Last October I posted a blog entitled ‘Personal Ad’. In it, I itemized my attributes (a short list) and my less attractive features (a long list).
Among the attributes I cited were good teeth and hair.
Ah well.
I’ve always been a little proud of my hair – like the girl with natural curls in the ‘Peanuts’ cartoon strip.
Now it seems that that hair is thinning. Mostly on top. Comb-overs don’t work. I got some ‘bodifying’ shampoo and some stuff you sprinkle on to cover the gaps. It will have to do.
Even last October, I said my hair was ‘okay’ … not amazing. I must have known then that my locks were failing.
But as I cited my faults – being near-sighted, hard of hearing, overweight, and borderline diabetic-- I repeatedly affirmed that “my teeth are good.”
Never write things like that. You are just tempting fate … or something.
When I went to the dentist last week, I was informed that one tooth will have to go. Fortunately, it is toward the rear of my mouth so when it’s extracted I won’t look I belong in the ‘Li’l Abner’ comic strip (does anyone still remember that?). But still there will be a gap (unless I pay $4,000 for an implant, which is not likely).
In my defense, it’s a ‘baby’ tooth. And it’s remarkable that it has lasted as many decades as it has (I refuse to enumerate).
And the rest of my teeth are still okay.
I hope.
I dare not say more.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Colorado Wardrobes
Beginning Late February, sometimes March, I keep an assortment of outerwear by my backdoor. It includes my Michelin-Man quilted coat; a lined waterproof jacket; two varieties of rain gear; and the vest I bought at a Monument Valley gift shop when the temperature plummeted just as we were about to tour the valley.
There are probably a couple of cardigans as well – although these tend to live upstairs. My ‘good coat’ and mid-weight coat reside sometimes by the front door and sometimes in a closet. Various gloves, hats, and scarves are always kept handy.
Footwear is even more indicative of external conditions—fully-lined snow boots; more diminutive snow boots and two kinds of sandals. Oh and one pair of ‘good shoes’ for rare festive occasions.
No one who has lived in Colorado for one calendar year thinks these assortments are anything but apt. Temperatures can swing from subzero to sixty, even eighty, in the months between Christmas and summer.
No one puts their snow shovels away until after Mothers Day … sometimes not ‘til after Memorial Day.
If you’ve moved here from somewhere else – especially someplace with clearly defined seasons – all this takes some getting used to. But once we’re used to it, we come to expect the unexpected.
We smile when the trees blossom, hoping that the inevitable snowstorms don’t damage limbs. When snow covers our tulips, we know we’re home.
There are probably a couple of cardigans as well – although these tend to live upstairs. My ‘good coat’ and mid-weight coat reside sometimes by the front door and sometimes in a closet. Various gloves, hats, and scarves are always kept handy.
Footwear is even more indicative of external conditions—fully-lined snow boots; more diminutive snow boots and two kinds of sandals. Oh and one pair of ‘good shoes’ for rare festive occasions.
No one who has lived in Colorado for one calendar year thinks these assortments are anything but apt. Temperatures can swing from subzero to sixty, even eighty, in the months between Christmas and summer.
No one puts their snow shovels away until after Mothers Day … sometimes not ‘til after Memorial Day.
If you’ve moved here from somewhere else – especially someplace with clearly defined seasons – all this takes some getting used to. But once we’re used to it, we come to expect the unexpected.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Let It Be A Dance
Migratory sand hill cranes breed in Canada, Alaska, and Siberia. Each winter they fly south to their favorite places in Florida, Texas, Utah, Mexico, and California. Each spring, they go north again. En route, more than three-fourths of all sand hill cranes (some 500,000) stop over in a single 75-mile stretch along Nebraska's Platte River.
I was privileged to see their spring gathering. Driving out of Kearney, Nebraska, my friends and I saw a small flock in a field. Something spooked them and they arose in unison and flew beyond our sight. Was that it? Had we missed them? Checking in at the Audubon Center, we learned that many cranes had been delayed by Texas blizzards.
Still, that evening we saw hundreds and hundreds of them glide in for their night’s rest on Platte River sandbars (see previous post). It was spectacularly beautiful.
Well before dawn the next morning, we arrived at a pedestrian bridge over the Platte River. Standing in the dark, we welcomed the first hints of sunrise. As soon as there were slivers of light, the birds began ‘talking.’ As the sun began to rise, we could discern movement on the river. Here and there a bird rose out of the darkness. Then, as dawn broke over the horizon, waves of cranes soared up overhead, singing to the new day.
