Right at the start

I don't always know right from wrong. Or perhaps better said, I don't always know grey from right or grey from wrong. There are some things I did in my early life, particularly in business, that I had to learn were wrong. I thought they seemed neutral. Some matters that I thought were grey areas I later learned were not. They were not big things, but more technical matters related to my profession. 

There are other human behaviours, that from the time I first heard of them, seemed wrong. They still hold. Almost everthing I thought was wrong when the child me first heard of them, was indeed wrong and twisted. That first impression, that gut sense, stuck with me - even when I was an adult and tried to rationalize them away. When I ponder whether a particular act is morally right or wrong, I find I often revert to a very simple question, "When you first heard of this act, what did you think?"

Before I was old enough to know the difference between political parties and philosophies, my first impressions ruled. That gut reaction. As I look back its remarkable how the instinct of me the child was nearly always the one I still hold, or have returned to, in my later years. I believe that is a grace of God poured out on his youngest children who are raised in homes that believe in Him. This is a personal belief, not necessarily a theological truth. 

I miss apathy

 When I was much younger, in the 70's, those of us who were politically minded would often lament the apathy of the masses. "Why is it no one cares about the problem of (fill in the blank)?"

I could not really understand how people could go about their lives without having an opinion on the latest major bill before Congress, our next Governor, our next President, the latest foreign crisis. 

I think I miss those days. 

Today it seems too many of folks have too strongly held opinions on too many things. Perhaps it is because so many of the issues of today have a moral aspect, that those who traditionally kept silent, now feel the need to speak. 

In many cases the opening of mouths reflects an inner emptiness. It reflects an inate human desire to be part of something much bigger than yourself, to matter, to be engaged with big things. Technology has given my friends, and me, a global microphone, and some demand to be heard. 

But wait a minute. Is it really this way, or am I falling into an American myth? I have been told that the country is torn apart and that our relationships with our family and neighbors is burdened by the ripping of the American weave that binds us together. Yet, I do not know one soul who spouts their political views via social media. If I do, I am not aware that they do so. I conduct a relationship with them completely oblivious to their views on any issue. I may suspect how they vote, but I don't know, for it is something I never discuss with them. 

These are the topics that my friends and I engage in... the new construction in our towns, stock prices, the Holy Eucharist, the state of professional and amateur football in Minnesota, weather, hospice care, the St. Louis Cardinals, vacation plans, family events, church events. That covers 90% or more of my talking and listening. 

So, back to apathy. I think we could use a little more of it. Don't care about the thing the invisible guy on your phone sez you should care about. Taking care of your family is always more important. And no, they are not the same. Supporting Invisible Guy's favorite issue is not a way to show your family you care. 

Try trusting those in authority. Come on, and not just those you agree with. Most of them are better people than you are led to believe. 

Trust more.   

Walmartian Astrology

 I like Walmart. Great selection at very good prices. Especially their honey cured hams. Amazing. 

In many cases the goods are made in places where the cost of materials and labor is less than in my home state. Good for me, good for my fellow Minnesotans, and most importantly, good for Walmart shareholders. Win Win Win. 

But, every once in a while they get weird. 

Today I was enrolling in WalMart Pharmacy. I didn't want to  but it was the only way to check a price. 

They wanted to confirm my identity. They asked me questions about my life. First, "Which of these cities did you live in?" Second "Which of these companies did you work for?" 

Quiet now children....Third "Which of these is your zodiac sign?" What is going on here? Walmart promoting astrology? Not likely. But weird nonetheless. Most likely the person who came up with the questions is in a cubicle in Rogers, AR just trying to come up with one more unique question before heading over to Captain D's for supper.  

I didn't answer it, but they still let me in. Too late. I found their feedback form and in the 100 characters I was alloted I manage to ask them to stop doing this. I bet they do.  

Thoughts on the banjo quest

 What am I after? What is my goal? 

Funny that it is easier for me to describe what my goals are not. 

I do not want to play in a band. 

