It ain't all pizzas and cream

Rubble and Flames

Well, the home-buying chaos continues...

We're still awaiting critical documents from the bank, papers that were promised to us weeks ago, and which now the bank SWEARS are on their way.   Also, because of liability laws or some silliness, we have to be fully moved out of this house before settlement but cannot move into the new house until after settlement.   Which means we'll be living with friends while all our belongings idle for a day inside a rented truck.  I offered to "rent" our house from the new buyers for a couple of days so we'd have time to move and clean, but this is apparently a no-no in the real estate world.  Once you sell...you must leave.  So, the bottom line is that if we close successfully on the sale, but the bank or some other snafu fouls the purchase, we will be in essence homeless and living out of a truck.  Granted, we'll be homeless with a large cashier's check in hand, so will probably board the cats and seek shelter in a month-by-month rental until we can regroup.  But such thoughts are crazy-making, so we're trying not to entertain them...much.

Why, you may ask, do I bring this up?  Well, I mentioned our situation to my mom today.  You should know that my mom has Alzheimer's, combined with the after-effects of a bout of viral encephalitis she suffered nine years ago after returning from an Alaskan vacation.  To quote a poet friend of mine, "she has large holes in her mind."   She is taking medication, which is working well, and she still lives on her own, with the help of twice-weekly visits from a home care aide, twice-weekly visits from me, plus friends who take her to church on Sundays.  Nonetheless, on a given day, I never know what she'll remember, or for that matter, what she'll say. 

So when I told her about our housing situation, she paused for a moment....then offered something like this:

"After the British bombed our house with phosphor, we came up from the basement shelter and everything was rubble and flames.  The whole neighborhood was gone.  People were running around on fire.  They would jump into the ditches to put themselves out, but there was no water.  The whole sky was black with smoke.  All we had was the clothes we wore, and a small bag my mother saved, with our silverware inside."

Well, that certainly put things in perspective.  If you didn't guess, my mom is German, and spent the latter half of World War 2 on what you might call "the receiving end," living  as a refugee and farm-hand, working in the hopps fields of Northern Germany until she could resume her studies at school. So "homeless" to her has a slightly different meaning than it does to most of us.  And in her case, it involves neither a motel nor a large cashier's check. 

Funny how, even as adults, we continue to learn from our parents.  And, no matter what happens with our current housing dilemma, nobody will drop phosphor bombs on us...
I hope.

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Slang of the day: jack-deuce: askew. e.g., "His hat sat jack-deuce on his head."

Snippets

I just looked at the calendar, and it's been awhile since I posted anything here.  My apologies.  We've been in the process of selling our home and buying another.  And speaking as someone with no experience in these things, it's been a hellish education.  Here are a few things I've learned in the process (and a few beginner's mistakes to avoid).

1. When a friend says they're thinking about getting their realtor's license, don't volunteer to be their first client. If they said they were thinking about getting their pilot's license, would you want to be their first passenger? 
2. A pre-approval letter and a commitment letter are NOT the same thing.
3. Even if you borrow from a local bank, you're loan rep may be in another state (thanks to outsourcing).
4. If you own cats, throw out all your rugs and draperies before you show the house. 
5. Fight the urge to be ashamed of your home when people say it smells like cats.
6. Sell to someone who owns cats.
7. When you fix all those things that have been broken forever just to sell the house, remember that you could have fixed them sooner, if you believed you were worth the trouble.
8. Plumbers are very expensive.  Be sure at least one is a friend or relative. 
9. Try to  get at least one good night's sleep a week.
10. Don't let the phone be your alarm clock.

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Slang of the day: sploud: excited, high-spirited, happy.

Father's Day, post script

Well this was Father's Day...the one by which I was to be a father.  Sadly, that's not the way it worked out.  But I'm not here to belly-ache.  I was listening to a radio program where listeners were asked to share some words of wisdom imparted to them by their fathers.

Here are a few things my dad (who died in 1979) used to say...

"Enough is too much."

"Never reveal too much information."

"Never give 'em the satisfaction."

Let's hear some of your best fatherly advice...

Celebrity Justice...an oxymoron?

Well, by now you've probably heard...Michael Jackson, not guilty on all counts.  I'm sure that discussuion and opinions on this will go on for some time, but I'm sitting here trying to remember the last time a celebrity was actually convicted of a real crime (no, I don't count Nick Nolte's DUIs, Winona Ryder's shoplifting, or even Russell Crowe's recent phone-throwing).   

I mean,  REAL CRIMES. Bad ones.  Where people are seriously hurt or killed.

