Mirror to the Sky--A Review

  

Mirror to the Sky—A Review

            Like many longterm Yes fans, I want to like this album.  The various selections making up the 9-cut collection are mostly pretty tunes, peppered with just enough steel guitar, decorative keyboarding, and tempo change to be identifiably Yes.  The album begins with attention-getter “Cut from the Stars.”  Billy Sherwood steals the show, reinforcing with a punchy, assertive bassline that he is heir to the inimitable Chris Squire.  Aside from the bass, which is startling at times, the song is lightweight and appealing.

            Second up, the band offers “All Connected,” carrying the message that we are all connected!  Well-crafted harmony supports Jon Davison’s lead vocals on this one, and the internal tempo change adds interest.

            “Luminosity” could be a mood-changer if not for the repeated, strange pronunciation of the word luminous.  Davison consistently says “luminess,” which distracts this former Voice and Diction instructor.  This song also contains the phrase “ocean of humanity” in several verses.  On the upside, Steve Howe is much improved at backing vocals.

            “Living Out Their Dream” is the rocker thus far, with an interesting tempo change toward the end.  I wouldn’t expect a repeat of the success of “Owner of a Lonely Heart,” but this one gets an A for accessibility.

            “Mirror to the Sky” is the title cut.  It features beautifully layered interplay of guitar and piano in the opening minutes.  This instrumental portion boasts another great bassline from Sherwood.  I don’t hear a prominent bass-percussion connection as in some Yes anthems; still, the instrumentation is quite impressive.  Its texture is thick and rich due to orchestral support.    Acoustic guitar and strings interact nicely going into the final “movement.”  Could this be another Yes epic?  I don’t think so, but it has strengths.

            “Circles of Time” gets the dubious honor of being the next cut following “Mirror.”  I admit they lost me with the line “ticking time bomb.”  Behind that selection comes “Unknown Place.”  It’s rhythmically interesting, but first, the listener is treated to what sounds like a series of slamming doors in the opening seconds.

            “One Second Is Enough.”  Yes, I agree.  The harmony here is very good, but it has to be, with lyrics like “In the afterglow there’s a lot we know” and “Happiness comes and goes.”  Fortunately, the album wraps up with “Magic Potion” and a compelling finish by Sherwood.

            I do not listen as a musician would, nor do I particularly review records for musicians.  Still, I won’t fall back on the old I’m-not-a-musician-but-I-know-what-I-like routine.  I’ve been a Yes aficionada since I was a college kid.  I listen critically for strengths and weaknesses. MTTS has both.  Its content is mostly melodic, concisely conceived and delivered.  As I have noted, Billy Sherwood deserves high praise for his contribution, helping this incarnation of the band to coalesce.  Steve Howe is his usual super-pro self with master’s level guitar and useful vocals.  I think there is room for growth in other departments, and compared to The Quest, that may be happening.

The Lockdown Chronicles #3 Communion-in-Place

    For the fourth time since Easter, I prepare to take Communion in place with my fellow communicants and the Celebrant of Trinity Church.  I've got a wine glass and a plain white saucer trimmed in gold. I have a bottle of port wine that I use, a leftover from a Christmas recipe.  I have saltines.  After pouring about a fourth of a cup of port into the wine glass, I set it on the table alongside the saltine on the saucer.  My kitchen table has become an altar. As video appears on the laptop screen, the altar is inscribed "This do in remembrance of me," and "QWERTY."

    Today I have invited three people to join me.  The first politely declines, citing yardwork to do and impending rain this afternoon.  A tropical storm  named Cristobal (the Christ-bearer) is to blame.

    The second person I invite also declines, but first, he's incredulous that we are still sheltering in place rather than meeting inside our building.  I note that our Bishop, the Rt. Rev. Kee Sloan, has given us a schedule he thinks will guard our safety as we ease back into meeting together.  My invitee shakes his head, pronounces us "ridiculous," and leaves to drive 20 miles to the church of his choice.

    The third invitee turns me down too, after explaining that he had wished to attend church today, but had to clean his back porch instead.  He notes that he has asked many people about the communion-in-place practice, and all have roundly condemned it.  "You can't just have communion wherever. You're supposed to do that in church."  I point out that we are the Church, and besides, our homebound bread and wine have been consecrated.  The Bishop has okayed this.  My fellow Christian says an Episcopal bishop bashed the president.

    The front door opens.  Two dogs come in, a yellow Lab and a chocolate Lab/catahoula mix.  They stop near the table and lie down on the cool tile floor, panting a little, and quietly alert.  The yellow one stretches out, relaxed, with his long hind legs extended.  The beautiful mix tucks his front paws and gazes serenely at the wall.

    In spite of audio problems, the sermon comes through loud and clear.  I recite my part of the Prayers of the People, the responses to Eucharistic Prayer A, and the Lord's Prayer.  I know them all by heart.  When it is time to take Communion, I break off a piece of my saltine (the Bread of Heaven)  and sip the wine (the Cup of Salvation.)  The service ends with "Thanks be to God.  Alleluia, alleluia," and I clear away the saucer.  I remember not to throw the leftover wine down the sink and drink what is left.

    The Old Testament text and the context for the sermon today rings in my head, and not because of the extra wine.  God made them, according to their kind.

The Lockdown Chronicles #2

Officially, we are no longer locked down.  Our Governor advised us we'd still be safer at home.  We replied, "Yes, Ma'am," and went shopping.  Unofficially, the pattern I refer to as Perpetual Saturday Syndrome persists.  Friday, May 8, 2020 was the last day of school in my home county, and the last day of Kindergarten ever for my granddaughter.  We observed this milestone without the oversized white academic garb complete with mortarboard that indicates the kids may progress to First Grade.  We did without a class party, a warm-weather field trip to the zoo, and the limo ride that was to be part of the prizes promised for selling lots of fund-raiser junk.  We also moved forward without hugs for the teacher or exchange of phone numbers in anticipation of summer playdates.  There was not even a "Have a great summer," or "See you in August."

We had two remaining worksheets which Maddie sailed through without hesitation.  I completed the online checklist and hit send, assuring the teacher for the fifth time that we read 2 books every night, that we went over the sight words daily, and that she could definitely count and write to 100.  Maddie said, "So Kindergarten is over?"  Yes, Maddie, you're done.  Not with a bang, and do not whimper.  She didn't.  She gave me a perplexed frown and asked if she could color. Her workbooks for summer enrichment, her pencil box, her scissors, glue stick, and crayons are all still on the kitchen table.  This space has been her classroom since the day we picked up our first packet of assignments from the front of the school she wouldn't be allowed to enter again this school year.  She sat on adult-sized dining chairs and looked at a wall with sconces and an old print we brought with us from Montgomery 18 years ago.  If she missed funny bulletin boards or her own cubbie near the reading corner, she never complained.

I enjoyed a Kindergarten graduation, or at least my family did.  I remember not liking the white gown and mortarboard I was mortified to wear, as I tripped along the hallway of Rooks School.  My diploma was signed by Principal Viola Rooks, and probably by Mrs. Morris, my teacher, as well.  Mrs. Morris was mean and would gladly smack the palm of your hand or your rear end with a ruler, depending on how talkative you were.  I was on the receiving end of quite a few well-placed swats that year, and Mrs. Morris never worried that she would lose her job for spanking children.  Children who got spanked at school got spanked at home, too.

 I excelled at Kindergarten, even though I only got 2 report cards.  I left mine at home after the second reporting period, and I never got another one.  I guess the budget at little, private Rooks School was even more limited than the public school's where Maddie attends today. I was not conscious at all of whether or not schools had money to pay for things.  I took lunch to school every day and also brought a nickel with me so I could buy a Coke, orangeade, milk or chocolate milk. (All of those came in glass bottles!)  We sat in rows in little desks and never left our classroom other than for restroom break and recess.  Our coloring pages were simple affairs--usually one common object like a flower or a house.  I once got into trouble for coloring a teapot purple and red in spite of the fact that Mrs. Morris had colored hers green and red and put it on the board in front of the room.

The classroom itself must have been some one's bedroom at one time.  We exited our classroom by a separate door onto the wrap-around porch and into the yard for play.  Rooks School was housed in a a wonderful Victorian home with a round tower and octagon-shaped pavers from the sidewalk to the front steps.  It was less than a block away from Oak Park in Montgomery and within 2 blocks of the hospital than has swallowed up the whole neighborhood since then.  But what a building this was!  The principal's office was the entrance hall, with its desk parallel to an imposing stairway.  There were French doors to the right leading into what had probably been the drawing room.  That room was my classroom when I finally made it to 2nd grade.  I never got to go upstairs, but my dream was to be in 6th grade in the round tower classroom.

In some ways it is surprising that I'd remember so much about Kindergarten.  I have friends that don't even know who they had for English their senior year in high school!  But the strict, unique character of the school I attended is captured for all time in a series of mental snapshots. They tell me my first experience of school was rich and useful, because I am a student to this day.

Will Maddie remember Kindergarten?  She really liked her pre-K class, but already some of the names and faces from that year have begun to blur.  She was thrilled with her new school in August, 2019, which feels far removed  from the kitchen table and  the stack of "take-home centers" she carefully colored and cut out.  Maddie, your teacher was glad to meet you and gave you a choice of a hug, a handshake, or a dance as a greeting.  You chose a dance! You  had a cubbie all your own. You went to the computer lab, and that was your favorite thing.  You bought Italian ice on Fridays.  Remember.

