Curse of the Kielbasa

Curse of the Kielbasa

or

You Never Sausage a Jinxed Dinner

It was undoubtedly the ol' Curse of the Kielbasa.
When faced with a moral dilemma of whether to pull something out of the freezer for Thursday night's dinner or risk a big jinx by not planning on dinner at home; it can be said by the Fates, "You chose poorly."

After months of delay, mixed with a measure of trepidation, six months of practice and experience where the rubber meets the road and days of anticipation; it was decide that February 24, 2011 would dawn as the day of one of America's Great Rites of Passage for Grant - The TRIP to the DMV for a driver's license.

The night before, Grant sat at the dinning room table and assembled his folder with all documents necessary to avoid rejection by Selma and Patty sitting behind the counter at the Department of Public Safety.  We all know that you are going nowhere fast without their stamp of approved on the list of state required documents for the operation of a motor vehicle (Class C).

Grant, does your folder contain:

• Completed Log of on-line computer based Driver's Ed Course work? Check
• Complete Log showing hours behind the wheel? Check
• VOE (Validation of Enrollment, High School) signed by administrator? Check
• Social Security Card? Check
• Passport for proof of citizenship and Photo ID? Check
• Declaration that you are not addicted to drugs or criminally insane? Oh, where did that go?
• Proof of Vehicle Insurance? Check
• Affidavit from driving instructor [Dad], signed and notarized? Check

Sounds like everything is in order.
In celebration of your Rite of Passage we think you should drive us to dinner tomorrow night at a place of your choosing (assuming you do pass the test).  Deal?
Deal!

Sue asked me on the morning of the 24th, "Should I put something out to thaw for dinner, or risk jinxing Grant by not pulling anything out of the freezer and plan on having him drive us to dinner with his new driver's license tonight?"  We seriously considered how tempted the fates would be if we made definite plans to have Grant drive us to his celebration, weighed against a plan to prepare to cook our own dinner at home.  I suggested that we pull something out of the freezer and mention loudly (to no one in particular) that this would be dinner for tonight - NOT tomorrow night.  I thought to myself, "Now that is a pretty clever loop hole to avoid tempting fate with the curse of the kielbasa".

Grant made an early escape from his duties as an aide in the High School attendance office and met me in the parking lot at 12:30.  I offered him a seat behind the wheel, but he deferred, not knowing exactly where to find the DPS Temple of Teenage Testing, the Valhalla of Vehicles, the Nirvana of Navigators.  So I headed toward the one and only sole DPS office in the State of Texas that has his application on file as a permitted driver.  It was made very clear when applying for a Driver's Permit, that one had to designate a single DPS location to handle all your records - if you veered either to the north or to the south and you tried to apply at a location different than the one originally designated, YOU WILL BE DENIED.  You must travel the straight and narrow road.

As I pulled into the strip mall where the DPS office is located, I noticed a great paucity of parked cars.  What good luck!  It looks like the usual 55 minute wait amongst squalling kids and multiple cell phone conversations in Espanol will largely be avoided this afternoon, we are going to sail right through this application process!  The reality that Grant is never this lucky hits us when we get to the entrance; "Due to Water Damage, this office will be closed until Feb. 28, 2011".  We will try again on Monday, Feb. 28, but I suspect the office holding Grant's files will not be opened until mid-March.  Bummer!

As long as we were in that part of town, I suggested lunch at Rick's Smokehouse.  The Thursday Lunch Special? Yes, as fate would have it - smoked kielbasa.

Zombie Apocalypse on Aisle 3

For the last time last night, Sue and Grant visited the Albertson's grocery store that is just a stone's throw from our back door.  The shuttering of several Albertson's stores in the area was announced last month and there are but a few days left before our local source of milk, baguettes and pharmaceuticals is no more.  With the shelves mostly empty, and the pharmacy, deli and bakery sections now boarded off, the once familiar shopping environment was transformed into an eerie movie set of the much feared Zombie Apocalypse, where the commercial world is vacant and beset my zombies wandering around the city waiting for a buy-1-get-1-free sale on sweet breads.

In addition to the zombie apocalypse feeling from the nearly vacant aisles, the few and peculiar assortment of items that remained on the shelves offered the sense of walking into a time warp, "Look, a can of shaving powder! -  I didn't think anybody has been able to buy a can of shaving powder since 1959. How long do you think this has been sitting on this shelf?"  Like an extreme low tide that reveals the hull and masts of an old sunken sailing ship from a bygone century; such was the character of merchandise revealed after a tide of bargain hunters swept away the standard stuff at 50-80% Off!!.

When we first moved into this house, Albertson's was then Skaggs Alpha Beta, a brave little store on the growing edge of town.  For just a few needed sundries, we could grab our ruck sack and walk across fallow cotton fields and use the farmer's old culvert to stay out of the ditch and then skip across two lanes of light traffic on Highway 78 to do our shopping.  The cotton fields have long since sprouted 4 bedroom homes and Hwy 78 is now 6 lanes with a dividing median strip.  Luxurious Kroeger stores and Super Wal*Marts have come to town and the retail cycle has moved past humble Albertson's, where we were on first name basis with Karla the pharmacist.  Where once when shopping for pampers and formula with by baby daughter strapped into the shopping cart seat, an elderly woman approached me an intoned some important words in Mandarin (or was it Taiwanese - I don't recall), I smiled politely.  A younger woman came and translated, "My mother-in-law says 'your baby girl with big eyes looks like a beautiful doll".  I smiled a bit wider and then nodded my thanks for the compliment.  It was just a few years later, when "Big Eye Doll Baby's" mother was paged by the cashier; "Would the mother of Snow White please come to the front of the store", after Inga had slipped away while wearing one of her favorite Disney dresses, apparently to cull the poison apples from the produce section. 

The local grocery market will depart the world of retail in just a day or two, but it will leave behind some memories of well-worn  daily shopping routines and we will miss the smell of 4 o'clock hot French Bread, fresh out of the oven, a temptation we seldom passed on purchasing.  In their last trip up Aisle 3 and  down memory lane, Sue and Grant did make some final purchases at 80% off - beside the milk they originally came to buy, they got a great deal on a small jar of caviar and a pack of animal cookies in boxes shaped like school buses.

