The most sacred power on earth is being in charge of a child. No one should have memories of being a child assaulted in the shower by a trusted adult. Those kids, now adults must have nightmares of Sandusky's nefarious violation of their person-hood.
This abuse of Second Chance kids on the grounds of Penn State is unconscionable. How does Jerry Sandusky sleep at night? How could Mark McQueary and coach Paterno not pursue this with the ferocity of a junkyard dog? What the hell is wrong with Penn State's administration? Their lack of integrity is sickening.
As much as I admired Joe Paterno he has gotten his just desserts. He has no defense and neither does the (former) president of the university or any other administrators. They failed these victims and are a stain that will never be erased from Penn State. Evil has flourished because good men did nothing.
A legend has been destroyed.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Occupy Wall Street
I am a ninety-niner on the lower fringe of the middle class, I pay taxes and share the angst of the Occupy Wall Street movement. I've ranted at the unfairly-tilted playing field and the fat Wall streeters who would steal from Joe the Plumber. Ingrates! I've seethed at the United States Supreme Court which has ruled that corporations are people and therefore are unfettered in political campaign contributions. As lying attack conservative ads proliferate I've wondered 'where is the outrage?'
The conservatives got their way by a landslide, getting established members of Congress in their "gun sights", to paraphrase Sarah Palin. Demonstrations convened against federal regulation and incipient socialism with the singularity of defeating Barack Obama. His attempts to fix the economy have been rejected by right-wing extremists. Do you really think right-wing ideologues want to revive our moribund economy and put people back on their feet?
Wake up America! The GOP and the (elite) 1% want America to return to the America of the early 1900s, the golden age of wage slavery. Workers died in factories, packing houses and our local mines. Regarded as expendable, they were replaced by other desperate souls and the process repeated ad infinitum. No safety and health regulations in those years. No minimum wage, unemployment compensation, child labor laws or social safety net. If you got hurt on the job for the lack of federal safety regulations you paid for your medical treatment but more likely you applied a poultice to the injury because of your poverty. While you were disabled, you received no pay. Your position at the company was not preserved. You had no money, no job and would beg to work for $3.00 a week as you limped from your unhealed injury. Ten-year-old kids worked to aid in their family's subsistence. Senior citizens worked until the job killed them. There was no limit on the number of hours per week companies could impose on workers. The corpses of workers laid the foundations of financial dynasties.
Will obstructionist members of Congress feel the pain wrought by the trend of increasing financial disparity? Do the billionaires and the newly-personified corporations have pangs of conscience? I suspect opulence has seared their conscience. They worship mammon, not God. They are more concerned about preserving their tax loopholes. Beware! We are returning to 1900 as the obstructionism continues in congress.
Occupy!
The conservatives got their way by a landslide, getting established members of Congress in their "gun sights", to paraphrase Sarah Palin. Demonstrations convened against federal regulation and incipient socialism with the singularity of defeating Barack Obama. His attempts to fix the economy have been rejected by right-wing extremists. Do you really think right-wing ideologues want to revive our moribund economy and put people back on their feet?
Wake up America! The GOP and the (elite) 1% want America to return to the America of the early 1900s, the golden age of wage slavery. Workers died in factories, packing houses and our local mines. Regarded as expendable, they were replaced by other desperate souls and the process repeated ad infinitum. No safety and health regulations in those years. No minimum wage, unemployment compensation, child labor laws or social safety net. If you got hurt on the job for the lack of federal safety regulations you paid for your medical treatment but more likely you applied a poultice to the injury because of your poverty. While you were disabled, you received no pay. Your position at the company was not preserved. You had no money, no job and would beg to work for $3.00 a week as you limped from your unhealed injury. Ten-year-old kids worked to aid in their family's subsistence. Senior citizens worked until the job killed them. There was no limit on the number of hours per week companies could impose on workers. The corpses of workers laid the foundations of financial dynasties.
Will obstructionist members of Congress feel the pain wrought by the trend of increasing financial disparity? Do the billionaires and the newly-personified corporations have pangs of conscience? I suspect opulence has seared their conscience. They worship mammon, not God. They are more concerned about preserving their tax loopholes. Beware! We are returning to 1900 as the obstructionism continues in congress.
Occupy!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Adventures of Skittles
During the autumn my body goes into the valley of fatigue and my mind into a state of torpor. This lackadaisical state of being will right itself with the first serious signs of winter, infusing my body and being with new found vigor. Until then impromptu naps are common. On Tuesday night I was watching The Cosmos by Carl Sagan and drifted into a blissful nap punctuated by snores that woke me occasionally. My sleep was of an appreciable duration, ending when Skittles dashed to the davenport, perched upon the backrest and peered through the window into the evening blackness. Beagle radar had detected that Lois was home from work! The car was entering the garage. I went back to sleep until my beloved wife entered via the front door.
