy.
Silently he’d select a card and, handing to a coworker, softly suggest that she or he might want it.
“You’re so organized, Jess, I thought this might be perfect for you.”
In a world of “what about MY needs” he was a welcome relief.

A Disruption in the Force

2009-05-27T06:57:00.002-05:00

On Tuesday morning, shortly after 5:30 am, as I ran up Park Street for my fourth and last lap, I saw an old man out walking.

I often see old men out walking in Portland before dawn; but this was the first time I saw this particular man. I smiled and gave him the New England nod. He returned both gestures and I thought that his smile reminded me of Peter’s dad, Lou. This got me thinking about Lou and our bocce games from years ago. I wondered whether Lou was still alive and guessed he had to be since Peter would have let us know if his Dad died. I wondered whether he still played bocce.

Then I turned the corner onto Congress Street and had to look down to keep the rising sun from blinding me.

On Wednesday morning, shortly after 3:30 am, I checked my email before my run. One from my son, one from Peter. Usually I read emails from R&S first, but today I clicked on Peter’s. His email was a photo and a brief note to say his dad, Lou, died yesterday at age 93.

No Yogi or Boo Boo, but....

2009-05-26T06:49:00.001-05:00

We went for a picnic on Munjoy Hill and after the hummus and celery and Camembert and pear, we napped in the sunshine glistening off the harbor. When we returned to our apartment he said he had something in his ear and became loud and agitated as he tried to dig it out. He said he thought it was popcorn but the last popcorn we ate was 24 hours earlier while watching Star Trek at the movie threatre.

After only seconds, but what seemed longer, he successfully removed the ear invader and it was a largish black bug. After much shuddering we rationalized at least it was not nearly as horrible as the bug Christopher Pike was forced to ingest.

Never Forget

2009-05-25T18:30:00.001-05:00

The breeze off the sea blows strong and steadily into my bedroom window rustling my hair as I try to read before sleeping. It carries the smell of the sea and blooming lilacs along with the screeching of the gulls nesting on the roof. A human cry mingles with the gulls and I sigh as I kick back the comforter to stand and lift the screen as I look out on the street 16 stories below.

No worries – just high school kids messing around in the warm spring night.

But every time I hear the screams – sometimes more than once a night - I have to get up to check to make sure all is well. This is the price I pay for eavesdropping so many decades ago; indelibly imprinted are those overheard whispers as I lay on the top bunk fighting sleep to hear the conversations from the porch at Fayson Lakes – voices of parents and aunts and uncles and a grandma talking of Kitty Genovese and Kew Gardens.

Memorial Day Heroes

2009-05-25T18:08:00.000-05:00

The crowds stood and applauded the Veterans as they marched down Congress Street in the Memorial Day parade, but after the parade, when the homeless, unwashed Veterans loitered by the monument panhandling, the tourists gave them a wide berth.

Cursing and Calzones

2009-05-20T07:02:00.003-05:00

As I ran by Paul's Market at 4:50 am, my "fans" smiled, shouted and waved.
(They congregate outside Paul's waiting for the Market to open at 6:00 am so they can return empties.)

That is not news. The homeless, cabbies, police officers and garbage collectors are my regular cheering section.

But after I passed Paul's, I spotted a middle aged homeless man slowly making his way up Congress.
He shouted something as I approached, but I stopped my hand mid-wave when I could make out his words:
"YOU F*&%#ING A$$*#&@" followed by a string of obscenities.

Oh well, not all the street people in Portland can be my friends. That includes the Calzone Thief:

Alleged thief is captured while eating stolen calzone

Portland police charged a local man with theft after he allegedly grabbed a calzone from a restaurant patron Saturday night.
Police were called to Pizzaville at 940 Congress St. at 7 p.m. A customer of the pizza shop had ordered a calzone and was leaving when William Hunt, 25, who is transient, demanded a cigarette. When the victim refused,... Hunt grabbed the calzone, police said.
He ran to the nearby Greyhound bus terminal and sat down and started eating, police said.
Hunt is charged with theft and violating bail conditions from a previous arrest.

And to think that I saw it on...

2009-05-17T15:43:00.000-05:00

Early this morning when I ran, the drawbridge was up, but I couldn’t see the ship.
I could see the pink tulips in the park in honor of women with breast cancer
and the cabbie who took us to the airport two weeks ago saw me and waved wildly.