I don't know about your plans, but as for the Suneson's, once the real Zombie Apocalypse comes, we will lock the doors, close the blinds and survive on caviar and animal cookies.

Mizzou for U

It is official - almost.

Grant plugged in my credit card number and sent off $150 to the University of Missouri - Columbia (aka "Mizzou") to register as an incoming freshman for Fall 2011.  He has received snail mail and email invitations from gobs of schools hoping he will apply with them; the University of Chicago, Brown University, Syracuse as examples of well known institutions, some smaller schools of note including James Madison, William & Mary, Trinity University (San Antonio, TX), University of Houston and some real small fry such as Liberty University and Lyons College.  He also applied to the University of Oregon, beloved location of matriculation for his sister, but she understands his decision.  However, Grant is Facebook friends with Inga's good friend Alex, who seems to be taking Grant's plans to go to Mizzou instead of Oregon rather hard. Unfortunately, one can only attend a single school at a time, and Grant has been pretty focused on Mizzou since this summer. 

Of primary interest to Grant is the world class School of Journalism (#1 ranked "J-school"), which he hopes to parlay into a sports broadcasting career.  I applaud him for having a dream and making plans to follow his dreams, and I am heartily encouraged by his acceptance into the J-school program, which offers a well connected alumni base known in the journalism/broadcast business as the "Mizzou Mafia".  On the practical side of Grant's dream fulfillment is the fact that being a part of the Mizzou Mafia "Family" bodes very well for good career placement upon graduation.

Grant took up the special invitation extended last summer to visit Mizzou for a their Honors College Program.  His Mom and I drove with him to Columbia, MO, in July, 2010, where we toured the campus, listened to Deans pitch their departments, programs and scholarships, learned about campus life and dined in the dorm cafeteria.

Grant & his Mother at Mizzou Tiger Plaza

Grant had long expected to be attending The University of Texas in Austin, but that school's mandated acceptance of only the top 8% of Texas High School Seniors has made admittance to UT difficult to impossible for good students in competitive High Schools like Grant's.  Once Grant began to focus on major and careers, the top ranking for Mizzou's J-School made his decision to by-pass applying to his parents Alma Mater an easy one; once he was satisfied by our on-site Mizzou tour.  On the way back from Columbia, we spent a day looking over possible alternatives at the University of Tulsa and Oklahoma State, but without a specific tour arranged for us, Grant's interest was not at all piqued by these campuses.

Grant's cousin, Lisa, graduated from Mizzou and recommends it and the town.  Grant has scored in the top tier on the SAT, which has qualified him for the Mark Twain Non-Resident Scholarship on top of other academic merit incentives offered to entice promising students to enroll at Mizzou.  All things being equal, it may be cheaper to have him attend Mizzou rather than pay in-state tuition at the University of Texas.  The only thing that could be a better deal now is if we, his parents die, and he is adopted by his Uncle Bill.  Bill did his post-doctorate work at Mizzou and by adopting Grant, would make him eligible for the Legacy Exemption and waive out-of-state tuition and fees altogether.

"Truman" Mizzou Tiger Mascot

Later in the summer, Grant and I also visited the University of Houston campus and got an excellent personal tour from an UofH Honors College Student, but the strength of department and the lesser reputation of the school's influence ultimately tipped in favor of Mizzou.  After the UH tour we had hotel reservations in downtown Houston, where father and son took in a ball game at Minute Maid Park, watching the Houston Astros beat the Chicago Cubs.  [Grant is also hoping to visit every major league ball park, Minute Maid Park makes number 4 on the list] 

While in Houston we visited NASA Johnson Space Center/Mission Control.  There are lots of playland kind of rides and exhibits in the visitor's center - not what I was expecting for a premier technical and scientific agency, but perhaps it pays the bills and entertains the generations that did not have a black and white TV set rolled into their 4th Grade classroom so everyone could watch a Saturn V rocket liftoff on an Apollo Mission.  Once past the rinky-dink rides, we lined up for a tour of the NASA working complex.  Our tour shuttle carts where delayed because of thunderstorms in the area.  Apparently NASA not only does not launch space craft during electrical storms, but also does not launch rolling tour trams either.  Safety First.

I enjoyed the historic review of the American Space Program, triumphs and tragedies presented by NASA and recalling my perspective on space history to Grant, "Why when I was about your age..."
Our family is acquainted with two astronauts, one of which, Jim Reilly (Retired) was shown in footage on the International Space Station (ISS) playing with goldfish snacks in the weightless environment [Jim Reilly was a geologist with Enserch Exploration (my first oil company employer) before he was accepted as an astronaut by NASA].  I also related to Grant the answer to the question, "Where were you on July 20, 1969 when Neil Armstrong took 'One small step for a man, and one giant leap for mankind'?"  When man first walked on the moon, I was listening to some old man croon "My Beautiful Western Montana", a song he had written and was pleased to perform at the Show Boat Review on the shores of Flathead Lake (the "Show Boat" was normally a pile-driving barge that installed docks on the lake) .  My parents thought this family entertainment outing while visiting my grandparents would be more interesting than the historic events being broadcast from the moon and narrated by Walter Cronkite (University of Texas Alum).  Some times it is hard to tell if you are about to witness a historic event - sometimes it is not so hard.

Returning from Columbia, MO, we drove through Yale, Oklahoma, location of the Jim Thorpe Home and Museum.  I stopped for a little box turtle that was in the middle of the highway on the west end of town.  Grant and I scooped him up and found a nice place in the woods for the turtle to roam.  We figured the guy was as not as fleet of foot as Jim Thorpe and could likely use one "giant leap" for turtle-kind to keep from getting squished.

Grant saves "Thorpe" the box turtle
Yale, Oklahoma

Super Bowl Super Holiday

There has been some thought and a modest proposal given to declare another February Monday a National Holiday.  The argument is that Super Bowl Sunday is already the de facto Biggest National Party (eclipsing New Years Eve) and it should naturally be recognized that the American People need the following Monday as an official Holiday.