I do not want to be on a stage. I do not want to be anyplace where people would ask me to play a particular tune. However, I would like to be good enough that I could do that if I wanted to, the confidence to turn it down because I am good enough to do what I want and have nothing to prove. 

I don't want to "jam" with others. While I did enjoy a recent jam camp, I did not leave with the sense that I had discovered something I wanted to do. Weird. 

I do not want to change the strings regularly, but I do. 

I like playing by myself. I like trying a new tune or lick and getting through it. It's sort of like running. A very solitary activity. I like the challenge, actually I love the challenge. 

I like playing for my grandchildren, who have no expectations and no real sense of what is good or bad about my playing. They just like to see me do it. 

I like talking banjo with other players, I like that a lot. 

Two hours a day, every day. Every day. 

I like the way my fingers move across the strings. I like making music. I like the theory and science behind the music. 

I would say that I love my banjo, but love seems the wrong word to express my feelings for anything non-human. I do love the way I feel when I play the banjo. Capable. Confident. Smart. A learning man. An aging man who does not waste his time in retirement. He does things. 

My Imaginary Pretty Brain Pictures

 Sometimes the words I read will slap me and yell for my attention. It will get into my head. Some startling thought or image. 

I am reading M Train, a sort of diary by the punk rock singer, Patti Smith.She writes quite well and M Train seems to me a poetic balance between between her days of hope and her days of melancholia. 

She wrote the line below and it is in me. In my imagination it was written three hundred years ago as my ancestors boarded ships and sailed west. 

"I was thinking of French time traveling children with Scottish accents breaking the hearts of the future."

Two days after writing this I dreamed that Patti Smith and I were at a party with people from my past. It was a retirement party of sorts. 

Too much introspection leaves one staring out one's arse.

 I read this synopsis of a movie, on a plane. It makes no sense, but jumped at me as I tried to grasp what it might be like to be such a being. I do not know any human being that could be the subject of this situation. Nor do you. I know no Alice. 

"While on vacation with two girlfriends, Alice rediscovers the essence of herself and gains some much-needed perspective. Slowly, she starts to fray the cords of codependency that bind her."

My essence is missing? Dang it I discovered it once before and now I must discover it again. Repeating this quest for my essence will give me some perspective. On what? While I'm at it, might as well fray some bad stuff, but certainly dont' get rid of it, just fray it. Dependency, Co-dependency, Tri- and even quad-dependency can't be all bad. Fray it but don't ditch it. If I knew what it was I might argue with that. 

I think this senence reminds me of the poems that came from my 8th grade english class, though essence and perspective had not yet been invented. We were more into vacations and girlfriends.  

Cornbread and Buttermilk and the unrolling of stuff

 When I was in my early teens or so my grandfather tried to feed me cornbread and buttermilk. Crumbled it in a tall glass and poured cold buttermilk over it.  Handed it to me, "try it, nothin better than cornbread and buttermilk." In my teens through present day, this seems a disgusting combination. I could take either separately, but not the combination. Like mustard and ice cream, Japan and Korea, Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, lobstermen and opera - cornbread and buttermilk were two of God's gifts best left separate.

Yet, it is taxing to resist the touching of a family tradition. Doing things my grandparents did, and their grandparents did, has always had appeal. Not something of power or magic or mystical source of strength. Yet a thing with purpose that I often feel I should do. The past matters, my past, my ancestors past, my grandchildren's past. When I can touch it in some way that is not make-believe I do. 

It is Holy Week. My wife is in Arkansas, chasing tornadoes and siblings and the offspring of siblings. 

I made a pot of soup beans a few days ago. They are only available to me at times such as this. Solitary times. 

I also made cornbread, of course, to go with the beans. Used corn meal and Martha White flour and all the usual components. Baked it in my great grandmother's iron skillet. I had one hot slice after another, big wedges covered with butter, or mashed into a bowl of beans. While cleaning up I stared at the cornbread leftovers and a half quart of buttermilk, sitting side by side on the kitchen counter. I heard the voice of my ancestor, Houston Blevins, my mother's father, speaking a simple truth with his mouth full, drippings on his chin, "You ever had cornbread and buttermilk? Honey, it's good! "

After 50 or so years of resistance, I caved. Like the chicago cubs in August my strength of will faded before the still clear memory of his voice. 