"Uh-oh! Uh-oh! What's this? What have you done, Skittles?"
I squinted at Lois and acknowledged her presence. Her exclamation must be about a torn sock or a new bite mark on one of our shoes. Lois picked up Skittles' new craft and brought it into my view.
My eyes widened at the gash in the upper region of my beloved steel-toed work boots! I've had those boots for thirty-six years. Thirty-six bloomin' years! Paid seventy dollars back then. Those boots were in the copper mine; they protected my feet as I worked in the woods with a chainsaw. They had the lug soles and higher heels; Logger's boots they were.
An amalgam of emotions washed over me from grief to anger and back to grief as I tenderly fingered the mortal wound in my boot. I flashed back to anger and lashed out at Skittles, who had no idea why Daddy was yelling. Her head bowed and her tail sagged and she looked up with woebegone eyes that melted my anger. I felt rotten for my outburst, but even Lois sympathized at this attack on my footwear.
It took about an hour before I could forgive Skittles. I thought about last fall when I was repairing the front porch trim and I had to go back to the basement and saw another piece on my table saw because the piece did not fit.. The new piece fit perfectly. Common sense told me to drill pilot holes for the nails since the piece was pine and would split easily. I decided to skip the drilling and indeed the piece split and I ripped it out of the nails and flung it and although it was inamate I pronounced it to be the offspring of a bitch.
Later on guilt settled in and I realized that I had over-reacted and spewed some unclean language. I asked God to forgive me. (God has had to forgive me many times since.)
An analogy spun in my mind. God loved me enough to forgive my profanity and he must love me at least as much as I love this mischievous beagle with pleading eyes. I bade her to light upon my recliner and sit with me. She did this tentatively. I caressed her and forgave her, then apologizing for yelling at her.I admonished her to never ruin any of our possessions again. Of course, Skittles had no idea what I was talking about. She was only basking in my tone of love and forgiveness. She licked my face, jumped out of my recliner and went about playing with her toys.
I have coined a term that we use in our household for beagle sins. I call it beaglearity.
"Uh-oh! Uh-oh! What's this? What have you done, Skittles?"
I squinted at Lois and acknowledged her presence. Her exclamation must be about a torn sock or a new bite mark on one of our shoes. Lois picked up Skittles' new craft and brought it into my view.
My eyes widened at the gash in the upper region of my beloved steel-toed work boots! I've had those boots for thirty-six years. Thirty-six bloomin' years! Paid seventy dollars back then. Those boots were in the copper mine; they protected my feet as I worked in the woods with a chainsaw. They had the lug soles and higher heels; Logger's boots they were.
An amalgam of emotions washed over me from grief to anger and back to grief as I tenderly fingered the mortal wound in my boot. I flashed back to anger and lashed out at Skittles, who had no idea why Daddy was yelling. Her head bowed and her tail sagged and she looked up with woebegone eyes that melted my anger. I felt rotten for my outburst, but even Lois sympathized at this attack on my footwear.
It took about an hour before I could forgive Skittles. I thought about last fall when I was repairing the front porch trim and I had to go back to the basement and saw another piece on my table saw because the piece did not fit.. The new piece fit perfectly. Common sense told me to drill pilot holes for the nails since the piece was pine and would split easily. I decided to skip the drilling and indeed the piece split and I ripped it out of the nails and flung it and although it was inamate I pronounced it to be the offspring of a bitch.
Later on guilt settled in and I realized that I had over-reacted and spewed some unclean language. I asked God to forgive me. (God has had to forgive me many times since.)
An analogy spun in my mind. God loved me enough to forgive my profanity and he must love me at least as much as I love this mischievous beagle with pleading eyes. I bade her to light upon my recliner and sit with me. She did this tentatively. I caressed her and forgave her, then apologizing for yelling at her.I admonished her to never ruin any of our possessions again. Of course, Skittles had no idea what I was talking about. She was only basking in my tone of love and forgiveness. She licked my face, jumped out of my recliner and went about playing with her toys.
I have coined a term that we use in our household for beagle sins. I call it beaglearity.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
A Heretic of Sorts
I am a born-again believer in Jesus Christ with a guarantee of an afterlife in heaven. I believe that Jesus has paid the penalty for my sins on the cross and no power on heaven or earth can negate this.
My beliefs are not in lock-step with other believers, however. I believe in the Big Bang theory of the dawn of the physical universe. I believe this beginning was 13.5 billion years ago. I do not believe in a six-day creation. Each day in the Genesis account could be any time interval, say 2.25 billion years. God certainly could have created the entire physical universe in six days but the scientific evidence makes this unlikely. The red-shift in the most distant objects detected in the universe indicates they are moving away from us and calculations determine that their light would have to travel 13.5 million years to the lens of the Hubbel Telescope, as defined by the velocity of light.