Dallas (technically Arlington, Texas) is hosting Super Bowl XLV this coming Sunday, February 6.  Lots of local coverage for this, the first time Dallas/Ft Worth has been given the "privilege" of hosting the event.  I am told lots of celebrity parties were scheduled for swanky hotel patios, and celebrity events out-of-doors under tents in the Cotton Bowl and other venues.  The planners were anticipating average temperatures around 56 degrees and hoping for weather like last weekend in the mid-70's.  But, despite Al Gore's protestations (and Oscar winning power point presentation) we have been facing the reality of some mighty cold weather.  Some blame the Super Bowl for bringing teams and from Green Bay, Wisconsin and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to town along with their weather.  Over 100 hours below freezing, with frigid lows not reached in 20 years. 



Friday Morning Snow
3 1/2 Inches Cancels School for 4th Straight Day



Tuesday, Feb. 1, first brought thunder squalls, then sleet and freezing rain and then snow.  School was cancelled due to the 1/2 inch glaze of ice over most of the roadways.  The temperatures never climbed above 24 (f) and the minor melt and evaporation left only a few dry patches on the street, with treacherous sidewalks and driving conditions remaining.  School was cancelled for a second day on Wednesday, and with no signs of thawing, again for a third day on Thursday.  The forecast for Friday was cold temperatures mixing with Gulf moisture for up to an inch of snow.  Friday school was cancelled again as Garland received 3.5" of snow.  Grant has exalted in the 6-day Weekend - A Super Bowl Super Holiday.

Some of the Suneson celebration of the Super Bowl Holiday:

Strider looks for the Dallas Morning News under the blanket of snow

The Dog Who Wants to
Come In From the Cold





Sue and the Dog Who Came In from the Cold
Snow Day!




Grant Heaps Snow Powder
Upon the Head of His Dear Mother



Sue and Grant Tango
After Son Dusts Mother







Strider enjoys his own SnoCone
We Warn Grant to Not Eat the Yellow Snow



Grant checks for Pecan Flavored Snow off of the Pecan Tree



Snow Covered Magnolia - Some how this doesn't seem right



Sue sends Warm Wishes

Warning! Check Engine for Major Cash Leakage

Cars seem so sophisticated these days.  Used to be we were told to see "Mr. Goodwrench", when things did not sound right with the vehicle.  Now it is a trip to "Dr. Goodwrench" ASAE, DMV, VIP, BMOC, thank you very much.  Of course the extra initials after the mechanic's name means extra charges.

Out to run errands on Monday afternoon, when the dash panel warning lights flash on with

• Check Engine
• VSC
• TRAC
• Skidding Car Icon

A check of the owners guide initially says under these conditions take car to Toyota Dealership.  A few pages further into the guide I read that the idiot lights might mean one or several of many things; most of which suggest differential gear, stability control and engine computer settings and the like.

I take "The Q" into the garage within walking distance from home for a look-see.  I ask if they know what all of these lights might indicate?  I am told they will have to read the codes before they could even hazard a guess.  But in order to read the codes, they will have to charge me $89.95.  It is a secret, members only, near metaphysical process by which these enigmatic lights are decoded and understood, well worth the money I am told.

I call Walter at 5 o'clock to see if they have had a chance to read chicken entrails and sift through the tea leaves and consulted with the decoder.  Yes, Walter tells me, they have several codes; a 30P-S30, a 50P-C13 and a 700T-11 [I am supposed be be impressed with alpha-numeric symbols].  These codes likely mean a major leak and a compromise in the computer's ability to optimally mix the air/fuel ratio and...
"What is leaking?" I inquire.
"Oh, the gas cap."
"You mean the gas cap is not screwed on properly is causing all of these warning lights?"
Walter tells me, that they will clear the codes and test drive with a new gas cap to be certain.

Meanwhile an ice storm blows in that night, but I get a call in the morning that indeed the codes are clear and I can come pick up the vehicle.  None too soon either, as his parts supplier (with a $15.99 gas cap) has stopped making deliveries on account of the icy road conditions.  I walk the 0.6 miles with a cheery Hawaiian shirt under my sweater and overcoat through -1 degree wind chill conditions to pay $108 for a new gas cap.

I just wish with all the sophistication of these car computers that the light would suggest; "Check Gas Cap" before sending up 4 warning lights, in which the decoding diagnosis costs 6-times the retail price of the part in question. Cars are sophisticated, but I feel like a fool.  Cha-Ching.

Salami @ $0.287/oz - A Bunch of Baloney

My kids will roll their eyes and feign utmost disgust at Dad's low brow pleasure, but I love to shop at Wal*Mart.  Just to pique their contempt, I will spontaneously sing a little ditty based on my shopping list:

Yup! Yup! Yup! I'm goin' to Wal-Mart
Yup! Yup! Yup! I'll be saving money 'cause I'm so smart
I'm going to buy me some beans and some jeans, ha ha ha!
I'm going to buy me some raisins and some rolls!
Yup! Yup! Yup! I'm goin' to Wal*Mart 

I just don't know how I raised kids that can justify middle class snobbery.  As I remind then, "I am all about value", and they know it.  Yup! Yup! Yup!

Saving some money of course has its value, but what the detractors in my family don't really realize is that by driving just 3 miles, I can put myself among the market stalls of exotic cultures, share cart space with people from distant lands and while walking from produce to cereals I can often eaves drop on speakers of Hindi, Arabic, Spanish and Tagalog.   While wheeling my goods literally from cosmetics to dairy, I have figuratively navigated from El Salvador to Thailand.  Follow me to the kasbah.  I have been shopping on a Sunday afternoon, only to be dazzled by several West African women in elaborate dresses and high-style headdresses (it is too simple to call them merely "hats") coming from worship services, I have have seen a scowling Chinese grandmother assiduously picking less-than-perfect grapes off the stems and tossing them before bagging the bunch and I have smiled as I have maneuvered around women with head-covering hijabs wagging their fingers and clicking their tongues in the universal "Mom Language" at whining kids.  Shopping at the local Wal-Mart is a trip.

But when it comes time to check out, this is America.  My fruit and vegetables are purchased by the pound, I do not buy by the kilo or gram and Bank Card Plastic is a good as the Coin of the Realm.  In 6th Grade, we were expected to know US weights and measures; 16 ounces in a pound, 3 feet in a yard, 4 quarts in gallon.  At Wal-Mart the hard salami is listed at $4.59 per pound (Per Unit Pricing lists the price at 28.7 Cents per Ounce).  As a perverse shopper and graduate of the 6th Grade, I will walk up to the deli counter and ask for 12 ounces of salami.  The employee's eyes usually show panic at my request in units of ounces.  I had one employee whisper to her manager, "He wants 12 ounces!! Our scales don't measure in ounces!"  The manager whispered back, "Just give him half a pound".  Despite labeling salami in pounds and ounces, the scales are only digital, requiring the merchant to know how many ounces in a pound.  I have had deli workers weigh out 0.62 lbs and ask "Is that close enough?" [clever bluff] Alas, only once has my request been measured accurately.  I am not sure if the inability to convert 12/16 of a pound into 0.75 lbs deserves a commentary on the US educational system, arithmetic standards for entry into Middle School or quality of Wal-Mart employees.