Peter, Paul and Mary I Shall Be Released

The Lockdown Chronicles #1

We've been in lockdown mode in my home state of Alabama since April 4, but schools and most jobs switched  to WFH even before that.  This being my fourth or fifth Sunday of virtual church and hanging around the kitchen for the extra cup of coffee I usually don't have time for, I became aware of

Bird Wars

You read that right.  In the midst of coronavirus, which is worse than avian flu, the winged citizens of my backyard had declared war on each other.  It was all my fault.

I have a bit of extra income at the moment.  As a counselor, I have been in part-time practice for awhile with sporadic access to a friend's office.  More recently, though, I have taken to an online platform.  Since the pandemic, the client load has doubled.  The extra income won't get me a plane ticket to Europe when travel is ok again, but it allows me some unusual splurges: a movie rental from Amazon twice in one week, Tide for the laundry, extra coffee pods, and fruit & nut blend for the bird feeder.

The fruit & nut blend turned out to be ambrosia for the birds. 

At first glance, my backyard looked like it always does--2 acres of gently rolling green grass, a clump of trees here and there (mostly popcorn trees and other volunteers) a tall poplar with the yellow flowers that have made their debut this year.  Several yards away from the full-length back windows in my kitchen is a cedar bird feeder at the top of a post about 6 feet high.  I can see it perfectly from the brim of my coffee mug.

Today I saw a battlefield.

A woodpecker has been hanging around the yard for the last couple of weeks.  I don't know how it knew that I was going to buy fruit & nut mix, but it must have known, because it doesn't really like the bird feeder all that much.  Today it was clinging to the edges that supported its considerable weight, munching without pause.  I noted that a grosbeak with splashy red markings had joined it.  The woodpecker paid the grosbeak no mind, and both gobbled as if they hadn't both been eating bugs all along.  Then it happened-- A crow the size of a C-130 came screaming out of the wooded area way in back, approached the feeder at full speed, and gave chase to the grosbeak, which high-tailed it into a bottle-brush tree.  Panicky fluttering ensued among the bottle brushes, and the crow wheeled around to approach the feeder, which it now owned, having scared the living daylights out of the woodpecker.  But before the crow could fix its unwieldy body on the edge of the feeder, out of nowhere came an enraged mockingbird.

I should add at this point, that it takes very little to enrage a mockingbird.  If she has a nest nearby, just the appearance of a happy Labrador retriever will set off her aerial acrobatics, and she will squawk until the hapless dog curls up on the porch.  I once saw an annoyed mama mocker harass a chicken snake until it slithered into a blackberry thicket.  We never saw that snake again, even though it had hung around for 2 summers, working cheap by keeping mice away.

At any rate, today's annoyed mockingbird was no different.  It flew over, under, and around the crow, making the crow's flight unbalanced and stupid-looking.  I don't know if mockingbirds are the natural advocates for grosbeaks, but they don't compete for birdseed, because they generally don't feed at bird feeders. Maybe they just don't like crows.

The crow, humiliated, retreated to the back of the yard, from whence it had come. It did not stay back there long.  In less than a minute it returned accompanied by not one, but 2 of its closest friends and allies.  They fluttered and flapped all around the bird feeder in a kind of drunken victory dance.  The mockingbird thought that was funny.  It flew out of the woodpecker's home tree, and weaved in and out of the crows' carousing.  The English ships must have appeared equally as nimble to sailors aboard the Spanish Armada.  And like the Armada, the three crows retreated, in no formation whatsoever, to the unprestigious thicket down by the pond.  After about an hour, I noted that the grosbeak and the woodpecker had returned to the buffet for lunch.

The mockingbird was nowhere to be seen.

Such is the routine around here during lockdown. I am extremely grateful not to be sick today, and I'll be profoundly happy to return to work some hot July day when the grocery stores are deemed safe and nothing at the gas station needs to be wiped down.  For now, I will keep TV off and social media at a distance while I keep tabs on the mini-drama happening in the world where coronavirus is not a problem.  My money is on the mockingbirds.

Fresh Out

'''Twas a rough night."--Macbeth

    On my third morning in post-11/9 America, I noticed many more birds in my backyard than usual. They were drawn to the bird feeder, of course, but more than that, they came for the water in the bird bath.  I understand that it hasn't rained in Alabama in over 21 days. This dry November morning was pale with diffuse light from an unpromising overcast sky. Despite the presence of wrens, chickadees, mockingbirds, bluebirds, and one woodpecker, the quiet settled on the tinderbox of our few acres, hushing even the wind. 

     Like most of the 51%  who supported Hillary Clinton, I had walked gracelessly through day one, still listening to NPR and watching Huff Post the way I had watched polls since July. We were waiting, I guess, to discover that we'd been punked.  Or that Florida had once again confused its
voters as to how to deal with a ballot.  Or that it was all a horrible dream. By day two, we were seeking explanations.  Pollsters were wrong?  All of them?  Why?  Democrats did not turn out in cities?  We should have known that! The rust belt bought the Bring Jobs Back line more than they'd let on?  And finally . . . Democrats have created an "us versus them" climate by claiming to be the educated, rational party, not listening to the outrage of people who work every day.  

     I was sorting out the various angles of why and how as I entered the building where I work, and it must have shown. "It's Thursday," said our doorman. "You're almost done."  Normally I would have nodded agreement and said Yep!  Bring on the weekend.  Today I stopped. I looked at him and said, "We have some dark days ahead."

     His tone when he replied was as even as the overcast sky this morning--still and without a trace of portent.  "Yes, we do.  This is why we pray.  This is why."  I later apologized to him, thinking I must have seemed terribly negative. But he said NO. He didn't think that.  "This is what the Black
community hoped would not happen. But we felt this. Everything is on the table," he said.  "And
when everything is on the table, everyone can lose something."

    This was the first conversation I had had with anyone and the first time I had nearly choked on the taste of despair.  Since then, my friend in West Virginia texted me a clip from Stephen Colbert's
election night show and said she didn't want to talk. Another friend closer to home called to say she had been unbearably sad all day long. My friend on the West Coast thanked God she didn't live in Ohio.  Here at home, my husband and I muttered about the merits of taking social security before full retirement age and what might be the future of Medicare. We did not talk about our granddaughter, who might not have funds for what will become obscenely expensive college.  We did not mention how she might swelter through 95-degree October days and Aprils without showers.  We did not wonder aloud if she would be paid the best wage available for whatever job she chooses. We did not discuss her public school education or the fact that she requires Medicaid. 

    Some groups in cities have already marched in the streets in protest that Donald Trump is not their president. The minority of voters who elected Trump are indignant, forgetting that their stance regarding Barack Obama was much the same. Other people have begun petitioning for electors to flip their votes in December, a helpless bleat from those wishing for a do-over.  Still others have again raised the question of whether Electoral College should exist at all. There is blaming; there is anger.  

     There is fear.

      The Governor of Alabama told us a couple of weeks ago that our education system in this state "sucks."  He offered no solution other than that he would do something about it. This seems to be the modality of those who have seized power.  We see clearly what has gone wrong, they tell us.  We will
fix this.  In the meantime, the Governor warned us, we should not try to burn anything. 

     Hillary Clinton is blameless, the most intelligent, qualified, maligned, and exonerated candidate I have ever seen. Her determination to lead was misinterpreted here in Alabama as power hunger.  Donald Trump's self-aggrandizement was taken as leadership quality. What rabbit hole have we fallen down?  No matter.  I have figured something out.  The blame lies not with Hillary Clinton, who gave her all; not with Donald Trump, who stepped in to fill a vacuum; not with the populace that voted against its own best interest because that is what they've always done; and not with Democrats whose vision was inclusive, but not inclusive enough. The blame lies with me.  I did not listen. I did not work hard.  I did not speak up often enough. That is about to change. 

    

The Foxtrot No One Enjoyed

The American military has a way of describing nearly everything with its own unique, arcane language.  Gossip, for example, is scuttlebutt.  A collection of brightly-colored ribbons on a dress uniform is fruit-salad.  A situation that is irreparably chaotic, hopelessly marred by poor communication, or just a big mess is a  . . . wait a minute.  This is a civilized blog.  We will refer to the big mess as charlie foxtrot, and I beg you to excuse my language, but I found myself dancing in a foxtrot I never wished for.  Some one should have cut in.

April 11 was a milestone day for my son, a Sailor.  It was not only his three-year service anniversary; it was the start of what might have been his longest and final deployment.  In addition, my Sailor was to receive his Good Conduct Medal for three years' service without any disciplinary action.  Mr. Powers and I have never missed an opportunity to see his ship leave or return, and this day was to be no different.  Last minute schedule- shifting had been necessary, but we had arrived in Jonathan's base city late on the night of the 10th.  That was a spur-of-the-moment arrival, to be sure, but we had a late supper with our son and made plans to arrive at the base by 0830 the following morning.  That would give us ample time to clear any security details and proceed to the pier before the Sailors began to man the rails.  There would be sad smiles, hugs, and congratulations all around.  There would be pictures!

We were in line at the main gate in plenty of time, drivers' licenses, registration, and proof of insurance in hand.  (Hey, this ain't our first rodeo!)  We presented an MP with our paperwork with the expectation that he would direct us to a checkpoint ahead where we would be identified as members of a deploying Sailor's family.  Instead, the busy MP informed us that we could not "just drive onto the base," as if we didn't know.  He stopped the traffic in the outbound lane so that we could U-turn around the gatehouse and pull into the parking lot of the Base Pass Office.