There is nothing blasphemous about this. It is merely the observation of science. The "Young Earth Society" , those who espouse the literal six-day creation refute this as a blasphemous assault on the tenets of conservative Christianity. This is not surprising since Roman Catholicism considered the science of Copernicus and Galileo heresy against God and the church. Galileo lived his later years under house arrest even though he recanted his theory of the heliocentric solar system which is now a basic truth of astronomy.
I stand in awe as I look to the heavens on a clear, still night, seeing myriads of stars that look small and cold - mere points of light. In reality each star is maybe a hundred times the size of our sun and may have a million times more mass. Each star is a sphere of white-hot gas, kept hot by an inferno in the bowels of that star, called nuclear fusion. I believe that God created each star with skill and craftsmanship. He created a universe full of stars. He just did not do it in six days, since He is not subject to the constraints of time.
Since I do not march with the evangelicals in lock-step in this respect I am a heretic of sorts.
My beliefs are not in lock-step with other believers, however. I believe in the Big Bang theory of the dawn of the physical universe. I believe this beginning was 13.5 billion years ago. I do not believe in a six-day creation. Each day in the Genesis account could be any time interval, say 2.25 billion years. God certainly could have created the entire physical universe in six days but the scientific evidence makes this unlikely. The red-shift in the most distant objects detected in the universe indicates they are moving away from us and calculations determine that their light would have to travel 13.5 million years to the lens of the Hubbel Telescope, as defined by the velocity of light.
There is nothing blasphemous about this. It is merely the observation of science. The "Young Earth Society" , those who espouse the literal six-day creation refute this as a blasphemous assault on the tenets of conservative Christianity. This is not surprising since Roman Catholicism considered the science of Copernicus and Galileo heresy against God and the church. Galileo lived his later years under house arrest even though he recanted his theory of the heliocentric solar system which is now a basic truth of astronomy.
I stand in awe as I look to the heavens on a clear, still night, seeing myriads of stars that look small and cold - mere points of light. In reality each star is maybe a hundred times the size of our sun and may have a million times more mass. Each star is a sphere of white-hot gas, kept hot by an inferno in the bowels of that star, called nuclear fusion. I believe that God created each star with skill and craftsmanship. He created a universe full of stars. He just did not do it in six days, since He is not subject to the constraints of time.
Since I do not march with the evangelicals in lock-step in this respect I am a heretic of sorts.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Friday Nights
Girls flirted outside the Pinball Palace,
Outside the din of Rock and Roll
And clouds of pungent cigarette smoke,
With stern-faced boys in tight white t-shirts
Tucked inside their tight blue jeans
Proclaimed their manliness.
Pedestrians crossed the hot blacktop,
Wary of the evening ruckus,
Wary of the aggregation,
They went about their business urgent,
In the heat, the heat, the inescapable, clinging heat.
The payday cavalcade went slowly,
Cars as far as eye could see
Crawled, inched past traffic cops
In the payday parade.
The boys and girls,
The luster and bluster
The hubris and the boasting
The laughter and the smoking
Soon became a throng
As some boys sat on car fenders
And their black engineer boots swung
Back and forth, back and forth.
G. robert Nordling
Friday, July 29, 2011
I'm an Observer of Life
It's dark- as dark as nightfall and the rain pelts the windows on this Saturday morning. Cafe business is booming. The business comes in waves of a dozen people or more, then there is no one coming for a while until the next wave. Many of the people are not locals, as I can see by their clothes and the vehicles they drive. No one from out of town has an old or rusted vehicle. Seems the American Dream, or what is left of it, has never touched Ironwood.
People are attending the softball tournament and I hope they like playing in the rain. There are funerals, weddings family reunions and sojourners passing from one end of Canada to the other, using the U.P. as part of their route. Ironwood has become a hub for many summer activities.
People, unaware that the weather was to cool to fifty-three degrees run through the rain, clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals. They must be chilled, to the least. Thunder shakes the gloomy overcast canopy. Puddles in the parking lot ripple with raindrops.
A young father in khaki cargo shorts holds the hand of his little daughter who holds an umbrella. The mother is at the girl's other side, deeply tanned and tattooes proliferate her limbs.
An elderly man shuffles from the street corner with an umbrella. I think he lives in the Pioneer Park Apartments a block away. I wonder if he is a widower. Is there sadness in his life manifested by his slow, melancholy shuffle? At least he is able to brave the inclement weather and eat a meal in the presence of others.
The parking lot and the street are full. But there is an anomaly. There are no pickup trucks. People with pickup trucks usually make up most of the cafe clientele on Saturday mornings.
The mini-vans and cars are inanimate yet the setting makes them forlorn in the gloom of dark weather. It is a shame that Mother Nature is so moody this morning so that the motorists have their lights on. I miss the knots of people chatting and hugging in the sunshine and I know that there will be other times of conviviality outside the cafe but the gloom is intolerable now, blinding me to that fact.