Using the metric system may be logically the easiest system, but converting from English to Metric for our citizenry is a non-starter; I think going digital is as far as we can go with our weights and measures without disturbing the domestic tranquility.  God Bless America! Yup! Yup! Yup!

Birds & Bees, Nuts & Bolts

Sue, as Director of Children's Ministries at Preston Hollow Presbyterian, last week finished the third and final week of sex education classes held Sunday afternoons for 2nd through 6th graders.  The weekly units included body parts, where babies come from, puberty and safety.  The teachers will build on the material covered in the previous week with informal discussion, review and reinforcement of previous topics.

Fifth Grader, Sophie, while trying to recall body parts from Unit 1 during Unit 3, was getting a bit mixed up over the distinction between testicles and scrotum.  When the teacher began to define each part once again, Sophie interrupted the teacher with delight as her conceptual understanding clicked into place, just as her teacher was going over the definition of the scrotum; "Oh!" spouted Sophie, "You mean the 'nut sack'!"

Sue and the teacher bolted for the hallway where they could work at returning their faces to proper decorum.  Yes they agreed, Sophie had been holding out on them, she had it figured out all along.

Weather Dog

Some action figures come equipped with "Wonder Dog".
The Suneson's are equipped with "Weather Dog".

Weather Dog
Wonders whether the doggone weather warrants watching

We have seen some extreme weather changes here in North Texas.  Today (02/01/2011) is a great example; on Saturday, January 29th it was 76 degrees.  Early Tuesday morning, February 1st, I awoke to thunder, soon followed by rain, which turned into heavy sleet and frozen rain pelting my bedroom window.  A 5 AM check of local news showed the expected closure of Garland ISD due to a thick glaze of ice across all the roads.  I told Grant that school was cancelled, he raised two clinched fists in the air from beneath his bed covers, whispered a thankful, "Yes!!" And returned to sleep another five hours.  Light snow flurries have continued through the day.  Tonight's low temp is forecast to be 9 degrees (wind chill at around -5), a change of 67 degrees in about 50 hours.

These wild temperature changes have everyone around here guessing as to what to expect.  But we are fortunate to have a Weather Dog that will tell us the current weather conditions.  We simply send Weather Dog outside for a few moments, and upon his return we can determine the meteorological manifestations happening in our neighborhood.

     If Weather Dog returns Wet - It is Raining
     If Weather Dog's curly tail is straight - It is Windy
     If Weather Dog returns with White Spots - It is Snowing
        (This phenomena is known as the Inverted Dalmatian)
     If Weather Dog Does Not Return - It was a Tornado

If Weather Dog is Visible at Night - It has Snowed

Weather Dog will be happy that his pack will hang around the house again tomorrow, as the iced-over streets will keep school closed a second day.

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

Weather Dog Digs the Snow
His Pack gets 4 Days off Due to Ice & Snow
(Update 2/4/2011)

The Good Earth (& The Bad Weather)

Saturday, January 29th was a particularly pleasant 76 degrees (F) for the end of 2011's first month.  As I drove home from Taylor's Rentals back up Garland's First Street, the radio coincidentally offered up some old words from John Prine; he gave his advice on life as he sang these words:
     Blow up your TV,
     Throw away your paper,
     Move to the country, build you a home,
     Plant a little garden,
     Eat a lot of peaches,
     and try to find Jesus - on your own.

As noted earlier [Celebration in the Temple], Sue spent a wad of her birthday gift money on plants and seeds and she was raring to put those seeds, tubers, rhizomes and pots into the ground along with all of the hope in the world for a fabulous Spring and Summer garden.  Well, the start of Saturday morning, I was found lazily flipping through the paper, when she reminded me we were burning daylight.  It was time to take John Prine's advice (at least some of it); we'll start with throw away the paper and plant a little garden.

It was time to go see Bud at Taylor's Rentals, because Bud had several rototillers in his side shed that he was happy to rent to us for the day. We loaded the largest one that would fit into the back of our SUV and headed home to commence digging.  I set the choke, positioned the machine in the side yard, pinned the wheels up out of the way and dropped the drag bar down a couple of notches so it could find purchase in the blackland prairie soil that is to be Sue's garden patch between the driveway and the neighbor's fence.  I pulled the starter cord, engaged the clutch and those tines, like goblin fingers, began to rip into the moist, black-clay earth.  Sue was all smiles as she took the controls and began to merrily manage the magnificent mulch munching machine across the 10' x 40' plot.

The newly busted sod was treated with bags of cotton seed mulch in hopes of making the clumpy clay a bit more friable and root-friendly.  After several hours of power plowing, the tines were rinsed and the machine was loaded to make a return trip to see Bud at the tool rental store.  I pulled around back of Taylor's and went inside to finish the paper work.  Bud Jr. was now at the desk, and he ask, "How did the machine run?  Give you any problems?" 
   I said, "Well, my wife actually did most of the work with your rototiller, but she seemed to be pleased with its performance, she didn't mention any problems."
  "Ahhh, you've got a wife like that." Replied Bud Jr., with an approving grin.

That Saturday afternoon, peas and onions were planted.  Soon to come, asparagus, tomatoes, bell peppers, lemon cucumber, some variety of melon,  possibly spinach and blue corn and a peony for the joy of color.  The remainder of the planting has been held at bay after consulting the forecast.  As pleasant as last weekend was in the opening paragraph here; today (Tuesday, February 1st - 3 days later) the newly tilled garden sits beneath one-half inch of ice, sleet and frozen rain.  Tonight's low will be 12 degrees (F), but the garden is insulated by a layer of oak leaves, a gift from our neighbor's trees, transported from our front yard to the sideyard garden plot. 