First waves were followed by second, third, fourth waves – thousands upon thousands of magnificent birds – an exultation.
None of my pictures came out but the images of that dawn glory are indelible.
We got back in the car and wandered back roads, driving east as the Audubon staff had recommended. And there they were. In field after field, feeding, ‘talking’, and dancing.
Crane dancing involves wing flapping, bowing, and jumping. It can be part of a mating ritual … or not. And some pairs may throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—‘an extended litany of coordinated song’.
We had only glimpses of events older than our species, a fraction of splendor that remains glistening in my memory.
I was privileged to see their spring gathering. Driving out of Kearney, Nebraska, my friends and I saw a small flock in a field. Something spooked them and they arose in unison and flew beyond our sight. Was that it? Had we missed them? Checking in at the Audubon Center, we learned that many cranes had been delayed by Texas blizzards.
Still, that evening we saw hundreds and hundreds of them glide in for their night’s rest on Platte River sandbars (see previous post). It was spectacularly beautiful.
Well before dawn the next morning, we arrived at a pedestrian bridge over the Platte River. Standing in the dark, we welcomed the first hints of sunrise. As soon as there were slivers of light, the birds began ‘talking.’ As the sun began to rise, we could discern movement on the river. Here and there a bird rose out of the darkness. Then, as dawn broke over the horizon, waves of cranes soared up overhead, singing to the new day.
First waves were followed by second, third, fourth waves – thousands upon thousands of magnificent birds – an exultation.
None of my pictures came out but the images of that dawn glory are indelible.
We got back in the car and wandered back roads, driving east as the Audubon staff had recommended. And there they were. In field after field, feeding, ‘talking’, and dancing.
Crane dancing involves wing flapping, bowing, and jumping. It can be part of a mating ritual … or not. And some pairs may throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—‘an extended litany of coordinated song’.
We had only glimpses of events older than our species, a fraction of splendor that remains glistening in my memory.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Blind Vision
It was almost un-American. About 40 of us walked half a mile down a dirt path into an enclosure with small slits on the west, north and east sides.
Our instructions were clear: no talking, no noise of any kind, no light of any kind, no cell phones – smart or otherwise. Just silence as the daylight faded.
As the sun began to sink, turning the sky brilliant gold then raspberry, we began to see them. They were just silhouettes, black against the ebbing light. At first they were just specks.
Then we could hear them. I loved the sound. To me, it sounded like a bird purr or throat rattle, a fluttery, sort of kar-r-r-o-o-o – in varying pitches and volumes. Then they began to glide down onto the Platte River sandbars -- ten, then twenty, then hundreds. Then hundreds upon hundreds more – magnificent against the sunset.
We resisted the urge to applaud.
Awed, we realized that silence was the only appropriate response
Our instructions were clear: no talking, no noise of any kind, no light of any kind, no cell phones – smart or otherwise. Just silence as the daylight faded.
As the sun began to sink, turning the sky brilliant gold then raspberry, we began to see them. They were just silhouettes, black against the ebbing light. At first they were just specks.
Then we could hear them. I loved the sound. To me, it sounded like a bird purr or throat rattle, a fluttery, sort of kar-r-r-o-o-o – in varying pitches and volumes. Then they began to glide down onto the Platte River sandbars -- ten, then twenty, then hundreds. Then hundreds upon hundreds more – magnificent against the sunset.
We resisted the urge to applaud.
Awed, we realized that silence was the only appropriate response
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Selma Sunday in Loveland, CO
March 8, 2015 was "Selma Sunday" -- the 50th anniversary of the long march to Montgomery, Alabama to secure voting rights for all Americans.
In Alabama and across the country people marched or had services commemorating what had happened and reminding all of us that there was a lot more to do.
We had such a service in our church, the Namaqua Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Loveland, Colorado. Loveland is mostly white and mostly conservative. The service featured a video of the Oscar-winning song, "Glory", and the eloquent acceptance speeches of its composers. There was another video of an interview with a minister who was attacked when James Reeb was attacked in 1965 and who had held Rev. Reeb's hand as he lost consciousness (never to regain it).
As a 'worship associate' I read a story about the song, "We Shall Overcome", and gave a short reflection, copied below.
There were a lot of good things about my dad. He was responsible, honest, hard working, and good looking.