I recall that these halcyon summer days will yield to the dreary autumn and the interminable dreary winter and I will long for next summer's embrace of warmth and brightness.
People are attending the softball tournament and I hope they like playing in the rain. There are funerals, weddings family reunions and sojourners passing from one end of Canada to the other, using the U.P. as part of their route. Ironwood has become a hub for many summer activities.
People, unaware that the weather was to cool to fifty-three degrees run through the rain, clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals. They must be chilled, to the least. Thunder shakes the gloomy overcast canopy. Puddles in the parking lot ripple with raindrops.
A young father in khaki cargo shorts holds the hand of his little daughter who holds an umbrella. The mother is at the girl's other side, deeply tanned and tattooes proliferate her limbs.
An elderly man shuffles from the street corner with an umbrella. I think he lives in the Pioneer Park Apartments a block away. I wonder if he is a widower. Is there sadness in his life manifested by his slow, melancholy shuffle? At least he is able to brave the inclement weather and eat a meal in the presence of others.
The parking lot and the street are full. But there is an anomaly. There are no pickup trucks. People with pickup trucks usually make up most of the cafe clientele on Saturday mornings.
The mini-vans and cars are inanimate yet the setting makes them forlorn in the gloom of dark weather. It is a shame that Mother Nature is so moody this morning so that the motorists have their lights on. I miss the knots of people chatting and hugging in the sunshine and I know that there will be other times of conviviality outside the cafe but the gloom is intolerable now, blinding me to that fact.
I recall that these halcyon summer days will yield to the dreary autumn and the interminable dreary winter and I will long for next summer's embrace of warmth and brightness.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Like the Name of a Kind of Candy
Lois and I went about our daily tasks and routines in the wake of the passing of Cookie and Corky. Still, we would unwittingly expect them to be lying in their favorite spots and those voids are still sore spots. Cookie, half poodle and half husky (a "hoodle") had her "nappy bed" in front of the TV and Corky, had her spot on the floor next to Lois' recliner. In the evening Cookie would sit in front of me, telling me in dog-speak that she had eaten her supper and qualified for treats. Corky, a Bishon Frise had the apex of her day in Mumsie's lap, often napping.
We shuffled through life in grief that no one could share, save fellow dog lovers who have lost their beloved pets. It was not an incapacitating grief, but the kind of grief that we could forget in busy moments at work or when dealing with a recalcitrant computer or suffering the irritating antics of certain neighbors riding noisy ATVs at breakneck speed through the alley and raising great clouds of dust.
The grief caught up with us at the horizon of sleep and the sleep would be delayed by reverie. Cookie ran like a deer when she was a yearling. We played with a frisby or with tennis balls and Cookie had greater acceleration than the ATVs. We often played behind the Little League field and she was so eager to trundle up to the field and play. This tradition ended when a Rottweiler set upon her, seeming from nowhere and it would have killed Cookie if I had not driven the attacker off by throwing rocks.
Cookie changed after her own version of 911 and would not venture out of sight of the house unless accompanied by Both Lois and me. When she did go with us she was on Red Alert, apprensive and sometimes she wanted to double back to the safety of home. This worsened with age.
During pre-sleep reverie I recalled Cookie's and Corky's pictures pop up as screen savers on the computer; views of Christmas and camping and sleeping in the cool grass alongside the front steps on torrid days. Sometimes tears seeped out.
Each time I came down the stairs for breakfast I expected the dogs to be asleep, Corky in her kitchen kennel and Cookie in front of the front door. No dogs to feed in the morning, no dogs to take outside at bedtime. No one to share popcorn with during movie time.
Their recent euthanasia weighed on our minds as we were with each dog at her final moment. We both convulsed in tears, we loved our dogs so much. I shared this with our dear friend Lloyd, of Hole in the Night (blog) fame and sought out his sage advice.
"Get another dog," he said. "You two have too much love to keep it bottled up with grief." We eventually heeded Lloyd's advice and ventured out to HOPE, the local animal shelter. The visit was intense with a canine cacophony that drowned afforts at conversation. The girl took us on a tour of the cages and just about all of the dogs were big and some were ornery. I guest I'd be ornery too if someone abandoned me and I ended up like a kid in a Dickens novel.
All, except two of the dogs were large and some were either nervous and shy or angry and combative, giving off threatening body language and hostile barks. Some of these dogs were found in K-Mart or Wal-Mart parking lots. Some were abandoned because they had physical defects or medical issues and the owner probably thought it would cost too much to keep the dog. I can't fathom that.
The facility reflected fastidious housekeeping and the young lady accompanying us was knowledgeable and transparent as to the condition of each dog. She was professional in her conduct as well as helpful as to the proper fit for our household.
I thought it strange that most of the orphans were large breeds and only a fuzzy powderpuff and a sad-faced beagle remained. The beagle wagged her white-tipped tail when I looked at her.