Later this morning when I went to Hannafords to grocery shop, the man behind me in line looked emaciated and unshaven but not in a George Clooney way, more like a street person
and he was buying a lot of Ensusre.
When I first looked at him I thought he was really old, but on second glance he wasn’t that old, just worn out. I wondered whether he had AIDs.

This afternoon we were the only people eating lunch at Passage to India (Tandoori Fish), when a guy came in with a backpack and asked the Russian waitress if he could buy some white bread “you know the kind, that doesn’t get hard or soft.” I couldn’t hear her reply, but he then asked if the bread came with spices because he didn’t want spices and was the bread already cooked, No, well then he would wait outside. I looked at him more carefully when he returned – he was in his late twenties and had on two backpacks. He put them down and asked if he could eat the bread here and could he get some butter and water. I watched him eat, then he was given the check and told the cost was $3. He said he didn’t have change and let to get some but never came back..

No WSJ but Live Entertainment

2009-05-16T17:28:00.003-05:00

6:30 am breakfast in the Courtyard Marriott on weekdays is a subdued event with non-stop coffee and the Wall Street Journal.
7:00 am breakfast in the Courtyard Marriott today, Saturday, featured a hockey team of nine year old boys.

"I have to get braces."
"Too bad."
"There is a good thing, when I bite kids they'll bleed."

Velvet Noose

2009-05-14T06:59:00.003-05:00

We are commuting to work together, just after 6:30 am he says he sure wishes he could keep driving right past the exit and skip work all together today.

Time warp to 1969.

I am on a school bus, shortly after 6:30 am, heading to middle school. I conjure up a fantasy that will keep the bus from reaching its destination. Many days I imagine the driver going berserk and kidnapping us and driving the bus to Florida. Since at age 12 I have never been to Florida - my first visit is still nearly a decade away - I am not sure what I imagine. Oranges? Beaches? Anywhere but here? On grimmer days I weave a tale of the bus plummeting into the ravine where Harrington curves through the woods. Of course I am left alive with only minor scratches, but the trauma is enough to keep me out of school for a while.

We take Exit 1 off highway 101 toward Candia Road even though we'd like to keep driving right past the exit. Florida seems like as good a destination as any.

Minnie Rescue Me!

2009-05-11T06:46:00.002-05:00

I don’t trust reality at Disney World.

When the guard at the entrance to the Boardwalk Hotel almost forgets to wish us a “Welcome Home” upon our arrival to the Happiest Place on Earth, his desperate hurried slur of words makes me wonder if we tessered here and whether this lapse will result in reprogramming with IT.

When I start my run at 4:30 am, for a nanosecond I am not sure - is the moon really full and are those baby rabbits nibbling grass next to the running path alive or animatronic?

But isn’t that the point – to spend a few days in a place where reality is suspended and with it the worries of work and depleted 401Ks are forbidden entry or at least diluted to an acceptable level?

The Blueberry Index

2009-05-07T10:01:00.004-05:00

Three years ago, Lissa and I arranged welcome baskets of homemade blueberry muffins and neighborhood directories for new homeowners in our neighborhood. After we saw a moving van, we stopped in to say hello and answer questions these new folks might have about our area. Some weeks there were so many new residents, I baked three batches of mini blueberry muffins.

About two years ago new folks stopped moving in and Lissa moved to Fort Lauderdale.

Four months ago there were 15 houses for sale in Dalton Woods.

Today I counted 21, four of which are vacant and in foreclosure. One has a large, ugly "bank owned" sign affixed to a garage window.

Now there is no one to greet.

Trying to be the Gumby

2009-05-06T05:06:00.004-05:00

I am not tolerant of wishy-washy. Weigh the pros and cons, then choose. The quality of the decision is not improved by time.

We negotiated the oral agreement on the purchase (by cell phone while driving east on route 101 and eating a tuna wrap with jalepenos).

After four days of emails between their agent and ours, we got the call (by cell while driving north on the Florida Turnpike) that the potential buyers have marital issues and aren't buying any house at this time.

Then last night as I was heading to bed, the Real Estate Agent is at our front door with a signed contract.
Of course they still need to be approved for a mortgage.

This flexibility is not one of my "core strengths."

I'm more of a 2x4.

Two Worlds Running

2009-05-05T05:24:00.002-05:00

cabbies and homeless cheerleaders vs gardenias and confederate jasmine
radiant sun rising over the Atlantic vs dark skies with glowing Venus
cool breezes and with a drizzle of rain vs humid and still followed by a jump in the pool
Lucky me