Every base has one of these cinder-block, square buildings with a giant label by the door that says BASE PASS OFFICE.  A visitor parks his car, goes inside, presents his credentials, and gets a placard to go on his dash.  We parked and entered the building.  There was one other customer there, a Sailor registering his motorcycle.  No one else was waiting.  It was here, at 0827 on a Friday morning, that we had the misfortune of meeting Mr. B.  I will give no information here as to Mr. B's racial/ ethnic group, religious affiliation or ELL status.  I want there to be no unfair generalizing.  What I will state is that Mr. B., a civilian contractee with little to do, was the most indolent, apathetic creature I have ever been cursed to encounter.

"Help you please?"  he asked.  (Translation:  Do I have to deal with you?  OK, let's get it over with.)

Mr. Powers and I proceeded to the window with all our credentials in hand.  (I should note that the MP had already run a check on both drivers' licenses and our car tag.  What a relief!  We are not suspected of being terrorists.)  We put the paperwork on the windowsill, explaining that our son was aboard a deploying ship, and that we were there to see the departure.

"I don't see a  special event on the calendar for (Ship Name).  Is it a departure or an arrival?"  (Translation:  I am not listening whatsoever.)

"It's the (Ship Name).  They pull out at 10:00."

"Is there a list?  Who's your sponsor?"  (Translation:  I don't know what to do.)

Was this a trick question?  How would we know if there were a list?  There always has been, and we've always been on it.  We told him our son's name for the second time.  Mr. B. heaved himself out of his chair and went into another room.  He came back in 10 seconds.

"You can't go on base without a sponsor.  Your sponsor will have to come to the gate and escort you while you're on base.  You can sit over there and wait for your sponsor."  (Translation:  I'm done.  This is your problem.  Get out of my window.)

I got on my cell phone, thinking that Jonathan would still have time to leave the pier area and drive to the gate to act as our escort.  Jonathan, however, was aboard ship. probably changing into his dress whites in preparation for manning the rails, and was unable to receive wireless signals.  I tried calling, texting, emailing, and Facebook messaging, all to no avail.  I was finally able to get ahold of another Navy mom who was already on the pier, having stayed overnight with her son and his family.  I explained our dilemma to her, she passed the word (scuttlebutt!) to another Sailor, and he went aboard to tell Jonathan about the charlie foxtrot we had encountered.  But by that time, no Sailor could leave the area, so our chance of getting any escort was just about zero.  It occurred to me to call the ship's family liaison, but the cell number I had wasn't connecting for some reason.  Thinking I had the wrong number, I ventured back to the window and asked Mr. B if he had a number for that individual.

"I  can give you the number ma'am," he intoned.  (Translation:  Oh my God, lady, can't you see I'm trying to set up a dental appointment here?  Hold on a minute.)

He did give me a number.  It was a landline, and it rang to infinity.  I hung up in despair.

Lest you decide to stop reading here, concluding that this is just a sentimental mom's lament that she didn't get to say Fair winds and following seas to her kid, I should tell you that there was also a practical matter that needed our attention on the base.  Jonathan doesn't store his truck on base; we bring it home during deployment.  He likes it to be driven; we like the convenience of having a nice pick-up truck to use.  He had brought the key along with him to give to us before he had to go aboard.  His friend got to him with the charlie foxtrot message just in time for Jonathan to pass the key along to a Navy wife.  She was able to bring us the truck key, but she only showed up at the Base Pass Office after the ship had pulled out and was out of sight.  Can you blame her?  Her husband was aboard that ship.  She gave me a ride down to the parking lot where Jonathan had left the truck.  Mr. Powers waited at the gate with our car.  By that time, we were fearful they'd tow it away if it were unattended.

Jonathan's white Dodge was where he said it would be.  I thanked the young lady for the lift, unlocked the door, silenced the alarm, and turned the ignition.  The truck idled smoothly.  It hadn't even gotten hot inside the cab yet.  I rolled the window down and pulled the seat forward.  Jonathan is so much taller than I am.  There was an Episcopal service order on the floor from the previous Sunday, a black sock without a mate on the seat, a coffee mug from the NEX in the cup holder--just the everyday trappings of a Sailor on the job.  I pulled out of the lot and headed back the way I had come in. As I passed the deserted pier, I glanced out the left-hand window at blue-gray water lapping against the concrete and stretching to the empty horizon.  I was careful to fasten my seatbelt and stay below the speed limit.

An hour later, Mr. Powers and I were a motorcade of two headed west.  He drove the truck; I was back in my car.  We stopped for lunch, asking each other the same questions we had been asking all morning:  Why didn't Mr. B just call the ship and verify the deployment?  Why didn't he simply ask a Sailor to escort us the half- mile we would need to travel down to the pier?  What was the point of holding us at the gate once they had verified who we were and why we were there?  There was no unusual security on base that day.  What would prevent a couple of aging baby-boomers in a Chrysler from proceeding to a pier where their bona-fide, natural-born son is waiting to pull out?  We couldn't come up with any answers.   We knew only two things for certain:  We were sadly disappointed, and our Sailor was mad.

I mentioned earlier that it was a milestone day for Jonathan.  Check the date.  I wrote this on April 13.  On April 14, 200 miles north of Bermuda, the USS Hue City caught fire.  My Sailor and the rest of the crew fought major flames for nearly two hours, and miraculously, no one was killed or injured.  The deployment ended that day, and the ship began her return home.   On April 17,  Jonathan received the official word:  He's the Sailor of the Quarter.   On April 18, I got the call that let me know my son was safe in port.   I guess even good Sailors get the charlie foxtrot treatment once in awhile.  But having just celebrated Easter in a way I never expected--in the happy company of my whole family--I also guess that charlie foxtrot is a relative term.

Happy Valentine's Day or Breaking Up with Krispy Kreme

On Valentine's Day 2014, I was especially excited because Mr. Powers was going to take me to a restaurant that I loved and he was unfamiliar with.  Translation:  He had never been there and was not interested in going.  The day before Valentine's, he had made the mistake of asking one of his student assistants for advice on where to take his wife for a nice, non-extravagant dinner.  Woe unto Mr. Powers!  She'd suggested my favorite place.

The restaurant was crowded and noisy, but I was pleased to note that the food was so good that even my skeptical husband had to admit he liked it.  I took advantage of his full belly and need of a quiet venue, so I suggested going for coffee somewhere close by after the meal.  We could go to Starbuck's, which might be a little crowded, but it's never noisy, or we could go to Books-a-Million where the coffee is good, and there are other attractions for book-mongering nerds like me.  Mr. Powers could get a magazine or newspaper; I would be free to browse. . . and browse. . . . and . . . .

My husband had a better idea.  He jolted me from my dreams of new books and Sno-Joe with "Why don't we just go on down to Krispy Kreme?  We can get dessert too."

I know when I'm licked, because doughnuts are my mate's tacky pleasure.  He never met a doughnut he didn't like, be it oblong, cream-filled, lemon, chocolate with sprinkles, powdered sugar, or Classic Glazed.  I timidly offered the possibility that we could just hit the drive-through, but for Mr. Powers, that would have meant driving to Slapout from Montgomery with a dozen fresh KK's in the backseat.  He couldn't bear the wait.  We would have to go inside.

So to Krispy Kreme we went.  Don't get me wrong.  I love coffee, and KK makes a better-than-average cup.  I really didn't expect much of a crowd at 7:30 on a Friday night, so I figured that anything we would lose in ambience we would gain in java--and doughnuts, of course.  My regimen doesn't allow me doughnuts right now, but I could certainly sip my coffee in peace while Mr. Powers debated between the chocolate-covered long john and the cinnamon-dusted apple-filled.

The Montgomery Krispy Kreme is not new,  but like a good many coffee emporia, it is trying to keep up with the ubiquitous Starbuck's by offering specialty coffees for people who really don't like coffee all that much.  Therefore, there is a big coffee menu inside KK where there used to be only a list of doughnut prices.  I could choose from cappuccino, latte, iced, hot, with any number of gooey syrups drizzled on top in case my doughnuts weren't sugary enough.  I asked for the small version of their caramel latte, which would probably have packed the caloric wallop of a raspberry-filled glazed.  What I got was an apology.  The espresso machine was broken, so none of the specialty coffees were available.   Relieved, I ordered black coffee with a splash of vanilla flavor, and it wasn't bad at all. Mr. Powers, who was really only there for the doughnuts,  happily ordered black coffee.

We took our desserts and headed for a table.  KK used to be a shiny 60's coffee shop with lots of chrome, booths, and a formica counter with stools.  I think it would still like to be, but competition with you-know-who has led it to try to come up with a new atmosphere--some sort of environment that would encourage one to sit with his frothy, caramel-oozing dessert coffee and read the Montgomery Advertiser online.  KK has added small tables for two.  This night, they had tied balloons--pink and red, heart-shaped and metallic--to the backs of chairs, and in the center of each table was a romantic paper Krispy Kreme hat.  Mr. Powers and I were in agreement that the paper hat could be donned and worn by anyone who sat at the table, but when I said I wanted the balloons that were attached to my chair, he said NO.  He felt strongly that the balloons were only decorative and were NOT freebies.  All in all, it didn't seem like all that bad a place to relax over coffee before heading back to Elmore County.  HOWEVER--

There was one other group of doughnut fans in the place besides the two of us.  There were maybe  five adults in the party, and they had pulled two tables together.  On one chair was an infant carrier.  In that carrier was--you guessed it--an infant.  The baby was awake and peaceful, too young to eat a doughnut, but in no hurry.  Why, I wondered, was this group so noisy?  Then I saw what I had been hearing all along but not attended to, being so absorbed in the dilemma of what to order:  There were three preschoolers, all girls, under the tables.  Giggling.  Chattering.  Squealing.  Screaming.  One by one, out they came and proceeded to run around and around their parents' tables, laughing hysterically, batting pink balloons into the air.   One of them put her paper KK hat on the baby, who stirred a bit, until another little girl decided the hat was hers.  A dispute ensued over who had had the hat first. Balloons burst.  Baby cried.  The smallest preschooler jumped up and down.  Through it all, the adults conversed as if absolutely nothing were amiss.  Without saying a word to each other, Mr. Powers and I sped up the process, placing plastic lids on our half-full coffee cups, and leaving KK, paper hat, and balloons.