I have been a skeptic toward intuitive knowledge in general and favoring the empirical approach and the logical way of interpreting data and the data was right there in front of us and yet I had no emperical approach, no logic for favoring the beagle. I had been sandbagged by beagalis connivis and I was hooked.
"This one is a good fit. She'll be a loving companion and she'll ease our grief but she's not Cookie or Corky."
The attendant brought a leash and we took out the beagle for a spin. She was thrilled at getting out of the cage and she pulled Lois with the force of a diesel pickup truck. I think that she was trying to impress us with her vitality and strength. We walked around the industrial park with the beagle in control. The weather was sunny and cheerful, a break in a string of 9 dark and rainy days. I imagined the beagle as our dog, taking long walks, of play times. Lois was probably thinking more on the practical side; no, I believe this was more an emotional issue than a practical one.
The beagle ran with her nose precariously close to the ground and with reckless abandon. We were both used to our frail girls and now we had this "kid", this upstart so full of energy that she could not contain herself. the beagle had taken us for the industrial park tour and we felt it was appropriate to return her and do the paperwork and take her home. but it didn't turn out that way.
I waited for Lois to indicate that we should take the beagle but the dog was returned to her cage and we were returning to the car. My spirits fell and so, I imagined that the beagle was disappointed as well.
We left the beagle in the cage and headed for the car. I realized, when I had gotten into the car that Lois was crying. The grief was still raw for Lois. I would not discuss the issue.
I thought of the beagle often that evening, how hard she tried to be adopted. She probably wanted a family, a new home and yet she was apprehensive, one would think. Somehow she ended up at this shelter, a doggie orphanage. there was no family to spoil her or provide for her emotional health, only food, veterinary care and shelter.
I take long walks, for medical benefit and to clear my mind. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I talk to God. I got the thought in my head, "Don't press the matter. Let Lois bring it up. Lois is struggling to let go of the old girls. Be gentle about this matter. If Lois doesn't want to take the beagle don't fight it."
I returned to our too quiet home and we went about the regular business of the evening. I went to work at 11 p.m. and got lost in my work. I came home after Lois had gone to work and I slept my usual sleep until mid-afternoon. The downstairs had furniture and the smell of fresh coffee and I knew it was Friday but there was the emptiness, the vacancies where our dogs would be. I wondered how Lois felt about the matter of the beagle. If she didn't want to take the dog, I would be disappointed but I would agree. We would have to be of the same mind.
I took my coffee upstairs and attended to my ailing laptop.It's frustrating when you can't remedy the situation. I tried a virus scan but the computer would not run it. I had re-started it and was waiting for it to revive when I heard Lois come home. I went downstairs to greet her, mindful that I shouldn't press the beagle matter.
"Hello," I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster. Lois echoed the hello.
"Ugh!" She said as she put down her purse and some things she had bought after work.
"That kind of day?"
"I'll tell you all about it later but we'd better get going if we're going to take home the beagle. Get your shoes on! What are you waiting for? You're the poke of McLeod Avenue just like your mother said."
The day was dark and cold but it felt like Christmas morning. I forgot all about my laptop.
We took the beagle home that day and we were told of the Prednisone we would have to give her for her eczema. That's the same disease I've had all my life so I could sympathize. We took her on a walk in the rain and then we took her to the front door. The Beagle paused warily. We gave her somforting assurances and she went in. She nervously checked out the house, probably because of the canine signatures that were in the house. She was tentative but she would adjust and we would be patient with her.
The name Skittles was on her collar, like the name of a candy.
We shuffled through life in grief that no one could share, save fellow dog lovers who have lost their beloved pets. It was not an incapacitating grief, but the kind of grief that we could forget in busy moments at work or when dealing with a recalcitrant computer or suffering the irritating antics of certain neighbors riding noisy ATVs at breakneck speed through the alley and raising great clouds of dust.
The grief caught up with us at the horizon of sleep and the sleep would be delayed by reverie. Cookie ran like a deer when she was a yearling. We played with a frisby or with tennis balls and Cookie had greater acceleration than the ATVs. We often played behind the Little League field and she was so eager to trundle up to the field and play. This tradition ended when a Rottweiler set upon her, seeming from nowhere and it would have killed Cookie if I had not driven the attacker off by throwing rocks.
Cookie changed after her own version of 911 and would not venture out of sight of the house unless accompanied by Both Lois and me. When she did go with us she was on Red Alert, apprensive and sometimes she wanted to double back to the safety of home. This worsened with age.
During pre-sleep reverie I recalled Cookie's and Corky's pictures pop up as screen savers on the computer; views of Christmas and camping and sleeping in the cool grass alongside the front steps on torrid days. Sometimes tears seeped out.
Each time I came down the stairs for breakfast I expected the dogs to be asleep, Corky in her kitchen kennel and Cookie in front of the front door. No dogs to feed in the morning, no dogs to take outside at bedtime. No one to share popcorn with during movie time.
