News from N'Arlens

I'm in New Orleans for the first time.  It's a business trip but one can't work all waking hours (right Faith?).  The convention and our hotel are about four blocks from Bourbon street which puts us right on the edge of the French Quarter.  Last evening we ate at a nationally renowned restaurant (at least according to their menu), Galatoire's, located in Vieux Carre, right on Bourbon St. They required men to wear jackets which required my companions and me to select from a rack of jackets, each with undoubtable dubious history.  I couldn't find one that fit properly about my...er...shoulders, the closest one being a light tan checkered striped affair.  My colleague surmised my look as a down-and-out used car salesman.  The nine people in our group crowded around a table for six in the center of the room and spent the next hour ducking the bustling waiters as they not so cleverly hid their irritation at our butts being in their way.  The food was great!  I had to have most items passed too me, even the bread which was right in front of my plate because the jacket prevented me from extending my arms to full length.  Ah well, another memory for the scrap book.  A mere $40 a piece got us safely back out on Bourbon St.

Being the product of American culture of the past 50 years, I have a very vivid image of New Orleans.  When I think of New Orleans, I think of Bourbon St.  When I think of Bourbon St. I think of ornate balconies, bistros, and smoky bars, with aged black men hunched over their instrument drawing out sounds that originate in their souls.  Well, what I found on Bourbon street was;  balconies, many ornate, some plain, most packed with young men shouting at passing women to flash their breasts; there were many bistros and smoky bars, but I never saw a wisened, distinguished black man in any of them.  Many bands were playing but, the music was rock and country-rock; my kind of music but, not what I was expecting.  The other attribute of Bourbon St. that doesn't make the broader cast image is the seedy fixation on anything sex.  Most bars had bouncers whose secondary duty was to draw in customers with shouts like, " Heh, fellas we got girls with big ..."  There were "barely legal babes", shadows of naked women dancing behind blinds, mechanical girl leg swinging out from the side of a building (clever), hooker-dressed women standing in doorways, etc.  There was, however, a strange mix of other enterprises as well; small restaurants, souvenir shops, and regular bar and grills.  People occupied the sidewalks and street and even on a Tuesday evening there was a carefree, party atmosphere.

So my Bourbon St. experience amounted to a slow stroll from one end of the "bar" section to the other and back again, with a couple pauses to see if the guys on the balcony would be successful in their pleading for an exposed breast, and a brief pee stop in one of the bars (required a purchase of a beer which we were allowed to carry down the street). I was back in my room by 10:00pm watching a Law and Order rerun.

Of course there is plenty of other unique attractions in the bayou city but I'll have to leave these for another time.  I recommend a visit to Bourbon St, at least once, like I recommend people in my home area to attend at least one county fair.  Don't take the kids after dark.

Making of a hero

Last evening was the first difficult evening that we have had with the new baby.  My daughter has been a wonderful mother so far and baby Brady has done his part to perfection, that is; sleep when not eating, eating when not sleeping, and…well…you know, the other thing new-borns do.  The amount of crying, up until last night, was held to a minimum, a mere notification that some attention was required.  An unspoken pact was understood; you feed me or change me and the crying will stop.  I was starting to see in my daughter a bit of cockiness; this ain’t so hard kind of attitude.  This is understandable given the barrage of counseling that leads up to baby’s arrival.  You know, the little comments, winks, and raised eye brows all meant to prepare the new mother for the hardships of taking care of a baby.  Aunt J., “Oh honey, you try to sleep now, dear, ‘cause there won’t be any sleepin’ once the baby’s here”.  Grandma E., “Now dear that baby is going to cry a lot and you have to make yourself not rush to him every time you hear a little whimper”.  Uncle F, “ Hell, I can remember walking ‘ol baby boy all night long trying to get the little guy to quit crying and go to sleep”…yadda yadda yadda.

Well, like I said, we’ve had it pretty easy so far.  Last evening however, Brady cried on and off for several hours.  About 11:30 pm I was hauling myself out of the butt-hugger, heading for bed (couldn’t hear the news, anyway, over Brady’s howling) when I looked over at daughter and Brady and noticed a concerned look on daughter’s face.  I had also noticed her making little comments that I read as being more a result of nervous concern than nurturing coos.  I reached for Brady and daughter readily handed him over with a note of pleading in her eye.  I had no idea what the problem could be. Maybe his parts might be in a bind, a condition that I can readily relate to and understand the need to cry.  I was assured that all that had been checked out and he should be good to go.  I started the walking and patting ritual.  There’s not much room for walking in our house these days, what with the daughter moving back in and the new baby stuff, given so generously by seemingly everybody in the tri-county area.  This caused me to walk the path leading to the kitchen where it was quiet and no one was around.  I paced for a couple minutes switching Brady between a half dozen positions, always patting on the back.  Then, there was a little burp, a couple gurgles, and another burp.  Silence set in.  I looked at him, he looked at me, and there was a mutual understanding that this little episode was over.  The fact that random timing was the only reason that I happened to be the one holding him when the little bubble worked its way up and out was not going to get in the way of the mystique surrounding my apparent prowess with all things baby.