If there is a Cornbread Church, this was the day I saw the light. The scales fell off my eyes. The sea parted, the rain stopped, the dove flew away, the fire fell and the lady turned to salt. This is day I walked the aisle and said "sign me up, and give me some more of that mountain stuff". 

That good mountain stuff. That good mountain stuff. 

When a drug addict steals your F150

 My truck was stolen last month. Once it was recovered by the police, it was obviously the woman, or man, who stole it, had not yet mastered the art of driving an F150. It was Kevin's truck once. 

Our Lord says to pray for your enemies. I do so by keeping a list of those who have been particularly unkind to me and my family in order to pray for them. This person became #8, and was added to my list on September 5, 2022. 

As I looked through the drug-related trash left in my vehicle it was hard not to feel sympathy for the thief. Especially when you know there was a time in your life, so many years ago, when you could have gone down this path. I grew up in an age when the life of the aimless, drifting, drug user was romanticized. 

In a way I will some day understand, I was preserved from going down to such a defeat. So far.

  

Thank you Lord, for this drought

 I don't know how these things come about but our land finds itself in an extended period of very low rainfall. A few years ago when we were getting much rain, I wished for a period like this. But weather extremes always cause difficulty for someone. While I am enjoying this, others are not. 

The drought reminds me of just how little of my life is under my own control. I depend on the Lord for each drop of rain and each ray of sunshine. Not that I am unaware or need to be reminded, but I do need to be more thankful. I live in an area of abundant wetlands and lakes, land that survives an extended dry period much better than other areas. 

There are numerous little blessings. 

I get a very good look at the lawn. I have different types of grasses. They respond differently to drought. Some keep much of their green and just slow down their growth, while others quickly go to brown. 

I understand my weed crop better. Like grass, weeds respond differently. Many keep their color while slowing their growth. They stand out during droughts and are more easily removed.  

Grasses are restored along lakeshore. Things long dormant come to life. Wetlands dry up just enough that they are easier to walk through and pull out trash and junk that boaters and fisherman have tossed into my cattail fields. 

Nature acts differently in general. Some of this is just random and some is related to the drought. It doesn't really matter to me if this is drought caused, or just coincidental. Such as: Turtle population up, Japanese beetles down, currants sweeter, tomatoes tastier, chipmunks up, crappie fishing off.

Fall colors come sooner. This week I have friends visiting from SC. Red maple leaves are showing up here and there earlier than usual. 

On balance, good stuff. 

Thursday morning 5am

The wee hours of the morning I cannot set aside. Cannot stay in bed. My favorite time of day. It is a perfect time to be outside for a run and it is an excellent period to just watch the world wake up. 

Early reactions to the news overnight, a death in Europe, an earthquake in Asia, the late night appointment of a soon-to-be-forgotten official, early market trading, the weather, the west coast sports scores. The first commuters roll east to the city. The sounds of night birds ebb and day birds build as the first dim glow changes the horizon from dark black to deep grey. 

I think about the day ahead and the day past. Things set aside and left undone. Loved ones snuggled in bed. The lost contact of an old friend. The name of a new one. The illnesses of the aged. The victories of the young. The remnants of yesterday's mail are strewn across a kitchen counter. The coffee pot wakes and whispers. 

Watching, praying, running, listening. Capturing the last stillness as my little clutch of dirt and stone in Minnesota wakes up. 

Must I Vote?

It has been several years since I felt really good about the presidential election. Why is that? Must I vote?

Each four years both major candidates are probably good and decent, by current  standards. Every once in a while one breaks the mold, but generally these are people who have given their lives in public service. We should respect and honor such folk. We need more of them. 

One of my litmus tests for a President is that they be a good example to children. When my kids were little I wanted them to be able to look at Reagan, or Bush I or Clinton or Bush II as people they should be like. Not that they would agree with all their policies. More as like a father figure to the nation. A man of honor, trustworthy, loyal to America, faithful, credible, devout. 