He also had a derogatory term for every human being who was not a white Anglo-Saxon protestant, and able-bodied, and straight, and reasonably attractive.
His viewpoint was mirrored by the friends in my parents’ social circles, by the neighborhoods we lived in, by schools and crayons and ‘flesh-colored’ bandages. It was mirrored in derogatory songs and jokes and public entertainment.
That heritage was the bridge I had to cross. It is a bridge most white Anglo-Saxon protestant people have to cross.
Slowly – very slowly – I began to acknowledge the value of people of other races. And my own complicity in their marginalization.
In 2002, I moved here from the most racially/religiously/ ethnically diverse neighborhood in Chicago. Loveland was none of those. Or at least not that I could see.
We are so good at being oblivious.
In January 2003, I attended Loveland’s Martin Luther King Day celebration. It was okay … a little disappointing, but okay. There was an essay contest for primary school kids. In 2004, I signed up to help judge the essays. Obviously, some of the kids ‘got it’ … and some just mimicked the guidelines or quoted Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. But it was a start.
With the exception of a couple of years, I have been involved with Loveland’s MLK committee ever since. And beginning last year, that committee has worked to bring Dr. King’s vision of a ‘Beloved Community’ into Loveland’s consciousness on a year-round basis.
It’s a bit of a challenge.
We’re so good at being oblivious to marginalized populations. We simply do not see the people who are marginalized by language or culture or poverty or race.
But until we do, we will stay on the wrong side of the bridge.
And until we cross that bridge, nothing will change.
In Alabama and across the country people marched or had services commemorating what had happened and reminding all of us that there was a lot more to do.
We had such a service in our church, the Namaqua Unitarian Universalist Congregation in Loveland, Colorado. Loveland is mostly white and mostly conservative. The service featured a video of the Oscar-winning song, "Glory", and the eloquent acceptance speeches of its composers. There was another video of an interview with a minister who was attacked when James Reeb was attacked in 1965 and who had held Rev. Reeb's hand as he lost consciousness (never to regain it).
As a 'worship associate' I read a story about the song, "We Shall Overcome", and gave a short reflection, copied below.
There were a lot of good things about my dad. He was responsible, honest, hard working, and good looking.
He also had a derogatory term for every human being who was not a white Anglo-Saxon protestant, and able-bodied, and straight, and reasonably attractive.
His viewpoint was mirrored by the friends in my parents’ social circles, by the neighborhoods we lived in, by schools and crayons and ‘flesh-colored’ bandages. It was mirrored in derogatory songs and jokes and public entertainment.
That heritage was the bridge I had to cross. It is a bridge most white Anglo-Saxon protestant people have to cross.
Slowly – very slowly – I began to acknowledge the value of people of other races. And my own complicity in their marginalization.
In 2002, I moved here from the most racially/religiously/ ethnically diverse neighborhood in Chicago. Loveland was none of those. Or at least not that I could see.
We are so good at being oblivious.
In January 2003, I attended Loveland’s Martin Luther King Day celebration. It was okay … a little disappointing, but okay. There was an essay contest for primary school kids. In 2004, I signed up to help judge the essays. Obviously, some of the kids ‘got it’ … and some just mimicked the guidelines or quoted Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. But it was a start.
With the exception of a couple of years, I have been involved with Loveland’s MLK committee ever since. And beginning last year, that committee has worked to bring Dr. King’s vision of a ‘Beloved Community’ into Loveland’s consciousness on a year-round basis.
It’s a bit of a challenge.
We’re so good at being oblivious to marginalized populations. We simply do not see the people who are marginalized by language or culture or poverty or race.
But until we do, we will stay on the wrong side of the bridge.
And until we cross that bridge, nothing will change.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Comparative Civilizations
Eleven years ago, a band of rebels killed more than 120 civilians in a Ugandan refugee camp.
The International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague is preparing to try the rebels’ commander for war crimes and crimes against humanity.
But the survivors of the attack do not want him tried by the ICC. Instead, they say he should be pardoned if he comes to Uganda to confess his crimes and seeks forgiveness in a ritual ceremony.
“From the victims’ perspectives… traditional justice and reconciliation would have been more appropriate than a trial in the Netherlands… They feel that an international trial is not going to change anything tangible.”
I picked up this information from a small article in my local paper (it must have been just the right size to fill a ‘hole’ in the page layout).
It made me think. I remembered the Truth and Reconciliation Commission set up by the South African government to deal with the atrocities of apartheid.