Their recent euthanasia weighed on our minds as we were with each dog at her final moment. We both convulsed in tears, we loved our dogs so much. I shared this with our dear friend Lloyd, of Hole in the Night (blog) fame and sought out his sage advice.
"Get another dog," he said. "You two have too much love to keep it bottled up with grief." We eventually heeded Lloyd's advice and ventured out to HOPE, the local animal shelter. The visit was intense with a canine cacophony that drowned afforts at conversation. The girl took us on a tour of the cages and just about all of the dogs were big and some were ornery. I guest I'd be ornery too if someone abandoned me and I ended up like a kid in a Dickens novel.
All, except two of the dogs were large and some were either nervous and shy or angry and combative, giving off threatening body language and hostile barks. Some of these dogs were found in K-Mart or Wal-Mart parking lots. Some were abandoned because they had physical defects or medical issues and the owner probably thought it would cost too much to keep the dog. I can't fathom that.
The facility reflected fastidious housekeeping and the young lady accompanying us was knowledgeable and transparent as to the condition of each dog. She was professional in her conduct as well as helpful as to the proper fit for our household.
I thought it strange that most of the orphans were large breeds and only a fuzzy powderpuff and a sad-faced beagle remained. The beagle wagged her white-tipped tail when I looked at her.
I have been a skeptic toward intuitive knowledge in general and favoring the empirical approach and the logical way of interpreting data and the data was right there in front of us and yet I had no emperical approach, no logic for favoring the beagle. I had been sandbagged by beagalis connivis and I was hooked.
"This one is a good fit. She'll be a loving companion and she'll ease our grief but she's not Cookie or Corky."
The attendant brought a leash and we took out the beagle for a spin. She was thrilled at getting out of the cage and she pulled Lois with the force of a diesel pickup truck. I think that she was trying to impress us with her vitality and strength. We walked around the industrial park with the beagle in control. The weather was sunny and cheerful, a break in a string of 9 dark and rainy days. I imagined the beagle as our dog, taking long walks, of play times. Lois was probably thinking more on the practical side; no, I believe this was more an emotional issue than a practical one.
The beagle ran with her nose precariously close to the ground and with reckless abandon. We were both used to our frail girls and now we had this "kid", this upstart so full of energy that she could not contain herself. the beagle had taken us for the industrial park tour and we felt it was appropriate to return her and do the paperwork and take her home. but it didn't turn out that way.
I waited for Lois to indicate that we should take the beagle but the dog was returned to her cage and we were returning to the car. My spirits fell and so, I imagined that the beagle was disappointed as well.
We left the beagle in the cage and headed for the car. I realized, when I had gotten into the car that Lois was crying. The grief was still raw for Lois. I would not discuss the issue.
I thought of the beagle often that evening, how hard she tried to be adopted. She probably wanted a family, a new home and yet she was apprehensive, one would think. Somehow she ended up at this shelter, a doggie orphanage. there was no family to spoil her or provide for her emotional health, only food, veterinary care and shelter.
I take long walks, for medical benefit and to clear my mind. Sometimes I listen to music, sometimes I talk to God. I got the thought in my head, "Don't press the matter. Let Lois bring it up. Lois is struggling to let go of the old girls. Be gentle about this matter. If Lois doesn't want to take the beagle don't fight it."
I returned to our too quiet home and we went about the regular business of the evening. I went to work at 11 p.m. and got lost in my work. I came home after Lois had gone to work and I slept my usual sleep until mid-afternoon. The downstairs had furniture and the smell of fresh coffee and I knew it was Friday but there was the emptiness, the vacancies where our dogs would be. I wondered how Lois felt about the matter of the beagle. If she didn't want to take the dog, I would be disappointed but I would agree. We would have to be of the same mind.
I took my coffee upstairs and attended to my ailing laptop.It's frustrating when you can't remedy the situation. I tried a virus scan but the computer would not run it. I had re-started it and was waiting for it to revive when I heard Lois come home. I went downstairs to greet her, mindful that I shouldn't press the beagle matter.
"Hello," I said with as much cheeriness as I could muster. Lois echoed the hello.
"Ugh!" She said as she put down her purse and some things she had bought after work.
"That kind of day?"
"I'll tell you all about it later but we'd better get going if we're going to take home the beagle. Get your shoes on! What are you waiting for? You're the poke of McLeod Avenue just like your mother said."
The day was dark and cold but it felt like Christmas morning. I forgot all about my laptop.
We took the beagle home that day and we were told of the Prednisone we would have to give her for her eczema. That's the same disease I've had all my life so I could sympathize. We took her on a walk in the rain and then we took her to the front door. The Beagle paused warily. We gave her somforting assurances and she went in. She nervously checked out the house, probably because of the canine signatures that were in the house. She was tentative but she would adjust and we would be patient with her.