I raised boys.  They shouted, they hollered, and they got themselves taken out of many a restaurant, because their dad and I knew that if we were annoyed with them, others must be, too.  I never had little girls, and I surmise that with girls, the rules are different.  No one at Krispy Kreme that night seemed the least bit bothered by the antics of three doughnut-powered princesses.  Who were we to complain?  We didn't.  It was Valentine's Day.  Mr. Powers and I love each other, we love coffee, and we still love Krispy Kreme.  Only next time, we'll hit the drive-through.

Musings During Iron Bowl Week

The summer of '78, I somewhat reluctantly began graduate work at Auburn University. It wasn't that I liked or disliked Auburn, it was more a feeling that I, a full-time English teacher and commuter, would not fit into the scheme of things on a primarily residential campus known for its agriculture and engineering programs.  I was one of probably thousands of Alabamians who think they understand Auburn.  I was wrong.

Auburn University is everything the Auburn nation claims it is--warm and accepting, beautiful, academically tough, and spirited.  I discovered in Auburn people a resilience I had never before encountered in the education field, and by that I mean that they were undaunted by setback, criticism, or the size of the task at hand.  The faculty were demanding and good-humored.  My fellow graduates, progressive-minded and creative.  By the time I graduated with a Master of Speech Communication degree in 1980, I was orange and blue through and through.

I admit that I am somewhat of a legacy Auburn Tiger--my mother was an Auburn undergrad back around 1948.  I still kick myself for not having the foresight to keep her freshman beanie and the stuffed orange and blue tiger she brought back to Birmingham with her when she left school.  Unfortunately, she never finished that degree, but she did pass on what all Auburn people pass on, and that is a permanent affection for the Plains.  I suppose I was destined to call Auburn, Alabama my home away from home.

Ah, but this is Iron Bowl week, and we are supposed to be talking football, right?  OK, except that I am not an authority on football.  Like any kid born in this state, I have sat through many a game, and I know pretty well what's going on on the field, but who am I to describe--muchless predict--what a bunch of D-I caliber athletes will do on any given Saturday?  Which brings me to the point of this blog:  the incessant, obnoxious, ill-conceived squalling also known as trash talk or smack.

I don't want to seem prim, but stop it.  Yep, just like that.  You see, it doesn't make any difference whose rear-end you think will get kicked, how murderous you think your team is, or whose coach has the people skills of a porcupine.  Do you hate the kids on the field?  What for?  They're the ones who will have sod between their teeth, not you.  Do you think the coach is overpaid?  Would you still think so if the paycheck went into your pocket?  Or do you for some inexplicable reason just hate one particular university or the other?

One of my friends had this to say. "Hey, this is the SEC; do you whatever you have to do."  I think he may have meant that all the venom-spewing was all in good fun, but he's wrong.  It detracts from everything we're supposed to be doing in this state, including supporting students.  If you're an Auburn grad, and you're a little nervous about this game, welcome to the club.  I well remember laughing with delight at the amazing  Iron Bowl comeback of the 2010 Championship team, but I also remember howling in frustration over a certain short kid's field goal kick.  The upcoming contest could go either way.  Many commentators say that every year, as they do about other traditional rivalries.  So yes, let's do throw the record book out, and be who we are--the most cohesive, gracious, and classy supporters of a football team as can be found anywhere.  And one more thing--This may not always be true, but for the 2013 season it is most definitely true:  No matter what is on the scoreboard after 60 minutes, there will be no such thing as defeat for the Auburn Tigers.  Not this year.  We've already won.  War Eagle!

My Ancestor's Voice

I have been told that as we age, we become our parents.  We take on their mannerisms, habits, and gestures, and before we know it, we're staring into the mirror, exclaiming, "Oh no, you sound just like your mother!"  I will escape such a fate.  Instead, I am becoming my grandmother.

Sue Lou Harwell Miles was my mother's mother.  She was an Atlanta girl whose family home was in Inman Park.  (That means something to old Atlantans.)  She was a Southern Belle, a Steel Magnolia, a homemaker, a hostess, a seamstress, and a housekeeper.  She emphasized substance over style and recognized the advantage of "refined and nice" over flashy.  I inherited some of the stereotypes, none of the practical skills, and every last one of her truisms.  When it came to situational wisdom, Sue Lou had a saying for any occasion.

I should be more respectful, I admit.  My grandmother was Mrs. Miles until the day she died, and she would be horrified to discover me calling her Sue Lou in a public forum.  As a matter of fact, she would be horrified by public forums in general.  "Fools' names and fools' faces are always seen in public places," she would chide when some one's name appeared in the wet cement of a new sidewalk. Oh dear.  Didn't I say the very same thing to my naive son who thought it would be a great idea to publish all his weekend pranks on a social network?

While I am not the thriftiest person in the world, I catch myself muttering my grandmother's script every time I shop.  "You get what you pay for,"  says Sue Lou as I contemplate the cheap sneakers.  "If you see something you want, get it when you see it, if you can afford it," she says, and I conclude that I can have the good sneakers, but only if I am willing to pay with cash rather than plastic.

But it isn't only the shopping that causes Sue Lou to tap me on the shoulder with her reminders.  I recently had some furniture re-upholstered--a Sue Louism if ever there was one--and the upholsterer returned a roll of fabric remnants to me.  I noted that the remnants would not cover anything I had left in the house, and I started to throw them out.  Then there came the voice, my own voice of course, but HER words:  "Waste not, want not!"  There are two rolls of fabric scraps in my spare room.

I find that I order my life and surroundings the way that she would have. I freshen up before leaving the house, even if it is just to go to the store.  If I am hungry when I get home from work, I have a bite to eat, just to tide me over.   I want to go on a 3-day beach trip when I have work to do at home?  "You're old enough for your wants not to hurt you."  Mr. Powers wants chocolate pie for dessert when all we have is ice cream and cookies?  "Beggars can't be choosers."  And "of all things," "good grief'" and "O my soul!" we wish there were a grocery store a little closer to the house!  "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."  So much for my grandmother's thoughts (now mine) about instant gratification.

Not long ago, during the Summer of the Upholstery, my #1 son came home on leave from the Navy.  I was proud of my "new" old furniture, and I had worked very hard to get my living room into what I thought was a semblance of shabby-chic cottage- style comfort.  My kiddo looked around and said it looked nice.  OK, Jonathan, tell me what you really think.  "Well," he confessed, "it kinda looks like a waiting room . . . with no TV . . . from the '40's."  Exactly when Sue Lou decorated the living room of the Homewood, Alabama house where I was raised!  I look around the room, and the echoes of her influence are everywhere--furniture is trimmed in dark mahogany, mirrors with heavy frames accent my walls, alabaster grapes are in a flea-market pedestal bowl.  I am not afraid of color, but I suppose I believe at some level that splashy reds and oranges are "plum tacky," because my beautiful colors are soft neutrals, whispers of lavender and coral, and woodsy green.  Refined and nice.

It's time I ended this reminiscence.  My grandmother was never one to call attention to herself.  If there were merchandise to be returned, she took it back.  If there were a button to be sewn, she sewed it; a meal to be cooked, she cooked it; a chair broken, she repaired it.  She was no doubt Martha to my Mary.  I only learned to sit and learn, while she set the example of everything that a Southern lady, no matter how refined and nice, could do.  She would never have put up with this kind of self-disclosure.  She was much too busy.  If you could get her to stop taking care of the business of living, if you did ask her how she felt about so-and-so or what she remembered about such-and-such, or when she married, or why she never went to work outside her home, she would give you the briefest of smiles.  Then she would say, "Ask me no questions; I'll tell you no lies."

Ditto.

The Curse of the Blessing

I have officially made the summer switch from working THERE to working HERE.  I have the privilege of not only a part-time job, but time off from my full-time job during the summer.  Technology makes it possible for me to accomplish my tasks from home via internet and an aging workhorse of a laptop.  I make my own hours, take breaks when I need them, and have pretty direct control over how much I earn based on hours I work.  Am I complaining? NO!  Well, maybe, some perhaps .  . .okay, yes.

I report to the cyber-saltmine every morning at . . . .wait.  I don't have to get up right now, so I will squeeze a few more minutes into snooze time.  After all, I don't have to plan for the morning commute.  (Yes, but that's 10 minutes when you WON'T be earning any money.  Move yer bloomin' arse.)  All right, then.  I'm up.  What should I wear?  (This is your dream, job, remember?  Wear what you want.  Yes, the PROPERTY OF U.S. NAVY T-shirt works.)  Coffee is already brewed and waiting.  Mr. Powers is still pulling 8-3 at the school house.  I will just have a quick cup with breakfast, and then after my second cup, which I now have time for, I will get on the computer and hit some licks.  (You can have your second cup while you work, Idiot.  Put the computer on the kitchen table.)