I  still hold to this standard. I don't think it is a particularly high or unfair standard. I'd like a President that is an example to my granddaughters and grandsons on what a good man is like. One that reinforces the example of their own fathers, and not one that contradicts that example.  

Years ago I thought that in such situations it is good to vote for the least bad of two choices. That is wrong. I must not vote if I believe a candidate is bad, regardless of the degree of badness of the other fella. 

In truth, I do not know these men. Had I a day to spend alone with each of them, which one would I select to "preserve, protect and defend the Constitution" ? (Alternatively, which one would I enjoy spending a day fishing with? In my lifetime, as I think about the nominees of the major parties, the ones I would like to fish with are Eisenhower, Goldwater, Humphrey, McGovern, Carter, Bush I, Dole, Gore, Bush II, Clinton II.  They all seem like normal people that you wouldn't have to continually engage in conversation. They could just sit in the boat and not need the noise of human mouths, or whine about who forgot the sunscreen. Some years I skipped, sorry Nixon and JFK. But I digress. ) 

I will not have that opportunity so my only choice is to take them at their word. I will assume that both believe exactly what they have said and that there is no intentional falsehood in their words. 

Their political parties do not make this easy. The party I most identify with rejects the beliefs I hold most dear. The party I could inch toward, masquerades as an arm of the local, water-body-named, evangelical church. Neither party is comfortable with orthodox Catholicism. 

I have a right to vote, meaning I get to decide. Do I have responsibility to do so? Yeah I guess. Voting is a way of telling the world that I endorse our form of self government. To vote breathes a little life into it, makes it stronger. 

Do I have an obligation to vote? That is a bit stronger term. Am I obliged? Meaning if I don't vote, do I believe I have done something wrong? Do I owe my country this form of allegiance? I have pledged my allegiance many many times before you my fellow citizens. I have done so in schools and in the public square. I have done so without thinking too much about it. My motives were not always pure. I often pledged my allegiance simply to fit in, to be one of us, heck yeah i'm an American. Just like you. Hand on my heart, hat off my head, yes sir. 

So am I going to vote, just like I promised? Probably. I may not feel good about it but my feelings are largely my fault. When I was a political activist I loved voting. I mean it. Like lay awake at night on election eve, liked it. Be the first in line at the polls, liked it. Wear candidate button to the polls, liked it. That was because I knew the guys on the ballot. I didn't need their ads. I knew what they really believed and what they were like on the weekends and in their homes. That part of my life is over but I'm going to do my best to take that attitude with me to the voting booth. 

That I pledge. 

The tree down the street

 There is a large old oak tree in my neighbor's yard. It lived to be around a hundred and fifty or so years, and then died. This year. The other old oaks are just starting to shed a few leaves but this one has nary a one, and has not had all year. 

Talk is, the owners have had three arborists out to look at it. I guess in tree world that's the same as getting a second opinion. Yep, it's dead. Or as a Minnesotan would say, It's a goner, ya got that right. They must want to keep it. Though they have only owned that land and tree for about three years, perhaps they feel that such a decision best goes slowly. Or maybe it is something simpler, procrastinating, or not being able to afford the removal, or the hope that maybe next spring it will come back to life. 

Our perspectives differ. Those who live in the house look out the window and see the same huge trunk as the year before. Same same. Those who live down the street see bare branches and death. 

There is this deep thing in us that keeps things in their place. Before Minnesota was a state that tree may have been here. We long for permanence. 

The neighbor should cut down the tree. It's dangerous and is becoming an eyesore. But I understand the reluctance to cut. Just last week I got around to paying someone some money I owed them since 1978. They didn't even know I owed them. It was easy to put off. But I'm getting old. But not like that tree. 

Women's book club doing their first video chat

Overheard statements from the next room....

i don's see suzie

i see mary but you're tiny

i see you and you're big

i see you but only when you talk

i hear you but you're not moving

i see you when you're talking but don't when you're not

what are you drinking..
i have my tea
i have my water

i just lost joanne

there's lisa, yea!!!

everybody's frozen for me


And on and on it goes. 9 minutes down, 60 to go.