Meanwhile, tonight we sit by the fireside, warming our now recovering "garden muscles", while the flowering pots of cyclomens and lobelia watch anxiously out the breakfast nook window, awaiting their turn to put roots into real dirt.  In Texas they say, "If you don't like the weather, give it 5 minutes."  It will be hot and humid before we know it, and we know that the weeds are already planning to put up shoots come next Saturday.

A Couple of Questions

A couple of questions to contemplate:

From the Zen Buddhist tradition; "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
From the Grant Benjamin (my son) tradition; WHY DO YOU ALWAYS WAIT UNTIL THE END THE MOVIE CREDITS BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE THEATER?!!!

The first question is meant for contemplation and expansion of one's knowledge of the universe, the second question has always sounded rhetorical if not fervently accusatory to me rather than inquisitive.  I have not deeply meditated on the sound of one hand clapping, while I have consistently ignored the question that has so often come once I have purchase movie tickets for myself and my children.  I just did not think a question delivered in such a strident tone ever deserved a measured explanation.

Last weekend, Sue, Grant and I went to the late showing ($10 each) of True Grit (2010).  After the film credits began to roll across the screen, Sue and I continued steadfast in our seats while others filed out of the theater.  Grant excused himself and headed to the restroom while we remained.  Returning in a few minutes he found us physically unmoved.  Once the screen did go dark, we all left to find our car and drive home.  While walking through the parking lot, Grant says, "You know, I have always wondered why you stay to the end of the credits?"  Now comes an opportunity to provide a contemplative answer to a reasonable question.

From the Woody Allen tradition;
   Q: Why does a rabbi always answer a question with a question?
   A: Why shouldn't a rabbi answer a question with a question?

Why do I wait for the film credits to finish before I leave my seat?

• After investing myself emotionally in the realm of the story, characters and action, I like to just sit quietly for a few moments and unwind, is that OK?
• What is the rush to get up and jostle with everyone else to hurry up and exit?
• I am always curious as to where the film sets were located [Yes, it is a bit nerdy of me to try and guess the locations from the rock outcrops and geomophological features seen in the film.  To the point: True Grit script says the action took place in Ft. Smith, Arkansas and Oklahoma Territory, but it was filmed in New Mexico and Granger, Texas (no mountains like that in Oklahoma)]
• The closing sound tract is more continuous and can be one of the more powerful elements of a film
• Sometimes they place really funny out-takes at the end of the film, wouldn't want to miss that, would you?
• I just paid big bucks for this experience and so I figure the longer I stay, the better the deal, including occupying those fuzzy butt seats as long as possible
• Even if I wanted to leave, I find it hard to get moving while my shoes are stuck to the floor by the powerful concoction of spilled soda pop, buttery pop corn and Jujubes

While I am sitting in a now empty theater and credit is being given where credit is due, to all "the little people"; the Best Boy, Key Grips, Foley Artist and Greens, I am sure they (whatever they do) appreciate having me read their names as they race across the silver screen. And if I have been reward by a particularly rich cinematic experience, you can hear my approval in the sound of one hand clapping.

Celebration in the Temple

Sue's birthday celebration was one of the more eclectic days I can recall.

Friday morning, The Day, was coincidentally her day off.  I started whipping together the requested chocolate cheese cake, a "Mud Bottom Strawberry Patch".  The basal layer of Graham Crackers paved with "mud" (chunks of dark chocolate), then cream cheese filling with swirls of chocolate syrup and cognac and a touch of amaretto, baked and then covered with halved strawberries.  Add a few ignited candles and you've gotch yer standard fare for a birthday treat.

Since her in-laws were in town, they personally issued the annual birthday mad-money check to the birthday girl and off she went to buy some plants for the outdoor window boxes and a few veggies for the garden.

While the cheese cake cooled, I took her out for a bowl of Louisiana gumbo for lunch.

Friday was also a scheduled interfaith worship night, where Rabbi Stern of Temple Emmanuel (Reformed Judaism) had invited Rev. Blair Mooney (Senior Pastor, Sue's boss, at Preston Hollow Presbyterian) to preach, while the choral music was provided by the choir of our old church, First Presbyterian, Richardson.  The choir director is employed by both the congregation at First Presbyterian and Temple Emmanuel - he call himself the original Presbyjewian.  Sue had expressed interest in attending the service, so Grant and I, accompanied by my parents were all welcomed with a Shabbat Shalom as we entered the synagogue.  The service of religious songs, chants and instructions (directed toward the gentiles) alternating from English to Hebrew and proceeding from right to left in the prayer book had me working pretty hard until I just closed the book and let the rhythm and cadence envelop my soul without struggling to keep up with the literal translation of the psalms and prayers.  Afterwards there were plenty of Presbyterians around to meet and greet, which kept us from quickly moving toward the Promised Land. Sue's Birthday Dinner was to be, if not in a land of milk and honey, at least in a land of tequilla and salsa.

Once out of Temple Emmanuel, it was north up the Dallas Tollway (no wandering in the wilderness for this bunch) to the Blue Mesa in Addison.  Blue Mesa is not quite Mount Sinai, but it often serves as the chosen place to mark special Suneson events.  New Mexican cuisine is their speciality; signature blue margaritas, sweet potatoe chips for a variety of salsas and most plates are garnished with chimayo corn, black beans, avacado and sweet cornbread.  I had salmon, barbecoa pork and chicken tacos with a black bean adobe pie.  Others enjoyed savory enchilada dishes.  Grandpa pick up the tab once again.

We arrived home too late to cut into the "Muddy Bottom" cheese cake and sing to Sue.  So, after the in-laws left early in the morning headed back home to Montana, I cut a nice piece of cake, put a lit candle in the middle of the slice and served the birthday girl +1 a chocolate, strawberry cheesecake breakfast in bed.  Oh!  Such decadence! Our libertine ways may demand we return to the temple next year for atonement.  Better yet, enjoy God's grace and eat cheesecake first thing in the morning. Amen!

The Fix-It Crew - A Visit from Mom & Dad

The plan from several months back was for Mom & Dad to leave their Montana winter behind and come down to Texas to see some sun and son (+ family).  The trip launched as scheduled in early January, with their route taking them through Idaho and into California to visit my sisters before crossing the desert Southwest to Dallas.  Here in Dallas we had hardly any rain from mid-October to early January with above average readings on the thermometer, just the pleasant climate our visitors from the North were hoping for.  Nothing last forever, and since we here in North Texas have nothing between us and the North Pole but for a few barbed wire fences, the arctic cold fronts did push down to Texas at just about the wrong time.