So here I am in my office, which today is the kitchen.  I have everything I need--my working materials, a pen, fresh coffee, my phone.  And the dog, I need the dog.  Jolene?  Come here, girl.  With the dog stretched out beneath the table, I am finally all set.  Almost.  Where should I set my coffee cup?  If I put it to the left of the computer, it will be on top of the printed materials I need to access as I work.  If I put it on the right, I will knock it on the floor.  I drink coffee left-handed.  (Hello!  This is a kitchen table.  Put the computer on the side, not on the end.  You will have plenty of room to spread your stuff out.)

Organized at last!  I log onto my worksite and check yesterday's productivity report.  Not bad, but not good either.  Yesterday was Sunday, and I was sleepy most of the afternoon.  On the weekends, they make you log off at 5:00 p.m.  Today is Monday, though, and I can put in as many hours as possible.  I will get started right away, but Jolene needs to go out.  The other two dogs want in.  They are confused by my presence at home on what is clearly a weekday.  Dogs re-distributed, I begin my preliminary activity.  I have my phone close by, because the company I work for offers great technical assistance, and I sometimes need access to it.  My phone also alerts me to email as it comes in, Facebook messages, and sales at Target, all of which I will ignore.  (You better not ignore that Facebook alert.  You have a deployed child, remember?)  Some of which I will ignore.

It has been an hour, and I have found a comfortable groove of action.  I am not working with blistering speed, mind you, but I have a steady pace going, and I am far from needing a break.  I type in a response and get an error message.  I haven't seen this one before, but internet can be persnickety, so I log out.  I log right back in.  My account is locked.  It must be an issue with the password, as I have recently had my project switched by the company I work for, so I probably should have changed my password at that time.  No problem; that is why my phone is close by.  I call the toll-free number and select tech support.  A very nice lady politely informs me that this is not a technical issue.  I need to speak to some one in content support.  Uh-oh.  I have a content problem?  They usually warn me a million times if accuracy is in question. 

It is 10:30 in the morning.  I cannot log back in for another 15 minutes while my director researches the problem.  He thinks one of my co-workers may have developed some issues which are causing my numbers to appear skewed, as we are randomly paired to ensure accuracy.  (Who is this slacker?  I don't have time to wait while y'all check my progress!)  Of course I will wait, and thank you, Mr. Director for your feedback.  It isn't lunchtime.  All the dogs have come in because it has begun to rain.  I do not need to go for a walk or have more coffee.  I need to work.

This is the reality of "use-your-own-computer-make-your-own-hours-work-from-home."  It is a blogger's dream.

That's How We Roll . . . When We're Holy

I estimate that the First Assembly of God, Wynne, Arkansas, was about three-quarters full.  At least, that was my impression as I looked around the sanctuary.  But it isn't a sanctuary, it's a Nave.  We got trouble.

As far as I was concerned, Sunday, May 12, 2013 was the Seventh Sunday of Easter.  It was also, incidentally, Mother's Day.  I was privileged to be invited, along with Mr. Powers, my sister-in-law, and a gaggle of my mother-in-law's grandchildren and great-grandchildren, to Mother's Day services at the Assembly of God that mother-in-law Imogene calls home.  The building is pretty big for small-town Arkansas, and I understand there was a time when a visitor could barely find a place to sit.  Unfortunate rifts within the congregation changed all that, but a new pastor and a few new families seem to have brought many of the faithful back where they belonged.  Ms. Imogene was among the returning parishioners, and she was happy to discover that there is still a kind of competition among the moms there to see which one gets the most sons, daughters, grandchildren, and in-laws to show up.  I think she did well.  There were about a dozen of us, and we took up one whole pew and half of another.

Like I said, we got trouble, speaking of pews.  There is nowhere to kneel in an Assembly of God, although they wouldn't say anything to you if you up and knelt in the aisle.  The pew itself has nothing to do with their worship, because they do not sit to learn.  They sit when they are socializing before the service or when they are tired of standing.  There are no hymnals, so if you haven't heard the hymn they're singing, you fake it.  If they are singing verse 12, and you're tired of faking it, you sit down.  That is not a problem at all, since the songs are just a warm-up for THE SERMON.

Forgive my over-capitalization, but THE SERMON is the centerpiece of worship here.  There is no Eucharist, therefore no altar, and no communion rail.  The pulpit is front and center, but in fairness to Brother K., he doesn't stay put anyway.  His SERMON was not an Easter season message, although St. Mary figured largely in the scheme of what he had to say.  He preached that day on Motherhood.  Not motherhood, which is just a state of being a female parent, but Motherhood, an unassailable, unfathomable, thankless, sanctified position which would make all us moms candidates for sainthood.  He didn't call any of us saints, though, not even St. Mary.  Instead he drew parallels between contemporary moms' and St. Mary's trials as she raised Our Lord, and begged us not to feel guilty if our offspring had gone astray.  Apparently some ladies felt guilty anyway, because there were tears a-plenty.  I looked around from time to time, because (being Episcopalian) I am sensitive to the need for doing as others do.  Ergo, if I am unsure what to do, I stand when others stand, I sit when they sit, and I say AMEN right out loud if it seems to be the end of a prayer.  However, I don't cry on cue, and I wasn't feeling sad, so I thought I would get a consensus:  Is everybody crying or just moms?  Is there something I am missing?  Should I maybe hold a Kleenex?  (There is a box of tissue on each pew.)  I didn't get to wonder very long.  Brother K. said,

"I am WELL AWARE that SOME of you are NOT from the Pentecostal tradition!"  Gulp.  That would be me.  I looked behind me, and there wasn't a dry eye to be seen.  Yep, he was talking to me.  Granted, no one would have cared if I'd shouted, "Amen to that!" but I didn't.  I just stared back at him, mortified.  I needn't have been.  He only wanted to re-assure us heathens that it would be perfectly fine if we chose not to holler out, weep or spontaneously kneel in the floor, and that we were welcome to enjoy the presence of God in any way we wanted to.  I was grateful.  After all, my old home parish, All Saints', had a blurb on the back of the service order that reassured visitors that they could kneel--or not--as they dang well pleased.

So I relaxed and stopped waiting for the Lord's Prayer, a Creed, or anything I might know the tune to.  After all, I was being praised, extolled, and thanked for bringing two ruffians into the world and raising them while "soaking comforters and blouses with tears."  (Well, I wasn't much of a crier even then.) I realized that my fellow worshippers were having the time of their lives praising God, joyful just to be in His house.  (It's a NAVE!)  I got comfortable a little too soon because there is a sidebar to the centerpiece, which is the ALTAR CALL.  (It's a table which may or may not have the sacraments laid out for communion.  On this day, it did not.  It had our Mother's Day presents.)

Now, I was quite prepared to sing as many verses of "Only Trust Him" as necessary for the altar call.  But these are not Baptists, and I think "Only Trust Him" has fallen by the wayside.  What Brother K. did then was as sly as a preacher should ever be.  He invited ALL the MOTHERS to just come on down front and receive a FREE GIFT and the thanks of the rest of the congregation.  I could not avoid this.  Every one of my kinfolks knows that Mr. Powers and I have those two ruffians I mentioned, so I could not slink down in my pew or pretend to read the bulletin.  I had to go forward.  Well, there were a bunch of us, so I stood as far to the right as I could without being detached from the crowd. I was on the second of three rows of moms.  Ms. Imogene grabbed my left hand, and I grabbed her granddaughter's left hand with my right, so I didn't have to hold hands with a lady I'd never seen before. I refrained from saying "Peace be with you," and it was all good, because the majority had stopped sniffling and were praying for each other. They gave us our gifts--a pen with a matching bookmark--and we milled around and returned to our pews.  There was no benediction, no "Thanks be to God!  Alleluia, alleluia," but there were smiles all around and congratulations for my mother-in-law, who did, after all, fill up a pew and a half with family.

Mr. Powers and I shook the preacher's hand on the way out the door.  He encouraged us to VISIT again whenever we could.  So he did have me pegged as the non-Pentecostal in the bunch.  I wonder how he knew?

No matter.  I received a blessing that day.  I felt appreciated.  I was honored to be included with my husband's folks and their little kids.  I loved being with people who enjoy being in the presence of God in His house.  Even if it is a Nave.

Happy Birthday to Me or Ten Things I Hate about American Culture

This post has been "in the can" for some time now.  I hesitated to go public with it because it seemed so whiny.  Grouchy, I think, would be the right word.  You see, I was only 59 years old when I wrote it and still bedazzled by the prospect of making moral choices, ethical decisions, and persuasive arguments that would affect people's behavior.  Today, however, I am 60 years old, and I now realize that most of this is just the griping of an old hippie who has a head full of earned gray and doesn't give a rat's auntie who does and does not agree.  Therefore, get your virtual tomatoes ready to throw.  What would have hurt my feelings yesterday is tripe today.

WARNING:  This post will contain opinions, assertions, and criticism.  I learned in college that before I opine, assert, or criticize, I have to read some books and then tell you what all I read.  I believe that applies to you as readers, as well.  Therefore, you can opine, assert, and criticize right back at me.  I wish you would.  But you have to read books first.