The name Skittles was on her collar, like the name of a candy.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Life Goes On
I have said goodbye to Mom and Dad, to friends, family and I have helped bear the caskets of Bill and Louise, my second parents. I was shocked at the notifacation of Dad's death. Dad's death was particularly hard since I feared his death since I was a small child. I was led, by Mom to believe that Dad lived on the edge of death because of his previous coronaries when I was less than two. I listened for breath sounds at the door of my parents, bedroom at night, fearing his sudden passing. These vigils trumped my fear of the dark. When Dad died it left me alone and it hit me hard.
So the passing of our two elderly dogs last month should be relatively easy, one would think, but each of their deaths affected Lois and me profoundly.
Our niece, Missy, sent me an e-card after Corky's going home and I couldn't open it for a week. I did so today and the tears gushed uncontrollably. I thought it wouldn't be as bad as if I would have viewed the card last week and I was ambushed. The grief is still there, a grief that only dog-lovers can understand.
You have to live with a pet and their uniqueness and experience their unconditional love to understand this.
So the passing of our two elderly dogs last month should be relatively easy, one would think, but each of their deaths affected Lois and me profoundly.
Our niece, Missy, sent me an e-card after Corky's going home and I couldn't open it for a week. I did so today and the tears gushed uncontrollably. I thought it wouldn't be as bad as if I would have viewed the card last week and I was ambushed. The grief is still there, a grief that only dog-lovers can understand.
You have to live with a pet and their uniqueness and experience their unconditional love to understand this.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Death
I have grieved the loss of loved ones and of pets and the benefit of experience doesn't soften loss. We said goodbye to our beloved Cookie today. She didn't understand why she was up on the table and she was sorely afraid, trembling. Lois and I were with her at the vet clinic when the doctor pushed the pentathol syringe that ended her pain. We hugged her lifeless body and cried. We hugged each other and cried. Cookie's pain was over and I believe that there is a heavenly reward for these faithful critters who love us unconditionally. No preacher can dissuade me, even if he quotes chapter and verse.
Cookie's life had declined over the last few years. She still ate and still was very much a part of us, but she needed for us to support her hindquarters with an sling so she wouldn't fall. I built a ramp for her on the front porch. Things went on as usual for a few years then the decline steepened. Cookie's quality of life was gone.
We grieved two of Cookie's predecessors, Teddy and Heidi, our first dog. We will probably do it again soon as our little bichon, Corky, well into old age is at the end of her dear little life.. Her faculties are failing and there are times that only Lois' lap can fix.
We'll probably grieve another dog's passing before we pass away and it won't be any easier.
Cookie's life had declined over the last few years. She still ate and still was very much a part of us, but she needed for us to support her hindquarters with an sling so she wouldn't fall. I built a ramp for her on the front porch. Things went on as usual for a few years then the decline steepened. Cookie's quality of life was gone.
We grieved two of Cookie's predecessors, Teddy and Heidi, our first dog. We will probably do it again soon as our little bichon, Corky, well into old age is at the end of her dear little life.. Her faculties are failing and there are times that only Lois' lap can fix.
We'll probably grieve another dog's passing before we pass away and it won't be any easier.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Is a real Christian always a conservative?
Decades ago I quit listening to Christian radio because of the right-wing political stance adopted by seemingly all stations. By accident I found a station that breaks out of the ranks of conservative craziness. My wife Lois has KLOVE preset and always on in the car. She usually drives the car and I take the truck.
I usually change the station right away when I drive the Taurus. I surf for a station that is playing classic rock. I know that rock is anathema to most Christians but I like what I like, be it the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, etc. I do not apologize for my tastes in music, which is eclectic, and personal. Anyway I was about to change the station when I heard the voice of a young woman who had called in, her voice quavering. She shared about abuses suffered at the hands of her mother. Mom had destroyed her self-confidence and self-worth, while unfavorably comparing her to her peers.
This struck a chord with me. I felt the young woman's pain, because I have been there. I suffered put-downs, mocking, unfavorable comparisons with my peers, all from my mother. I was transported to those humiliating times and tears welled in my eyes. I had to pull over in a parking lot off the highway to listen to the rest of the call.
The moderator responded in a soft, loving voice and told her that Jesus loved her and she was indeed not worthless. There was no sermonizing, no Scripture references, no condemnation, just compassion-genuine compassion.
Oh, to see that compassion in the rest of the (Christian) world, rather than the right-wing politics, the hatred of those "who are not like us," the smack-down preaching, the intolerance.
I usually change the station right away when I drive the Taurus. I surf for a station that is playing classic rock. I know that rock is anathema to most Christians but I like what I like, be it the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, etc. I do not apologize for my tastes in music, which is eclectic, and personal. Anyway I was about to change the station when I heard the voice of a young woman who had called in, her voice quavering. She shared about abuses suffered at the hands of her mother. Mom had destroyed her self-confidence and self-worth, while unfavorably comparing her to her peers.