On Sunday, six days before their arrival at our house, we had a 1-inch snow fall, which is always kind of exciting as an infrequent event around here.  The cold fronts kept coming and patches of snow hung around on the northern exposure of roof tops and in small shaded piles beneath the ligustrum shrubbery.  The last vestiges melted away early on Friday prior to their arrival on Saturday.  Alas, the Texas Sun, so strong of a force most of the year was hidden behind high, gray clouds for several days.

Dad will be 80 next month, but you wouldn't know it by the amount of stuff he gets done.  In fact hosting my parents is kind of like being adopted by a pack of Border Collies.  I felt I had better have something for them to do, otherwise no telling what kind of mischief my folks would get into.  We had a pile of clothes in the ironing basket stuffed in the laundry closet, teetering past the slope of repose.  Mom lit into that stack of shirts, blouses and trousers and had them all pressed and hung back in our closet in no time flat - said she liked doing it too.  Back in September I spent the better part of two days replacing all the parts in the upstairs toilet tank to staunch an insidious leak that defied my simple flapper valve replacement fix.  I labored to cut off the rusted tank bolts to deal with other possibly faulty seals - no dice, the dang thang still leaked water-meter $$ down the toilet.  Good ol' Dad, disassembled the toilet again, pointed at the suspect O-ring above bowl standpipe and scurried off to Home Despot, returning with a new kit.  Viola!  No more leak! [I thought I replaced that O-ring.  Why else would I spent a day wrapped around that porcelain fixture, sawing off those rusty bolts? I guess I was so delighted to finally get the tank removed that I forgot what my purpose was].  To celebrate the fix, Dad took us out to Gojo restaurant for Ethiopian food and we ate our fill of lamb and seasoned vegetables scooped up with fingers full of the flat spongy injera bread (no silverware). 

While this far south, Dad took the opportunity for a long-desired visit to see Vicksburg, Mississippi and tour the Civil War battlefield where General U.S. Grant laid siege to the city and forced the surrender of Confederate Gen. Pemberton on July 4th, 1863; thus splitting the Confederacy in two (divide and conquer) and giving the Union forces full control of the Mississippi River, allowing "the father of waters to flow unvexed to the sea" as Abraham Lincoln put it.  Mom & Dad spent two days on the road to see Natchez, MS and then Vicksburg before returning to our home.  While they were out of Dallas the sun came out and we had a pleasant day, unlike the rain that followed them across Louisiana to the Big Muddy.

A raw, bitter and windy cold front came to town about the same time as their triumphant return from MS.  With the Vicksburg itinerary check off, it was time to find the folks more projects.  I pointed out a couple of split branches on the backyard peach tree and an overgrown rose bush along the fence.  I handed Dad a saw, and say no more - I soon saw a sawed pile upon the sod.  Not only industrious, but resourceful, Dad then set upon the dead oak leaves that had blown over from the neighbor's with vengeance and a spring-tine rake.  I think my Dad is very vengeful toward rascally unwanted leaves. Once the rascally leaves were herded into piles, they were deposited in the side yard to be interred as compost for Sue's Grand Garden (still in the planning stages).  And of course Dad noticed that the side gate was out of kilter, so I set him up with a skil saw a set of socket wrenches and now the gate swings unvexed to the compost pile.  Abraham Lincoln "the ol' rail-splitter" would approve.

Their quest for the sun went mostly unfulfilled, but it was great to have them around for a little while and enjoy some familial warmth.  Our old dog was happy to get an extra set of fingers from Mom to scratch his haunches and our house is now noticeably improved from what is was before they arrived.  The sun was breaking over the horizon for a pleasant day last Saturday, so as fate would have it, they had already packed the night before and were back on the road at 7:15 AM headed back to Montana. Leaving behind a
quart jar of homemade rhubarb-raspberry jam [Beebop-A-Reebop, love that rhubarb jam! 7 days later it is already half gone :-( ].

May a warm front rise up to greet you in your northward travels and may all your gates swing effortlessly open and may the waters flow unvexed - but not until summoned by the toilet handle.  Good times and good results!  Thanks for everything, y'all.

Delta f508

An old friend of mine (now a doctor of pediatric oncology) once remarked after a biology/genetics class, "Just think about how complicated the process of gene replication is, the necessary correct alignment of every single one of the millions of molecular receptors, the timing for transfer-RNA and all that is needed to go right, yet with so many opportunities to mess up - it makes me scared to death to ever consider having kids."

Over Christmas break we had our son genetically tested, specifically to look at chromosome 7 and gene Delta f508 to see if he is a carrier for cystic fibrosis (CF).  The lab just called with the news that he does not have CF, but is a genetic carrier - as are both of his parents.  The odds that he would be a carrier were 3 out of 4.  Of course the impetus for the testing came from his sister's pulmonologist who has been treating her for CF since October, 2008 when she was finally correctly diagnosed.

Since the birth of our children, I would have to say the most significant event to seriously affect our family was Inga's diagnosis of CF at age 17.  After years of a constant, larynx-ejecting-heavy-coughing, intermittent fevers and sapped energy, where her symptoms were just shrugged off by lesser pediatricians or she was treated for non-existent allergies; a simple sweat-chloride test confirmed she had CF.  Neither of us, her parents, were aware of a family history of lung disorders or CF, but we now know that we each carry a the Delta f508 gene that inhibits proper sodium transport and which makes the odds at 1 out of 4 that a child of ours will be affected by CF.

Inga was admitted to the hospital for 6 days immediately after Christmas, 2008.  While hospitalized she was "cleaned out" of infections in her lungs by a serious regimen of antibiotics and other drugs and her lung function was restored to normal.  We are thankful that treatment for CF, even in her lifetime, has made great strides and there is legitimate hope that soon there will be a therapeutic genetic cure for cystic fibrosis.  In the mean time, Inga spends time with a regimen of treatments and faithful exercise that enables her to lead a very healthy and normal life, and is no doubt now the healthiest one among us.