That being said, there were reasons why I read these particular books.  Somewhere along the late '80's, I realized, along with many of my contemporaries, that the safe, predictable culture I grew up in had lost some of its warm-fuzzy charm.  It had, in fact, taken on some sharp edges and ugly extremities.  I had had my feathers ruffled before during the '60's and '70's, and usually flapped my left wing in response.  There was much to respond to in those days--Viet Nam and Watergate primarily, followed by the insufferable decade of disco.  What we emerged into at first seemed like a fresh breeze what with New Wave music and some cool new gadgetry to play with.  But the 80's ushered in Reaganomics and an in-your-face set of attitudes that had very little to do with counter-culture sass-to-society.  I set about trying to learn what was causing the seismic shift in behavior.

Here's the book list I told you about.  Several authors were out there trying to explain what had taken place in the Land of the Free.  As early as 1981, Marvin Harris blamed women (Why Nothing Works).  Arlie Hochschild blamed men (The Second Shift, 1989).  Allan Bloom in 1987's The Closing of the American Mind blamed higher education, while Jonathan Kozol blamed public education (Savage Inequalities, 1992).  Most recently, Lynn Truss, a British lady, blamed inexcusable, brash, no-home-training rudeness (Talk to the Hand, 2005).  To sum up, the "rudeness explosion" of self serving, victim-mentality, non-cooperation has been caused by the breakdown of the procreative imperative, the refusal of husbands to do their part in running households, the softening of university moral and ethical standards, poor allocation of public education funds, and the F word.  I admit I oversimplified all that a bit.  Go read the books.

While all these authors contributed some relief to my cultural concussion, none of them applied enough balm to make the headache go away.  There were, and are, some things about American culture that I really, really, really dislike.  And though my reading has helped me to understand why we sometimes behave as badly as we do, I still find my patience taut as a twin-size fitted sheet stretched across a full-size mattress.  So without further ado, I present my list of the TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT AMERICAN CULTURE.

1. Excessive appetites--Back when Johnny Carson ruled late-night, and late-night was still considered to be 11 p.m., the Tonight Show was host to a singer named Sheena Easton.  I believe the young lady was from Scotland.  When Carson asked her if anything about Americans struck her as oddly different from Britons, she replied, "You go out for breakfast . . ., " and she described plates piled overwhelmingly and unnecessarily high with more food that a Scottish family would consume in an entire day.  Carson agreed with her.  That was back in the 80's. The breakfast bar still exists in all kinds of restaurants, and one venue gleefully serves up their "Grand Slam" breakfast that no one has any business consuming for any reason, hunger included.  I blame factory farming, grossly inhumane animal slaughter, and disregard for overall personal health for the overkill.  Don't condemn Obamacare.  Embrace it.  One more Grand Slam Breakfast and you'll need it.
2.  Big for big's sake--From our Big Box retailers to our campus football stadiums, to our fishing trips down at the Gulf, we tend to think that bigger is better.  We're pandered to by folks whose sole purpose is to tell us exactly how big a crowd, a building, a boat, or a fish turned out to be.  AT &T is running a low-budget commercial these days showing a marketer "interviewing" little kids in a school library.  "What's better?"  he asks them.   "Bigger or smaller?"  "BIGGER!"  they chorus.  Bigger isn't better.  Bigger is unmanageable, unwieldly, and unfriendly.  If you don't believe it, take your next road trip in a Bigfoot Dodge Ram and try carrying on a conversation with the person riding shotty.
3.  Sports entertainment--the NFL, the NBA, and Major League Baseball:  overblown. overrated, overpaid, overattended, and over attended-to.  They attract huge crowds that pay huge amounts for tiny tickets to sit in tiny seats and drink bucket-size Cokes.  See #2 for more information. 
4.  The drive-through--Talk to the sign and get mad!  Signs don't earn much for their effort, so their service is generally low-quality.  As for our feelings of frustration when we learn, for the umpteenth time, that our orders are wrong, we deserve them.  We're  pretty lazy if we're willing to drive around in a circle formed about a building, lean out the driver's side window, holler our lunch selection, and drive forward to window #2 just to get a hamburger with fries and a drink.
5.  Choices, choices, choices--My Russian exchange student, Tonya, always left the local grocery store feeling worn out.  In her hometown in Kamchatska, she and her mom went to the store, located the cooking oil, bought it, and left.  In the U.S., we are constantly strapped for cash and complaining, but is it any wonder?  Our stores have 12 brands of olive oil, and if we aren't buying the olive oil that costs $15.00, we must be getting crappy olive oil.  Same wisdom applies to margarine, salad dressing, cereal, and frozen limas.
6.  Reality TV--Survivor was first.  It should have been last.  Actually the Louds of PBS' An American Family predate today's glut of reality shows, but few of the recent series attempt to capture the social drama of the PBS documentary.  Instead, they aim for the low common-denominator that allows us all to say to ourselves, "I may be dumb/redneck/overweight/stupid/irresponsible but I ain't never been that bad."  Besides, reality shows have low overhead (they're cheap to produce), making them extremely profitable for the producers.
7.  Professionalization of just about everyone--Kurt Vonnegut predicted this in Cat's Cradle.  Thus, we have "professional" bus drivers, "professional" manicurists, "professional" oil change specialists, and "professional" paraprofessionals.  LOOK THIS UP:  A professional is an individual having an advanced degree in one of several select occupations.  They aren't any smarter than the rabble.  They don't all perform their responsibilities excellently.  But professional refers to the type of position they hold and the amount of education it took to get there.  Sorry, "pro" wrestlers.  See #3 above.
8.  Flip-flops--Nice that you could afford a pedi.  Hope the pedicurist was a professional!  But I don't want to SEE your pedi or HEAR your shoes-that-are-not-shoes flapping down the hall where I work.  You didn't get a pedi?  Then there's one more reason why you need to wear those slides in your house.
9.  Designer dogs--The King Charles Cavalier spaniel is a beautiful pup!  and smart!  The Bichon frise is also adorable.  But your "Cavachon" is a mix-breed.  So is your Golden doodle and your Peke-a-Poo.  If you paid some one top dollar to confuse some recognized breeds, I hate to tell you:  It would have been cheaper and more compassionate to adopt from the local shelter.
10.  People who say "If you don't like it, I'll help you pack!"  One thing I LOVE about American culture?  The insistence that we are free to be as cranky, critical, condemnatory, and cantankerous as we please, as long as we don't push those four C's on everyone else. So if I offended any hapless reader out there, I certainly understand if you wish to un-read all of the above.  I won't need your help in packing.  However, I cannot resist closing with a cousin to the quotation I just disrespected:  Can't stand behind our Troops?  Feel free to stand in front of 'em!
Peace!

Isaac? Is That You?

I began this blog a year ago with a harsh criticism of the month of August for having no holidays.  I suggested a few new observances we could add to our August calendars, but I guess none of them were good suggestions.  The folks at Hallmark never called me, nor do I know of anyone who placed flowers on the altar in honor of St. Bartholomew.  (See my blog for August 2011?  Yes, scroll down.  Waaaaay down.)  Twelve months and twelve blogs later, I have a few followers and a handful of positive comments from family and friends.  Thanks!  I am having fun with this.  Or I was . . .

This week we got an unexpected August cool-down, and the mid-eighties temperatures along with kids' return to school gave the month a bit of a fallish feeling.  The hint of autumn just around the corner and football season cranking up makes my fellow Alabamians almost forget we are still in "dog days."  Do you feel a "however" coming?  You should . . .

There is a storm on the horizon.  Late last week the message came down my newsfeed on that chatty, junk-mail website of a social network where we all hang out.  Isaac?  Who's he?  The next thing I knew, a couple of my friends were posting projections of Isaac's journey through the Gulf of Mexico and advising us what kinds of things we might want to pick up on the next Wal-Mart run:  ice, nonperishable foods, gasoline for the generator, batteries.  TS became CAT 2.  Even the Republicans shifted their party plans a bit.  Isaac meanders in the Caribbean tonight, and we watch him.  In the midst of the early-phase hurricane watch, I receive a call from a distressed family member.  There is another storm on the horizon.  Like Isaac, this storm, too, is out of my reach.

This late-August evening finds me comparing the projected paths that Isaac might take.  Some have him crunching poor New Orleans by throwing his weight onto the Mississippi coast.  Other computers track him a bit further east, and it looks like Mobile will once again be swamped.  I also gaze accusingly at my phone, as if by being the messenger, it could bring me news of resolved problems for my loved one.

Waiting and watching, you remember.  October, 1995:  We were living in the Dalraida area of Montgomery, Alabama, a neighborhood where I grew up and where our newborn boys both came home for the first time.  I was part of a private counseling practice at the time, and my partner made the unexpected decision to cancel all appointments and shut the office when Hurricane Opal made her way through the still-warm Gulf waters.  "I don't think we'd better stay open," he advised me.  "There are supposed to be 65-mile-per hour winds." Is that bad?  I didn't know. I had no direct experience with hurricanes.  I toured Mississippi after Camille hit and saw the dreamscape of steeples on the beach, sailboats on rooftops, and huge oaks uprooted, but I had no concept of what she might have looked like trekking through Biloxi.  My boys, ages  7 and 3, sat with me on a daybed in our front bedroom all night long, staring out the front window at a curtain of rain the like of which we'd never even imagined and listening to wind that sounded like the crowd cheering a touchdown.  But the rain never ceased and the crowd never settled down, and we fell asleep at dawn.  We woke up to houses without porches and streets blocked by big, heavy limbs.  The sky was still dark gray, but the rain was sporadic, and we cleaned the debris from our yard.  The power came back on.  We suffered very little.  I learned later on that this compact, fast-moving storm killed 2 Alabamians.  The name Opal has been retired as a storm name.