With his eyes already drooping I casually walked back into the livingroom, trying like hell to keep the smug grin off of my face.  I handed Brady back, kissed daughter goodnight, and walk off with the air of, “all in a days work”.  It may just be my take on it, but I’m sure the expression on daughter’s face had something to do with heroes.

"Brady's my name...sleepin's my game"

Happy Blog

Just call me Grandpa!

We had our first grandchild yesterday, Johnathon Brady (yes, daughter insists on the "h").  I am always a late bloomer when it comes to becoming cognizant of the significance of some of the more important events in life.  I plod along going through the motions, not tuning in to all of the fuss and muss.  Then, invariably too late, I have this slow realization that, hey, this is pretty cool!  The important thing, I suppose, is that I do eventually get there.

This is pretty cool!

Foundations

We are but piles of stone

Quarried from small secrets

Stacked and fitted

Some dense and strong

Others porous and weak

Each moment, each person

Fitting in place to make me who I am

Stumbling when weak, weathered stone crumbles

Resting on strong foundations

Mourning when they are gone

One of the experiences that one has in the middle age years is losing the people of your youth.  The ones who made up the substance of your world.  The grandparents, parents, teachers and aunts and uncles who, by simply being there, created the reality of your world.  Without being aware, this is the reality by which you weigh the world for the rest of your life.  This influence may thin over time, replaced partially by the pounding of adult life, but always there.  My experience when one of these people die, is a very real sense that my foundation, my very self is shaken.  I was very fortunate to have as part of my youth and early adulthood, an aunt, who created for me a very real sense of goodness, love, and dedication to values and family.  She is elderly now, but very much alive and newly diagnosed with a deadly cancer.  We have not lost her yet, but my heart quivers as I feel the waves pound against the stone.

Don’t take life for granted,

Every once in awhile one experiences a brush with death that reminds us of the fragile nature of life, that a single moment in the vast ocean of time can extinguish the wisp of flame to which we cling so frantically.  After passing through these moments, often unscathed, we are offered the moment to reflect on what value we apportion to life and to make resolutions that will raise our future endeavors to worthy heights.  This morning, on my sleepy drive to work, I had one of these moments.  A split second where time slows and every movement, every smell is permanently imprint in your memory to be used in future dreams.  I was entering the parking lot when a car careened around an approaching corner, cutting in front of my fragile minivan, and narrowly missing a catastrophic collision.  I took a moment to catch my breath and continued to find the safety of my standard parking spot.  Knees weak, I worked my way up the steps, into my office and poured a cup of coffee.  The warm, familiar feel of the ceramic mug eventually calmed my nerves and I was able begin a normal day at the office.

So, next time you head out on the highways, take a moment to count your blessings and appreciate your smooth, dentless fenders.  There could be a pretty red-head waiting around the next corner.

(author’s note:  my tongue was so firmly in my cheek as I wrote this that I may not be able to talk for a couple days)

Square pegs in round holes.

It was Sunday morning and I was sitting in the family center of the Methodist church.  This is a large, truly multi-purpose room.  There are basketball hoops that crank up to the ceiling out of the way.  The floor is carpeted which was astonishing to me the first time that came into the room; basketball on carpet? Pot-luck dinners on carpet?  As it has turned out, the carpet covered concrete is just the right consistency on which to bounce a ball and lemon meringue pie cleans up easily.  This morning the room was set up for the Worship Café.  The Worship Café is a relatively new Sunday morning service that the pastor came up with to appeal to the younger crowd and also to those in the community that may avoid this church for reasons resulting from social class stigma.  The atmosphere is casual, round tables are dispersed around the room, and snacks are served complete with four different types of coffee.  It seems to be working and after a year or so the attendance is steadily growing with a broad mix of ages and social/economic background.