We all remember O.J. ('nuff said).... then Robert Blake (how he pulled that one off, I'll never know) ... and now Jacko (they really need to stop calling him that).  And when you see these jurors in the post-trial interviews, they all repeat the same phrases with the same glassy stare... "The prosecution really didn't make its case"... or... "We really had trouble with the credibility of the prosecution witnesses."  Robert Blake HAD the smoking gun for Chrissakes.  Literally.   Makes me wonder if the checks are in the mail, or if people just get so fatigued by a long trial that they'll say anything to go home.

Or maybe they just can't bear the idea of caging their favorite running back, or one of The Little Rascals, or that cute kid from the Jackson Five.  Maybe, and this is my newest theory, by convicting one of these characters, they would be admitting that they'd been duped.  Face it, it would be hard for even the most die-hard fan to enjoy a Michael Jackson song knowing he's a convicted pedophile.   People are funny.  They're very protective of their nostalgia and their celebrities.  And perhaps they just can't admit that for several decades they've been dancing to the songs of a child-rapist. That is a hard pill to swallow.  So, best not swallow it.  Go on dreaming that Neverland is a place where every child is safe.

I watched Jackson leave the courthouse today, and I was half hoping an irate parent would charge from the crowd with guns blazing.  Unfortunately, nothing of the kind.  Just the sad, waxy, surgery-ravaged face of the aging King of Pop amid hundreds of cheering onlookers, all of whom seemed in need of serious mental health care. I almost felt bad for him.  Almost.

But hey, there is some good news... after 20+ years in the ring, Mike Tyson called it quits this week after failing to beat an Irish journeyman fighter with no real record.  And there's the example I was looking for... Iron Mike.  He did serious time.  For rape. 

Ah, now I can sleep. 

The Crisco Kid

When I was about 6 years old, I developed a sudden and unexplained medical condition, characterized by bright red, coin-sized blotches of dry skin, blanketing my arms and legs.  There was no apparent cause--no allergy to detergent or fabric, no change in diet, nothing.  And the condition affected only the arms and legs, sparing the trunk and (fortunately) the face.  Nonetheless, it was a warm spring, and despite my desire to crawl into a subterranean cave, or at least to wear long pants and sleeves, my mother insisted I wear shorts and t-shirts to school. 

Of course, to the other first graders, I may as well have had the bubonic plague.  In fact, the plague would have been preferable. Then at least the other children would have been frightened of me.  As it was, I was more like the two-headed calf at the state fair.  "Come see the Amazing Polka Dot Boy!  He walks, he talks, and he's covered in spots!"  I was never a popular kid to begin with, but the spots sealed the deal.  To this day I remain grateful that my classmates did not have access to tar and feathers.

After it became clear to my parents that the spots were not going to spontaneously vanish on their own, my mother took me to the pediatrician, who was stumped.  So he called in other pediatricians, and they all joined the ranks of the dumbfoubed.  After much head scratching and chin stroking, it was decided that a "home remedy" was the best course of action.  If the skin was dry, these powerful medical minds reasoned,then we must moisten it!  But with what? 

They soon arrived at a solution.  Crisco.  That's right.  Baking grease.  Lard.  Call it what you will, but my mother was instructed to rub my arms and legs each night and morning with great gobs of shortening, which she did, dutifully.  But despite the treatments, the spots remained, though now I went off to school in the morning smelling like a vat of fried chicken.   And in my first grade class, the cry went up: "Come see the Amazing Crisco Kid...part spotted elephant, part fried chicken!"  I remember standing at the edge of the school yard, stunned, shamed, nearly numb....as the other children played. I didn't really know what God was, but I knew he was in the punishment business.  So I spent alot of time trying to figure out exactly which transgression had given me the polka dots.  In the end I had no answers.

I really don't remember how it all ended.   I guess  summer vacation arrived, and afterward, autumn.  When the cold weather hit, I was again allowed to wear long sleeves, and the next year, the other children seemed to forget all about the Crisco Kid.  And next spring, as I waited in dread for the spots to return, they did not.  I guessed that I'd served my time, and that my punishment was over.

Zombification

Cecily asked me tonight why it seems that zombie movies (e.g., Dawn of the Dead) are so successful during Republican administrations.  Afterall, the last really big zombie movie craze was during the 1950s, when America liked Ike.

So here's my theory: zombie movies play very well when the general population is afraid of a faceless enemy.  In the 50s, it was the Communists (or "Reds," as they said then).  All the McCarthy-ites were saying how these Reds wanted to undermine America, but we really weren't sure how.  Would they bomb our cities?  Would they infiltrate our entertainment media and corrupt our minds?  Would they assassinate our leaders?  But how would we recognize these commies?  Afteralll they could look just like us.  The uncertainty made us check our mail for explosives and our PTA meetings for spies.

Sound familiar? 

Just substitute "terrorist" for "communist" and it's pretty much the same script. 