A terse message appears on the Messenger app on my iPad.  Same kin, same unhappy situation, same helpless response from me.  Our personal storm is still a way off, but we see it coming, and no matter its landfall outcome, there will be damage.  I try to offer reassurance, even a bit of unwelcome advice, but nothing changes the advance of  the inevitable.  Change will come.  We cannot fight it; we will see what it brings to us, and we will adapt.  The next day passes with no news.

September 2004:  Montgomery is just a memory.  Mr. Powers and I have become Elmorons by moving to Slapout, Alabama, and taking our boys and animals with us.  The children are 16 and 12, and we've been joined temporarily by my stepson, Chris, who is in his 20's.  He's from Tennessee and knows less about hurricanes than we do.  He tells us one afternoon that he's heard there's "some kind of storm coming."  "Just a hurricane," I drily reply, since I remember Opal and I have already bought bottled water and batteries.  I am not sure what everyone else did the night Ivan hit, but I moved into the basement where we had a den/bedroom and positioned my futon so I could see out into the backyard.  The winds came in early, I would say 8 p.m.  We lost power around 11.  Whereas Opal blew in and back out again, a 0 to 60 personality, Ivan dug in, and the rain and wind went on and on and on.  The next morning never dawned; rather, the outside grew gradually lighter as the storm screamed.  There was little to see through that river pouring from the sky.  You dared not go out even for a second, because you knew the wind would flatten you.  We ventured into our yard at maybe 4 p.m. between squalls of rain.  The wind pushed and shoved us, and it felt wrong to be outside our four walls.  Chris went to the store, which had opened back up, for another Mountain Dew.  The rest of us went back inside.  We missed 3 days of school that week due to lost power.  After two weeks, I could still hear generators running throughout Slapout at the homes of neighbors who still did not have power.  In Montgomery, philanthropist Ida Belle Young died when her generator caused carbon-monoxide poisoning in her home.

We were not touched directly by Katrina.  Oh, it rained, all right, but mostly we watched in horror as one of our favorite cities drowned, and we hung our heads in sorrow at the city's needless waste of human life.  The reality of Katrina affected us more when displaced families enrolled their children in Elmore County schools.  They didn't bring records, and we were told not to ask for any.  We wouldn't have anyway.  One young lady wound up in foster care because her mother fled back to New Orleans, leaving her daughter behind in the shelter provided by a local church.

The phone isn't ringing.  I see no new messages.  My heart aches, and I despise my inability to help.  I pray and doubt the efficacy of my prayer.  I watch the hurricane projections with great interest.  Best case:  Isaac brings us a bunch of rain and even a day off.  No one gets hurt.  Worst case:  New Orleans and/or Mobile get shaken to their foundations.  Again.  People wish they had been more prepared.  Again.  Finger-pointing and blaming ensues.  We try to remember what we've learned from past experience, but the destruction is too recent and the disappointments too sharp to bear.

I live in Alabama.  This is all I know of storms.

Catalogs!

When the U.S. Mail was the only mail, when cards and letters carried greetings and news, when people allowed 6-8 weeks for parcel delivery, there were catalogs.  I am speaking of fat, glossy catalogs that included clothing, appliances, and toys displayed and described to entice and sell.  I am sure the "mailman" did not look forward to catalog season, but as a child, I certainly did.  The Big Two catalogs were Spiegel and Sears.  Both catalogs would land in our mailbox around October of every year.  I drew big circles around all the clothes and toys I wished would be my Christmas presents.  Sometimes I was lucky enough to see and feel the real merchandise on Christmas morning.  Sometimes gazing on all those full-color photos was as close as I came.

I really don't know if children spend hours on the couch with a catalog and a crayon nowadays.  I don't recall either of my kids being inclined that way, although they might have spent a few minutes with a flier from Toys R Us.  No, I am sure the heyday of catalog marketing is past, with a few exceptions . . .

I get about a dozen catalogs out of my mailbox every year.  There are a couple that I am glad to see and one that I will buy from.  That one sells shoes.  I don't like to shoe-shop in stores because I rarely like any that I see.  If I flip through the catalog often enough, I eventually find 3 or 4 pairs of shoes I can live with, and I order them all.  (I also feed Mr. Powers a ton of beans and rice for the rest of the month.)  I am not surprised that the shoe catalog keeps showing up whether I need shoes or not.

There are an additional two catalogs that I get; I have ordered from them before, so they keep coming back.  I won't order from them in the near future, but I don't mind looking at the pictures.  One of them sells all kinds of kitchen equipment.  There are aqua frying pans, bright red toasters, and purple Dutch ovens for sale.  One time I was so seduced by the idea of pretty pots and pans that I ordered a 12-piece set of coppertone cookware.  The tops of saucepans and boilers counted as part of the 12 pieces, which hardly seemed fair.  Worse, the non-stick coating began to peel off of every single item after one or two usages.  I should have read the fine print.  I imagine it says, "Cookware is not intended for use at high temperatures or with liquids, solids, or cooking oil."

I also get a seasonally-accurate catalog selling decorative items for the home.  Five years ago I ordered some fake antique vanity drawers which are supposed to be used as catch-alls in the bathroom.  They are, in fact, still in my bathroom, and they look okay.  In the future, I will make sure my "shabby chic" decor is the real thing.  I enjoy the catalog every fall and spring, and I especially like the Halloween issue.  I am amazed that people buy witches with LED eyes, resin gravestones, and faux pumpkins that look just like real jack o'lanterns.

Several other types of catalogs have appeared periodically at my house for the past couple of years.  I don't remember inviting any of them.  For example, I sometimes hear from the nice folks at Cabelas.  I don't know why; we have very little in common.

There are a pair of clothing catalogs that I am getting by mistake.  I am certain they are intended for other women.  Somewhere, these ladies are disappointed every day, because they need to buy themselves some clothes.  One of them must be an African-American woman in her 40's.  Her catalog sells gorgeous 2-piece suits.  The slim, calf-length skirts have kick pleats.  The jackets have squared shoulders and wide lapels.  Each suit has a handsome, elaborate hat to match.  The suits, I think, are for church, and if they aren't marketed for black women, then why are all the models black?  Besides, anyone marketing Sunday clothes for me would know
1.  I am a Lay Eucharistic Minister, and I serve at the altar.  I have to dress out, so it doesn't matter what I am wearing when I arrive at church.
2.  Episcopalian women come to church wearing whatever they'll wear to the lake as soon as church is over.
3.  I don't wear hats.

The other clothing catalog I get, inexplicably, is for hookers.  Sister, if this is your catalog, send me your address by private message, and I'll forward it on.  For now, for the record, for any misguided marketers out there:
1.  I never wear tops that lace up from navel to breast bone.
2.  I never wear jeans with laces in the back.  Why would you do that?
3.  If I wore 10-inch platforms, I'd have to sue you sooner or later, because I would break my ankle.
4.  Why does that pink bra have black appliques on the cups?  They look like hands.  Creepy.

Which brings me to the one catalog that gets a laugh from me and Mr. Powers both--we have just copped our second copy of it, and I must say I admire the nerve of these marketers.  I can understand mailing out one of these catalogs in the hope that they have targeted the right audience, but two?

The catalog is slick enough.  On this season's cover is a thin blonde in Capri pants frolicking on the seashore.  (Already they have missed the target--I am not blonde, I despise Capri pants, and I never frolic.)  The merchandise is called "products for your well-being."  Okay, I'll bite.  I found sections selling vitamins, homeopathic creams for banishing spider veins, and CD's with ocean sounds.  I found fabulously expensive pillows for my aching neck, wind-chimes to drown out my tinnitis, and an herbal tea to treat most anything.

There were a few pages of special underwear.  My grandmother would have named these items corsets, but my catalog said they were super-slimming support for the lower back.  It also promised I could have some free gelcaps containing a miracle herb that would rid me of belly fat forever if only I would order two corsets.

Then there were these mystery products displayed on two pages in the middle of the magazine.  I think they may be flashlights.  Yep, they're pink and purple flashlights that must be powerful because they guarantee me mega-satisfaction with just the flip of a switch.  And they are so cute--one of them has a switch shaped like a butterfly.  That flashlight has intensive thrusting action, but sorry--I won't be nosing around in any dark corners any time soon.  If I have to do any work up in my attic, I'll know whom to contact.

Now, anyone out there shopping for a purple, vibrating, ultra-thrusting-action flashlight--you are welcome to this catalog!  I don't need any well-being products.  As long as I can order new shoes once a year, my well-being is secure.

I leave you with a warning:  Even though I order only a few items at a time, and even though I am predictable in my buying habits, I suspect my name and address have been shared by catalog merchants!  It's incredible, I know, but the evidence is piling up like junk mail.  I should have been suspicious when Cabelas arrived trying to entice me with a dozen free rubber worms for every rod and reel purchased.  I am thankful for catalogs, but I must admit--Sometimes I miss the old days. . . Sears and Spiegel, once a year.  

Name This Blog!

"What's in a name?" Juliet famously wondered.  I wonder, too.  I have an unusual problem today  in that my story, chameleon-like, changes its colors each time it dons a new title.  I have been unable to name this blog accurately, but I have been able to borrow a few titles from their better-known authors.  Also,  I am familiar with the Chinese proverb that tells us that the beginning of wisdom is calling things by their right names.  Therefore, you may choose any of the following titles for this blog or you may make one up.  I, wondering what's in a name anyway, will never be the wiser.