I looked up some United States statistics: more than two million people in prison; more than 3,000 persons are on death row. On average, prisoners wait eleven years between the time they are sentenced and the time they are executed. One man was on Florida’s death row for 39 years.
Wouldn’t it be more effective if we were to create our own Truth and Reconciliation Commission -- a system of confession and forgiveness that could change the course of lives instead of twisting or ending them?
The International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague is preparing to try the rebels’ commander for war crimes and crimes against humanity.
But the survivors of the attack do not want him tried by the ICC. Instead, they say he should be pardoned if he comes to Uganda to confess his crimes and seeks forgiveness in a ritual ceremony.
“From the victims’ perspectives… traditional justice and reconciliation would have been more appropriate than a trial in the Netherlands… They feel that an international trial is not going to change anything tangible.”
I picked up this information from a small article in my local paper (it must have been just the right size to fill a ‘hole’ in the page layout).
It made me think. I remembered the Truth and Reconciliation Commission set up by the South African government to deal with the atrocities of apartheid.
I looked up some United States statistics: more than two million people in prison; more than 3,000 persons are on death row. On average, prisoners wait eleven years between the time they are sentenced and the time they are executed. One man was on Florida’s death row for 39 years.
Wouldn’t it be more effective if we were to create our own Truth and Reconciliation Commission -- a system of confession and forgiveness that could change the course of lives instead of twisting or ending them?
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Bedtime Rituals
When my sons were growing up, they had bedtime rituals that had to be faithfully observed.
My sons are grown now.
I have two cats, with bedtime rituals that must be faithfully observed.
When I go to bed I make sure I carry two cat toys with me. One is a long rainbow colored felt ribbon attached to a plastic wand. That’s for Herbie. The other is a slender plastic tube through which a cord is strung. The cord has a feather at one end and a small wooden bead at the other. Guinness prefers the bead.
Both cats wait outside the bathroom while I wash my face, brush my teeth and take the required pills.
They watch from the hall while I climb into bed.
They wait.
Then I start using the plastic tube to fling the bead across the top of my bed. Guinness springs into action and onto the bed, eyes wide and alert. He chases the bead and pounces. I never let him get it in one try. But he’s fast. In a few minutes he has captured the bead and, clamping the bead and string in his mouth, he jumps off the bed and hauls the bead/string/tube/feather out of the room, out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen and into the laundry room where it rests until I retrieve it the next morning.
Herbie watches all of this, waiting. When Guinness and the bead have disappeared, I dangle the rainbow ribbon over the edge of the bed. Herbie moves closer. He bats at the ribbon, sometimes even moving a little as he chases it. When he has had enough frivolity, he jumps up on the bed, ready to snuggle.
I turn off the light and Herbie moves up toward my head, gently moving me around until he is enthroned on one of the pillows. I shift to the second pillow and prepare for slumber knowing that sometime during the night, Guinness will return and settle somewhere around my knees.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. And sometimes that’s okay.
My sons are grown now.
I have two cats, with bedtime rituals that must be faithfully observed.
When I go to bed I make sure I carry two cat toys with me. One is a long rainbow colored felt ribbon attached to a plastic wand. That’s for Herbie. The other is a slender plastic tube through which a cord is strung. The cord has a feather at one end and a small wooden bead at the other. Guinness prefers the bead.
Both cats wait outside the bathroom while I wash my face, brush my teeth and take the required pills.
They watch from the hall while I climb into bed.
They wait.
Then I start using the plastic tube to fling the bead across the top of my bed. Guinness springs into action and onto the bed, eyes wide and alert. He chases the bead and pounces. I never let him get it in one try. But he’s fast. In a few minutes he has captured the bead and, clamping the bead and string in his mouth, he jumps off the bed and hauls the bead/string/tube/feather out of the room, out into the hall, down the stairs, through the living room and kitchen and into the laundry room where it rests until I retrieve it the next morning.
Herbie watches all of this, waiting. When Guinness and the bead have disappeared, I dangle the rainbow ribbon over the edge of the bed. Herbie moves closer. He bats at the ribbon, sometimes even moving a little as he chases it. When he has had enough frivolity, he jumps up on the bed, ready to snuggle.
I turn off the light and Herbie moves up toward my head, gently moving me around until he is enthroned on one of the pillows. I shift to the second pillow and prepare for slumber knowing that sometime during the night, Guinness will return and settle somewhere around my knees.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. And sometimes that’s okay.
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