The primary motivation for my being there was to participate in something with which my son is involved.  He plays guitar in the band.  Yep, they have a band that plays contemporary Christian music, complete with drums, guitars, bass, electric piano, and the obligatory girl back-up singers.  It is not a real polished outfit.  It is made up of people in the church and led by the youth director.  They only practice for about two hours a week.  But, it works ok.  The piano player is an amazing fellow who must be close to seventy years old, maybe older.  He is entirely self taught and can’t read a lick of music, however, he has a huge repertoire and can pick out the cords and melody of about any song they bring up.  Over the past few years I have noticed consistent, subtle improvements in his skill and style.  I asked him about this and he said that he has a couple friends who teach in the music school at the local university.  He said that they specialize in jazz and are real good about giving him pointers. Amazing.

My son being in the band may not seem very noteworthy.  After all, how uncommon is it to have a 17 year old boy playing guitar in a band.  The difference where my son is concerned is that he has not participated in very many activities during his childhood and teenage years.  My unlearned analysis would be that he has problems with the social skills that are necessary to happily engage in group activities.  From the time he was small, he has had problems dealing with the stresses of coping with the raw personalities of other children.  This has driven him, with only a few exceptions, to being a loner.  I don’t want to paint too bleak a picture.  It has been tough for him, but not devastating.  It is tough because his sensitivity only brings on more challenges.  As we all know children pickup on fragile personalities like ants find picnics.  It is a cruel boot strap arrangement that is hard to watch and near impossible to prevent.  It has been tough because dad is constantly pushing him away from the computer so that he can get out of the house, grow his wonderfully gifted body, and participate in life.  But, without the pool of friends from which to draw, he is hard pressed to find other things to do.  He has constantly presented the argument that the relationships that he has built online with the online gaming are just the same, with the same inter-personal interaction value as any real community.  I have strongly argued the weakness of this opinion, however, in the last year, as I have seen him gradually emerge from his shell and blossom; I have started to recognize a positive roll played by the internet socializing.  He is a smart guy, with real opinions, and things to say.  He had no forum for these things in his high school life.  There was too much history there, too much ridicule.  In the gaming world, his skill has gained him respect.  His opinions matter.  While I think there are plenty of caution flags waving in the internet world (worthy of another blog), I can also see a social forum emerging that has never really existed before, with many positive qualities for many people.

My wife and I always thought that we sensed some musical talent.  We thought, honestly, that he had a good singing voice and that he showed rapid progress with some early piano lessons.  So, we encouraged him along these lines with the predictable results that he wouldn’t sing or tickle the ivories even if the internet went down (shudderrrr) meaning there truly was “nothing else to do”.  A couple of years ago he decided to learn to play the guitar and found a willing teacher in the church’s youth director.  The youth director took an interest in son and they met once a week for an hour.  Eventually the director invited son to play in the Café band which was a hyper ego injection.  No one suppresses a smile better than my son, but I thought his cheeks were going to split when he came home with that announcement.

So here I am on Sunday morning, sipping my vanilla nut coffee, relishing the apple fritter, and watching my son play in the band.  I know that this is cheating.  I’m supposed to be there for worship and study, but I really struggle with religion.  I’m so indecisive about this that I can’t make up my mind whether or not I’m agnostic.  If there is benefit to be had, maybe I will get it by osmosis.  In the mean time I’m enjoying watching my handsome son and being just proud as punch.

I got to sit in the co-pilot’s seat in a King Air twin engine flying hot rod yesterday.  During my stint at the controls we were firmly parked in an out-of-the-way corner of the airport tarmac and never even started the engines, but this did little to dampen my excitement.  My imagination could handle the remaining missing details.  Later, a person at work would ask me if I went, “Vroooom  Vroooom”  and, well, yes I did.  Wouldn’t you?  With the owner sitting next to me I hesitantly reached for the control yolk looking for an approving nod which I received.  The grips fit the hand nicely, the metal smooth and cool.  The feeling of freedom and power came immediately; the image of freedom-of-movement coming from countless moments of observing the flight of birds, the birds looking sometimes busy and sometimes, obviously, playful.  The sense of power coming from the two huge engines and propellers mounted on the wings, in full view, just outside the window.  Crank up the engines and we’ll fly to…where?  Anywhere! We have all this power and freedom…