One year after finally getting the proper diagnosis which enabled her to then greatly improve and maintain her health after years of mild suffering, Inga wrote the following observations:

Living with Cystic Fibrosis

Things I have Learned

• God’s love is awesome. When you consider what He’s done for us, nothing seems quite as hard as it did

• Attitude makes a difference. Always.
• Never underestimate the speed of news around a church congregation
• So many people in so many places have been working on my behalf long before I ever realized
• I have only begun to see the boundless generosity of others
• There is such a thing a happy coincidence (Divine Intervention?) – How else would you explain randomly drawing Cystic Fibrosis as a report assignment for a freshman biology project on genetic disease?
• Sometimes, some songs were written for you at that moment. Embrace it. Take comfort in a melody and the fact that someone at some point was in your position
• Knowing that I have the most ridiculously mild case of CF makes me angry and sad for all of those with even a marginally more serious case. That being said, I am incredibly blessed.
• Taking a day off for health is perfectly acceptable
• People take breathing for granted. Stop that!
• Smoking is personally offensive
• The phrase “I’ll sleep on it” is underrated. Sleep makes everything better
• Time is a precious commodity. Especially when you have two hours less per day because of treatments
• People don’t enjoy anything enough. One must be like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven, right? For starters, why not be full of joy like one?
• Doctors are people too. Forgive them of their mistakes, even when it’s your own health they mess up (Note: There are definite exceptions to this rule)
• Be nice to everyone in a hospital. They can make the experience comfortable and relaxing or stressful and painful
• Genetic testing is a miracle. Treat it as such.
• There are good days and bad days. Take them both in stride, it is impossible to have ups without downs
• True friends will laugh with you about your condition and cry with you about it in the same hour
• True friends are rare, but they understand the meaning of the word unconditional
• Contemplating one’s own mortality can be liberating
• Life is beautiful!

Inga

There is a story of a young girl who was diagnosed with CF, and when the doctors told her she had a sickness called cystic fibrosis, she heard it as she had a sickness call "sixty-five roses".  Inga has taken on the emblem of "65-Roses"; she has designed T-shirts with stenciled 65-Roses to wear as she and friends participate in fund-raising walks for the CF Foundation, and Inga is considering a career in Non-profit Management with an emphasis on those organizations which advocate for health such as the CF Foundation.

Jihad Bells!

Jihad Bells! Jihad Bells!
Jihad all the way!
Oh what fun is homicide when infidels we slay!

Inga had air fare to bring her home for 3 weeks on Christmas break from the University of Oregon, but the Eugene-Portland-Dallas trip is too expensive and time consuming to be considered for a trip home for the brief Thanksgiving holiday.  But while home for Christmas, Inga filled us in on spending Thanksgiving with her good school friend Alex and her family in Portland.  As part of her visit to Portland, Inga casually mentioned that she went with Alex's family to Pioneer Square, "Portland's Living Room", to attend the festive tradition of lighting the city's Christmas Tree.  "Oh yeah! We were actually walking across the Square at 5:40 PM - the very time when Mohamed Osman Mohamud pressed the switch to detonate what he believed to be a car bomb he had parked near the Square".  Only the FBI had the young jihadist under control and had duped him and loaded his car with inert explosives.  No boom -  just an FBI bust.  According to news reports, the FBI agents involved in the sting gave Mohamud many opportunities to change his heart, even informing him that there would be lots of small kids and their mothers at Pioneer Square, a target he himself selected.  He was undeterred by the visage of carnage and slaughter of innocents he was expecting to perpetrate, actually saying he wanted to make his attack a "big fireworks show".   

As a parent, I have a head and heart full of thoughts and emotions kindled by this plan to attack the festive Portland holiday throng of which my daughter was a part. These thoughts and emotions are not well organized by my mind nor easily categorized in my conscience; but there is in me an abiding residual chill in contemplating the loss and heartbreak, personal and communal, that was the intent of this 19 year old Muslim.  Whether he was close to actually accomplishing mass and random slaughter or not, carnage and dismemberment was his intent.  Sobering.

I noted news video the following day of Muslims in Oregon handing out propaganda to pedestrians in Pioneer Square proclaiming that Islam is a religion of peace to all who took their tracts.  Me thinks the lady doth protest too much.  Those proclaiming Islam a religion of peace need to focus their teaching on those in their own mosques rather than whitewashing the reality of the all-too-often headline.  Mohamed Mohamud is not alone; Hosam Smadi was also arrested by the FBI after pressing the detonator on a fake car bomb in Dallas in 2009; and of course there is the Pakistani Time Square car bomber who was arrested moments before his flight left the US.  A handful of thwarted subway bomb plots and planned attacks makes me skeptical that all those who interpret the Quoran do so as agent of peace.  Watching CNN as the Portland attempted bombing story unfolded, Mohamud's imam was shown weeping that the young jihadist had thrown his life away (now that he was under arrest).  Was he not moved that that the law had prevented him from actually sweeping the life away of many others, possibly my own daughter's?  Is it merely a question of who's ox is being gored?  Is evil relative?

Inga is none the worse for being at Pioneer Square and having been one of the possible victims.  But I do pause to wonder, do we ever really know how thin is this barrier that keeps us from harm or from evil overwhelming all things?  With the headlines of 2011 just 2 weeks old, sadly I see no hope that the world has moved closed to peace.  But I give thanks for what I have been granted in life and I thank those who make it their duty to stand for peace, for those who stand vigilant on the wall.  Most hours of most days I do not think of calamity, I do not dwell in fear. I am content, if not nearly oblivious to those elements of evil that seek to prevail, but for those who do stand, keeping watch so that the barrier holds and a peaceful and content civil society flourishes.  For these things, I am grateful.  Peace to All.

Festive Christmas Holiday begins in
Portland's Pioneer Square
With the Lighting of the Tree

Carnivore Tour 2010

Nothin' like home cooking!  Except, maybe the regional taste of home cooking.

Some years back a guest from India was visiting Dallas, and Sue had the opportunity to take him to lunch. She suggested that he might like an Indian restaurant, as opposed to Tex-Mex, barbecue and various other cuisines of note here in Texas.  Her Indian guest was exceptionally delighted to discover that not only was it Indian food, but specifically cuisine from his home region in southern India.  The meal satisfied more than his hunger for food, it allowed him to reconnect to his home with fragrances, textures and multi-sensual experience beyond a cell phone call back to his family.