One good thing from this virus stuff

Perhaps when this is all over with guys will discard hugging, as quickly as they seemed to adopt it.
Or is this a Minnesota thing?

When I lived in Arkansas in the mid-80s, men shook hands, boys high-fived. Normal greetings.

When I lived in Missouri in the mid-80s to early 2000s, men shook hands. McGwire and Sosa made variations of the fist bump or fore arm bump acceptable in certain settings.

By 2003 or 4, around the time we moved to Minnesota, men were hugging. It's always been ok in times of extreme emotions, such as a wedding or a funeral. But for the past twenty years or so, men have been hugging as a normal standard greeting. You stick out a hand to shake, and some will say, "come on bud, gimme a bro hug". Yes, I'm about as likely to do that as give you some of Tinkerbelle's pixie dust, a silver chair from Narnia, or a piece of cake from Wonderland.

It's odd and very much out of character for most of us. Which explains why it never made it into the business world. Not the real one. Same with politics and the arts. Toby Keith hugs, Merle Haggard shakes hands. Kennedy and Nixon shook hands. Bernie Sanders and Jeb Bush offer hugs. Hank Paulson and Warren Buffet shake hands. Mark Zuckerberg and Jeff Bezos seem more the hugging types.

Anyway, the strong handshake from a strong hand is always welcome, whether during virus time, Christmas time, or any other time.

Post-game comments

Funeral homes have online guest books. You can leave comments about the deceased. It is a very impersonal way to connect to the family during one of their most personal and emotional experiences, the passing of a loved one. 

Today I ran across an entry I made on one of these a while back. It was for someone I had known for a few years who had passed away. Someone I did not really like, nor dislike.The type of person I would not go out of my way to see. Like a distant cousin you don't know very well.

I found myself thinking, "If I would not say these nice things to the person while they are alive, why I am writing them today?"

I am certainly giving the impression to his family that this person was someone I liked much more than I did.

Am I a bad person for doing this? Perhaps this is something we all do, which is the worst excuse there is. There are several ways to look at this.

1) I want to give the false impression to others that I am nicer than I am. That I cared for this person more than i actually did. 

2) In the passing I am reminded that in spite of our faults, we all have nice qualities. (how trite) I want the family to know that I remember nice things about their loved one. 

3) God is telling me that I was wrong to not have reflected His love toward this person. I rightfully feel guilt. I want to make amends but only with a gesture that is tiny. 

the author of the worst book i ever read is dead.............

When I was thirteen I read "catcher in the rye". I wasted at least a semester of my life trying to be as depressed as the lead character, henry something. He is survived by a dwindling army of 60ish, still-depressed,  junior high english teachers.

Wicked

Saw the play at the Orpheum Theatre and read the book. Liked the book which makes a very old point that things are not always what they seem, people are not always what they seem, but does so through the retelling of a child's tale.

Our tickets came to us via a corporate contribution to a charity event and were $500 each. The people sitting to our left got theirs on Craig's list.

The staging and costuming was interesting. I often find the creativity in professional set design extremely interesting even when I don't like a play. This one was a visual pleasure.

Not so the story as told by the playwright. The story now is about two girls, one popular, the other not. The popular one is pretty, the other is ugly. They fight over a boy. They make up. The ugly one with the good heart gets the boy. (She also doesn't know her long lost dad, but really does, but doesn't know she does). The pretty one with a pretty good heart becomes famous. The end.

Dallas

I was in dallas today. Stayed at some fancy hotel that was so memorable I have forgotten the name. I will remember it for the fact that the when guests walked the halls to their rooms the servants all stopped speaking to one another and stood to the side while the guest passed. Weird. Crescent Hotel, that's it. Rosewood Crescent. Won't be back, it gave me the creeps. However, the room service was amazing. On time and the food was great, especially the chicken soup.

Spoke at an industry event and attended a seminar.