The Journey to the East

(borrowed from a lesser-known work by Hermann Hesse)

The Summer Solstice is only days away.  Afternoons have grown long, and they languish for hours, especially as we move into the Eastern time zone.  My companion on the trip is my husband, who prefers to drive.  I am the navigator.  So we pull onto Interstate 10, heading toward the Atlantic Ocean.  This trip is a labor of love, for our #1 son, a 23-year-old, will head even further East soon.  He is in the Navy; it's his first deployment.  We intend to see that ship leave its home, Mayport, FL.  But first, we are going to spend some quality time with him and let him know, once more, that we are brimming with pride.

As we get closer and closer to Jacksonville, the text messages fly.  He wants to know where we are, how many miles out of Tallahassee, when we will make the next pit stop.  Then he is texting directions:  follow the Jax Beaches signs, exit onto Atlantic Blvd., stay straight, keep right, you're almost here.  There is still plenty of daylight when both our vehicles pull into the motel parking lot.  Mr. Powers and I are a little bedraggled from the long, boring road trip; Jonathan is refreshed and smiling, winding up a much-deserved day off-duty.

Hugs are exchanged, news from all corners shared, supper plans made.  We eat together on the patio of a local restaurant, and by the time the last daylight fades, it is after 9:00 p.m.  We cannot believe how late it already is, and suddenly everyone is exhausted.

Sunday morning finds the three of us in church together.  It is Fathers' Day, and at this particular church, it is the day of the Bishop's visit.  There are many young adults being confirmed here, a very good sign for a parish in the city.  Jonathan shows me the bulletin, and points to his name.  He is on their prayer list.  During the Peace, parishioners greet him happily, but they hug him when he says he is about to be deployed.  The Priest-in-Charge, Teresa, beams at him as he shakes her hand at the end of the service but looks distressed when he shares the news of his departure.  "You'll be prayed for extra hard by name, every day," she promises.  She turns to me and says, "We absolutely love your son.  He is an awesome young man!  But you knew that."  Yes, I guess I did.  How strange and wonderful to discover that others seem to know it, too.

"How I Spent My Summer Vacation"

(borrowed from Ernie Souchak, a fictitious character played by John Belushi)

The wind blows constantly off of the gray-green Atlantic.  I sit beside the pool at our hotel reading a book.  Later on, Mr. Powers and I decide to be touristy--we crank the Chevrolet and head toward the public beaches.  We are used to the Gulf of Mexico, like most Alabamians.  We cannot help making comparisons--the sand here is gray and coarse with many, many shells and pieces of shells.  The surf is active, roaring; only a few people swim.  Many walk their dogs.  A man sleeps, fully clothed, with newspaper for a pillow.  The strand is firm beneath our feet.  We remember that Jonathan says he runs 2 miles on the beach right outside base housing.  We see how that might be possible, but he insists he'd rather run in the loose, sugary sands of the Gulf coast.  He says it's harder running and therefore, better exercise.

Then it's back into the car and on to do some shopping.  We find a bookstore, buy what's on sale, and get iced coffee.  We are vacationers, and we pay no mind to the clock.  But the sunlight is fading, and we remember that it is probably supper time.  A beachy-looking restaurant beckons as we drive up A1A.  We eat steamed shrimp until well after dark in a screened-in, second floor dining room with newspaper spread on the tables.  The wind rustles through the palmettos, and we can see the steely expanse of the Atlantic from where we are sitting.  It's not crowded, and only the two of us occupy this corner of the room.  I wonder if Jonathan, who is on duty his last night stateside, has ever been here before?  Not likely, we decide.  He is allergic to shellfish.

A Comedy of Errors

(borrowed from that English playwright)

With our son facing a nine-month deployment, we must bring his pick-up truck home with us.  Two vehicles will return to Alabama where there was only one.  I will of course drive home in the Chevrolet; I am used to it; it is reliable.  Still, I am not looking forward to getting out of the congestion of downtown Jacksonville, nor do I relish the thought of the long stretch of highway that is I10 West.  I know my way home, but I get drowsy sometimes, and what if  . . . ?

I strongly recommend to Mr. Powers that he get a cell phone; just a cheap pre-paid one would be fine, but something, anything, just in case . . . 

Mr. Powers says NOPE.  "We're going to stay together," he tells me.

And for the most part, we do.   Mr. Powers has the truck and therefore GPS, but he wants to follow me out of Jacksonville.  I am OK with that as I do know my way out, but I am not always sure how many lanes of traffic I have to cut to get to my exit or how long I have to get over.  That makes me not the best person to follow if you are not sure where you're going.  When we make a pit stop, Mr. Powers tells me there are certain rules of etiquette I must follow if I am going to be the lead auto.  I am not in a very good mood, and I really don't listen to his complaints.  I thought I was doing great.

At any rate, it is only an hour or two later that I signal for another stop.  I have plenty of gas, but the car feels shaky and hard to handle when braking.  We look at the left front tire, which had been suspiciously low the day before, but all appears well.  Mr. Powers is no longer annoyed, since driving on the straightaway of the interstate has apparently improved my ability to lead considerably.  When we get back on the highway, I let him pass me, since he is hungry and will decide where we'll stop.

We pass Lake City.  Tallahassee.  I am enjoying the symphony on Florida State University Public Radio when noise from the back right side of the Chevrolet intrudes.  This is not a "What was that sound?" kind of noise. This is "Get off the road RIGHT NOW" noise.  So I put on my blinker and roll onto the shoulder.  The white pick up in front of me never sees a thing.

I do have a cell phone.  It does many things, and on that particular morning, it had been a workhorse of a camera.  What I do not have for this trip is a car charger.  I have enough battery left to text my neighbor, who is caring for our dogs.  I tell her I have car trouble and may be delayed.  I call 911.  I wait.  A State Trooper comes.  He ascertains my tire size, because the back right tire has peeled its top layer like a cheap re-cap, exposing a now-useless steel belt.  A service truck arrives with the appropriate new tire, replaces the useless one, and charges me $100. I stand in tall roadside grass under a mean Florida sun and try to fend off fire ants.  The fire ants win.  After two hours I am back on the road.  Sweat is rolling down my cheeks.  My child is deployed.  I don't know where my husband is.

If I weren't in such a hurry to get home, I would kiss the pavement on 231N.

War and Peace

(borrowed from a Russian who knew a whole lot about both)

Jonathan arrives at our hotel room shortly after 0700 on 20 June 2012.  He collapses onto one of the beds.  He has been off duty for half an hour, since he had to stand watch while on duty overnight.  He says he'd like us to get him up in two hours, because he has to be at the ship by 1000.

We get coffee and newspapers in the lobby.  I have already done Jonathan's laundry, and he will pack some of it into his seabag when he wakes up.  The rest will go home with us.  True to his plan, he is awake again around 0900.  He is wearing civvies--he says he won't man the rails, because he has to put on his coverall and get to work.  He is a DC--a damage controlman--and he works below decks.  He is tense and impatient on the ride to the base.  We are all three in the truck, in which Mr. Powers and I will leave the base later on.

There are so many people on the dock.  Sailors in dress whites are walking up and down the ramp where there is a banner:  USS Hue City.  There are strollers with little kids, babies in their parents'arms, groups of three and four posing for pictures.  The wind is brisk and constant; the engines rumble.  It is hard to converse.

Jonathan reminds us that he will not be in whites.  He boards the ship after "one more hug" and tells us we can go on if we want; he has to get to work.  He does not know exactly how he'll stay in touch.  He loves us.  He goes aboard.  

We are not leaving until the Hue City leaves.  Sorry, Jonathan.  You'll understand when you're a parent.  Right now we will sit here and talk to --who is this?--a nice set of Kansas parents whose son, Sean, just made E-4.  Congratulations!  Nice to meet you, Sean.  How long did your trip take?  Our son is still E-3, looking for a promotion during this deployment, hopefully.  

Then he is walking toward us, looking a bit sheepish, but looking handsome all the same in his dress whites.  Yes, he is going to man the rails!  Photo ops begin in earnest now.  We take one of just him, one with Sean, one with his dad, and the lady from Kansas volunteers to take one of all three of us.  Then it's 1130, and everyone in uniform needs to be aboard.  The giant crane removes the walkway.  Sailors take their places on all three decks.  They all look the same in dress whites, of course, especially from this distance, but I can see Jonathan next to a ladder.  I know he sees me, too, because he stands still while I take another picture.  The  Hue City bellows a good-bye into the cloudy sky.

Then she is free and drifting away.  The Sailors stand fast, not waving, gazing at their children, wives, husbands, and parents, who are waving good-bye or holding American flags.  Tugboats bring her slowly around, and she is headed out to sea.  A little one wails that she wants her daddy.  In another group, a young woman says to her mother-in-law:  "You OK mama?"  The older woman nods slightly, solemnly.  I do not think it is her first deployment.  Mr. Powers and I walk back to the truck.  I will not cry.

The USS Hue City is a guided missile cruiser assigned to the USS Eisenhower battle group.  They are headed for the Mediterranean and then the Gulf.  She is carrying more than enough to defend with if anyone should be so foolish as to meddle with the carrier.  This, say Navy spokesmen, is a longer-than-usual deployment.  Nine months.  They go in peace.  May they not encounter war.  Godspeed.