In 2009 upon Inga's return from the University of Oregon, her request to reconnect to home was a trip to Cooper's BBQ in Llano, Texas.  Between Christmas and New Years, the family spend 2 days and 1 night on the road sampling smokehouses with high ratings across the heart of Texas; beginning with The Salt Lick in Dripping Springs (outside of Austin), a couple of joints in Elgin (Tex-German Country) and finishing at the pit at Cooper's.  This year, Inga had the need to replenish her bottles of Cooper's Sauce to take back to Eugene, as well as a hankering for some righteous smoked meats.  It was made clear that this time it was to be only her and brother Grant - no parents.

One Sunday morn before Christmas, the two of them lit out on the 240 mile drive (one-way) to Cooper's.  It was a Sister-Brother Road Trip, made possible by parental blessing and parental credit card.  I was pleased to see the two take a whimsical trip such as this, about 30 minutes of gastronomical enjoyment sandwiched between 4 and a half hours of driving.  Kinda makes me proud to be an American and to live in land of such pure pleasures of driving on long country roads with a cooked cow waiting at the end.  Of course in Eugene, I am told there is no barbecue, just tofu, fantastic waffles and a passel of proto-anorexic coeds.

Cooper's has their smoking pits out front, and one cues up next to the pit where the meats have been finished to perfection.  You are given a tray and a sheet of butcher paper, and as you mosey on past the offerings of brisket, sausage, chicken, ribs, ham and sirloin you point to the particular cut of meat that catches your stomach's fancy.  A man wielding a sharp knife cuts off a piece and places it on your tray.  Inside you select your sides, corn, potatoes, rolls, pickles, peach cobbler etc.  At the end of the line your selection is weighed and you are charged accordingly.  You find a place at a long table to slide into and have a seat while gathering plenty of paper towels.  This is the real thang. 

Tin Shed Dining Atmosphere *****  A Most Righteous Meal
Worth the 240 Mile Drive



Grant peels back the butcher paper for a bite on a rib




Grant living High on the Hog - Carnivore Tour II

Inga packed two suitcases for her return flight to Eugene, Oregon on January 2, 2011.  The first items to be carefully bubble-wrapped and sealed were two bottles of Cooper's Sauce.  Good on everything, except maybe Blue Bell ice cream.

An Epiphany - The Race to the Bottom of the Bottle

The Twelve Days of Christmas Tide.

Most know of the refrain "and a partridge in a pear tree", and most of us can name a few of the the other gifts that "my true love gave to me" in this medieval counting (or beer tavern) song; there are of course 5 Golden Rings, 7 Swans a swimming and something about 10 or 11 Lepers Leaping.  But other than existing in the oft parodied 12 Days of Christmas song, those 12 days have been truncated or flat out lost.  I think judging by the American retailer, the 12 Days of Christmas are now recognizable as beginning the day after Halloween, and by 12 Days, we use the number 12 only metaphorically to mean "54 shopping days left until Christmas".

Hearkening back to the liturgical calendar, those 12 Days of Christmas actually began with Christ's Mass on December 25 and lasted until the season of Epiphany on January 7.  So, Christmas in days of yore lasted until January 6.  But in these fast times, which of us attention deficit ridden consumers has time to loll about for 12 days AFTER Christmas?  I have heard more than one person reason that is so depressing to have Christmas decorations up as they tread the verge of the New Year.  Dismantle the tree post-haste!  Those stocking hung with care in hopes that St. Nick would soon be there? - Hey Lady! If you haven't noticed, St. Nick has already come and gone, put those socks in a cedar box, just get 'em out here.  Why, now there are 54 college football bowl games scheduled for our viewing pleasure.  What casual fan of sport would not rue missing the Delaware Blue Hens vs. The Eastern Washington Eagles at Pizza Hut Park - Pluck the Hens! Pluck the Eagles! The opposing partisan chants rise from within the stadium.  In Texas there are black-eyed peas to cook (for good luck - only if eaten on New Year's Day). With all of these events and obligations stuffed into the end-of-the year, can we really afford to keep Christmas around for 12 whole days?  Obviously not, Christmas trappings past impinge too much upon of the shiny and fascinating coming New Year, The Next Big Thing.  We are so done with Christmas by the 27th of December.  And have you noticed it is getting harder and harder to find Guy Lombardo and his Band of Royal Canadiens playing Auld Lang Syne on TV. 

Should old times be forgot? 

Should we not hurry up an move on to the next disposable calendar day, checking off each appointment and feeling the due satisfaction of attending another meeting as a measure of our worth?  I'll take up the mantle of iconoclast to this postmodern culture, in a small way I'll still mark the 12 Days of Christmas. I'll hold onto a slower world.  I'll continue to light the Christmas lights until January 6, while the rest of the neighborhood once so brightly lit in anticipation of Christmas has now quickly dimmed into ordinary winter darkness post 12/25.

And in this 2010-2011 season, a new effort on my part.  I syncritzed the 12 Days of Christmas with the spirit of the 8 days of Jewish Hanukkah in the effort to make "it" last.  This year it is a race to the bottom of the bottle, Eggnog vs. Hennessy Cognac.  Could I make the winter's evening eggnog supply last all the way to Epiphany or would I run out of cognac prematurely and have to take the eggnog straight?  Of course the cognac had a head start, being a partially drained bottle that was a legacy from my Grandfather who passed away in 1976.  The less-than-full cognac bottle sitting on my shelf for the past + 32 years was rediscovered in November when a tiramisu cake recipe called for cognac. 

Each evening, in a comfortable chair across the low-lit room from the strands of diminutive colored lights entwined on the boughs of our live Christmas Tree, I sip a tumbler of eggnog and cognac.  I reflect on blessing, friends and kindness.  I raise my glass and take this, a cup of kindness. 

There is a season for everything; a season for eggnog and a season for evergreen trees inside the home.  It is foolish to hold too tight to old times and yet reckless to deny a full measure to each season as it comes.  Sure enough, I am out of eggnog, and there remains not much more than a few tablespoons and vapors in the cognac bottle.  But to each in its own own season all will be drained, whether it is cognac or the hourglass holding the sands of time.  Sip and savor each cup of kindness offered and drink among your dears until it is at last drained dry.  As I embrace the New Year this is my Epiphany.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.