Eventually, I came back to earth and we continued earlier conversations about the non-glamorous, expensive details of owning such a plane.  The owner/pilot was a semi-retired, successful business man who had visited my work place for a couple of days.  He and a partner had bought this used plane a couple of years ago.  Initial purchase price wasn’t divulged, but I’m guessing around $2M.  He ran through some operating expenses like mandatory engine overhauls at $100,000 a pop and annual insurance costs in the neighborhood of $30,000.  The personal wealth of my guest was starting to emerge in my awareness like the sun overcomes the morning gray.  This man and I had only spent a few hours together in a predominantly business mode over the past couple years, so our relationship would be called “casual acquaintance”, at best.  In those brief encounters, he never came across, however, as a rich guy.  (mental note number 2,3289, 453, “don’t make rash assumptions about people…ever”)  Maybe he isn’t rich by today’s standards, but he has this plane.  I make a decent living and I drove us to the little airport in my six year old mini-van that I am hoping will last another five.  It would be an extravagance for me to pay one of the local pilots to take my kids for a joy ride in their Cessna.  Owning a plane that could take the family for a weekend in the Bahamas is inconceivable from my frame of reference.  It is rich people who do this sort of thing. This business man admits readily that owning the plan does not make good business sense.  It is more expensive and in many cases much more expensive than other travel options.  "It’s just that it is more convenient and more fun {sheepish grin}".  I understand this concept, that’s why I go to McDonalds sometimes instead cooking a hamburger at home.

As I drove back to work from the Airport, a 20 minute ride through the country side, I couldn’t help dwelling on the contrast between this man’s world and the world around me.  I live in an area that has, for as long as I can remember, been deemed an economically depressed area.  We are on the fringes of Appalachia.  The local sate university brings a diversity and economic boon that is lacking in surrounding communities but, on the other hand, we are severely lacking in industry.  Much of the population is using public assistance of one kind or another and many others are managing a bare subsistence lifestyle.  The question that I think we all deal with from time to time is, is this inequity in means right or wrong?  The response to this simply stated question is always strong and often emotional regardless of the particular forum in which it is asked.  It is one of these issues that are boundless in variants and perspectives.  It has been with humanity since the first crippled, starving caveman tried to understand why it was his destiny to die pitifully and young while his stronger neighbor would bask in the warmth of his fire while gorging on the fruits of the day’s hunt.

I don’t believe there is a divine proclamation that would cast a shadow of wrongness over one person’s being able to float among the clouds while another is left to float upon the pond with his fishing pole; one person can own and fly a wondrous machine while another is relegated to sitting in the co-pilot seat and only dream.  I do however believe that we can state as truth that it is wrong when one person can survive and another cannot, simply due to birth rite or innate ability.  This is stating that the tenant of  “survival of the fittest” stops at the threshold of humanity.  Why can we state this as truth?  Can truths such as these exist without a divine being?  If so, what authority sanctions this truth? Does there have to be a God before we can apportion the same right to life to each person?  Our constitution goes as far as stating that we not only have a right to life but also to liberty and the pursuit of happiness (private airplanes)  From whence basic truths or beliefs such as these are derived is subject for an even larger debate.

{Vrroooom, Vrooooom,  rrrrrmrmmm, sputter, sputter, cough cough, chugga chugga, vrrrooomm,

 vrrrooooommm, rrrrrrrrmmmmm,.....}

The governor is going to tour our company today.  We’re a small bunch of mostly techy geeks with a counter culture bent, definitely anti- establishment (left over from the sixties) and we all seem to have authority issues (not so bad unless you happen to be one of the authority figures).  The company is thirty years old and I have been involved with the people and business on and off for most of that time.  This is me circa 1975.

There is plenty of material in the history of this company for observation, contemplation, and musing about the evolution of groups of people, how much predictability is involved, how well can social deviations survive and/or flourish.  The observation of a group of folks who have deep rooted aversion to some of the basic tenets of capitalism yielding, begrudgingly, to the realities of surviving within the system, while still maintaining the mantle of a higher vision, is a fascinating study.  It is neither a statement of failure or victory, but is rather a true example of how real change occurs in social order.  Instantaneous change of large magnitude will usually result in a resounding snap, with catastrophic results.  Gradual bending over time will yield permanent deformation and realignment.

But, enough of that, the subject is beyond the scope of this blog and doing justice to the topic may be beyond the scope of this writer.  The particular aspect of this progression that I look forward to observing today is the various ways folk try to appear entirely un-impressed that the governor is coming to tour our little company, myself included (as I recall the strict control I maintained over my facial expression when the announcement was made).  There are a few who let their a excitement show, there is the boss who is utterly un-impressed, but knows that we don’t want to screw up and squelch any future possibilities, and there are those who respond with mastered body language, “So?”.   I, as usual, fall somewhere in the middle.

So, this morning I dug out the brown suedes and brushed most of the dog hairs of the navy blues, found a tie that I think works, and will make ready for the guv’ner.