So let's hear your answers...
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Slang of the day: live on wind pudding: to have nothing to eat and no money

More musings on faith

I thank all of you who replied to my recent seven questions on faith.  I found your responses insightful, earnest, and humorous...as I believe any worthwhile dialog on the topic should be.

So I'll press my luck (and the topic) a bit further.   

My greatest obstacle to a "personal relationship" with a deity of any flavor is the idea that there is a single mind, a single will with a set of moral standards, at the hidden helm of the universe.  More perilous still is the idea that my job is somehow to devine what that will wants and to fulfill that wish as best as possible, all the while risking horrific punishment should I fail.  Quite a minefield.

Yet that, in a nutshell, is how faith was presented to me as a child.  Now bear in mind I had no specific religious training.  My father was a lapsed Catholic (I love that term "lapsed;" you never hear of a "lapsed smoker"), and my mother was a non-practicing Lutheran.  But there was a definite idea that God (whoever He was) was none too happy most of the time.  True, He loved us, but He was running out of patience, much like a single parent driving across country with three screaming kids in the back seat of the Country Squire. And worse, He'd been running out of patience since long before any of us were born.  So in a sense we inherited from our forebears a very cranky father.

So, given that uncharitable view, it was no surprise I abandoned any faith as quickly as possible upon leaving home. As a young man, I found the words of poets and songwriters comforting, as many of them seemed to share the same struggles.  Here are a few of my (still) favorite quotes...

"God is a hook in the sky."  - Charles Bukowski
"There ain't no Devil, that's just God when he's drunk." - Tom Waits
"God is a giant rubber stamp that says NO."  - That one's mine.

So, when faced with spiritual matters, I still stumble...or ignore the matter entirely for long stretches.  I suppose my question is: How does one make peace with the idea of a personal and benevolent deity?... Not so much because there are earthquakes and typhoons, nor because people have a bottomless capacity for cruelty...but because a single-minded universe is just plain scary.

Personally, I think the Romans may have had the right idea.  There's a God for everything from the sun to lost socks.  And sometimes the Gods disagree, or are jealous or drunk or crazy.  That somehow seems alot more plausible to me.

Nowe let me hear what you think.

It was a dark and stormy...day

It's been suggested that I offer my perspective on this past weekend's ill-fated canoe trip down the Delaware, given that Cecily and Sarah have already provided theirs.  If you've read their accounts, there really isn't much left to say.   

But I'll add this...

I'm a big fan of the idea that you pick a plan and stick with it, accepting the consequences of your actions.  And there are few better examples than choosing to canoe on a day when the weather is questionable.  Once you're on the river, there's no going back.  And that was indeed the case with us.

Cecily, Sarah, and I have canoed that sleepy stretch of water several times and it has almost always been a pleasant experience.    We've also been very lucky with weather.  The only two exceptions of note are:

1. Reaching the endpoint of our journey just as a thunderstorm was about to begin.
2. Canoeing on the same day that a forest fire in Tennessee (I believe) clouded the sun with smoke as far north as New York state.

Other than that, it's been great.  But this was the first time we faced a full-on downpour with no relief in sight...plus a 30 mph headwind that threatened to blow us back upstream. 

So when the rain proved more than a "passing shower" (damn meteorologists) and the wind more than a "breeze,"  there was the expected cursing (mine) and sobbing and cursing (Cecily's)... as well as the unexpected singing (Sarah's). 

Oh and did I mention that the little dog, the min-pin, our neighbors' dog, decided to commit suicide?  After about an hour of steady rain that threatened to swamp the canoe, Cisco (that's his name) decided that we (the big hairless dogs with the oars) had lost our senses.  So he began racing from port to starboard and back again, looking for an exit.  We were about 100 yards from the pull-out point, and passing under a road bridge, when he saw his chance. He flung himself headlong and with abandon into the water (and this dog does NOT like water) and began swimming for shore.  In my mind, I immediately began composing the letter I would write to his owners, explaining their dog's untimely demise and detailing his final heroic efforts.  But to cover my bets, I screamed to a couple of fishermen who'd taken shelter beneath the bridge that the crazy little animal swiming toward them was NOT a rat and that it was my dog and could one of them please grab him.  Fortunately, one agreed and made his way to the rocky bank, where Cisco was attempting to scramble like a muskrat up the stones.  You can stop holding your breath...he made it.  Soon our entire band was reunited and enjoying the bliss of hypothermia...shuddering like victims of the DTs while our car's heater worked overtime to restore our core body temperature.   Back at camp, the member of our party who'd chosen to stay behind had saved our clothes and food from the rain and, along with a newly arrived friend, was planning dinner.

So there it is.  We made a choice.  We stuck with it.   We nearly froze our coconuts off.  And we nearly lost a dog.  But the burgers tasted great.

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Slang of the day: nineteenth hole: whiskey; a drink after a round of golf.