This struck a chord with me. I felt the young woman's pain, because I have been there. I suffered put-downs, mocking, unfavorable comparisons with my peers, all from my mother. I was transported to those humiliating times and tears welled in my eyes. I had to pull over in a parking lot off the highway to listen to the rest of the call.
The moderator responded in a soft, loving voice and told her that Jesus loved her and she was indeed not worthless. There was no sermonizing, no Scripture references, no condemnation, just compassion-genuine compassion.
Oh, to see that compassion in the rest of the (Christian) world, rather than the right-wing politics, the hatred of those "who are not like us," the smack-down preaching, the intolerance.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Love That Endures
From my office I view the world through a window above the porch. The sunshine is golden now and the shadows are long. It is not really cold but the savage westerly wind makes it so. The snowbanks are brown from the melting and record-setting warmth of the last few days. The predominant color is a dirty brown instead of the brilliant whiteness that accompanied the below-zero brutality before the thaw.
The same black Buick pulls up to the cafe and the elderly couple emerges in arthritic fashion as they have for years. They eat at the cafe at four o'clock each day. The man wears a black hat with a brim. It is made of some kind of fur. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out his cane, achingly slow. The collar of his black quilted coat is up and as he shuts the rear door his wife emerges from around the back of the car, shuffling in tiny steps. She joins her man and takes hold of his arm and they shuffle, leaning against the wind, to the cafe door.
The same black Buick pulls up to the cafe and the elderly couple emerges in arthritic fashion as they have for years. They eat at the cafe at four o'clock each day. The man wears a black hat with a brim. It is made of some kind of fur. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out his cane, achingly slow. The collar of his black quilted coat is up and as he shuts the rear door his wife emerges from around the back of the car, shuffling in tiny steps. She joins her man and takes hold of his arm and they shuffle, leaning against the wind, to the cafe door.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Singularity
I'm talking about a technological singularity not the black-hole singularity of astronomy. The technological singularity is defined as the moment when technological change becomes so rapid and profound, it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history. Is Raymond Kurzweil (Time,, Feb., 2011) correct in predicting that computer intelligence will surpass that of humans, thus ending the age of human dominion as we know it!
The curve of computer power vs.time has gone from a linear to an exponential acceleration. Kursweil predicts that by 2045 the exponential increase in computer power along with reduction in costs to produce that power will create an intelligence approximately a billion times that of the sum of all human intelligence. In just 35 years!
I still have trouble wrapping my brain around this. Computers will dominate the human race. Would that mean the end of war and greed, lust and violence? Would humans be completely subservient to a superior intelligence?
And yet, the artificial intelligence doesn't have a soul, the seat of passion and love and evil unless these factors are scanned into an artificial consciousness by an altruistic or evil human. Without passions, selfishness or other evils, without altruism, would artificial intelligence remain a benign entity with the potential to be used for good or evil?
There is science predicting the extension of human life for indefinite periods. In these instances, those who have the means to take advantage of such a technology will exercise control over the world. Longevity will only be a means to an end, world domination through the use of artificial intelligence.
The human race watches TV, shops at the supermarket, drives cars, eats, drinks and engages in all sorts of mundane affairs completely unawares that the burgeoning technology will affect them in an unheard of and profound way. After writing this I will become enmeshed with the cares and chores of the day and forget about this, at least temporarily. The pace of life is so frenetic and intense that I cannot help but to do so.
The curve of computer power vs.time has gone from a linear to an exponential acceleration. Kursweil predicts that by 2045 the exponential increase in computer power along with reduction in costs to produce that power will create an intelligence approximately a billion times that of the sum of all human intelligence. In just 35 years!
I still have trouble wrapping my brain around this. Computers will dominate the human race. Would that mean the end of war and greed, lust and violence? Would humans be completely subservient to a superior intelligence?
And yet, the artificial intelligence doesn't have a soul, the seat of passion and love and evil unless these factors are scanned into an artificial consciousness by an altruistic or evil human. Without passions, selfishness or other evils, without altruism, would artificial intelligence remain a benign entity with the potential to be used for good or evil?
There is science predicting the extension of human life for indefinite periods. In these instances, those who have the means to take advantage of such a technology will exercise control over the world. Longevity will only be a means to an end, world domination through the use of artificial intelligence.
The human race watches TV, shops at the supermarket, drives cars, eats, drinks and engages in all sorts of mundane affairs completely unawares that the burgeoning technology will affect them in an unheard of and profound way. After writing this I will become enmeshed with the cares and chores of the day and forget about this, at least temporarily. The pace of life is so frenetic and intense that I cannot help but to do so.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
What Really Matters?
I love to ponder the mysteries of the universe and how the earth began. I love to digest principles in calculus that I have forgotten. The writings of Steinbeck are currently captivating to me. These things I pursue to keep my aging brain from turning to mush.
Now a friend who has a blog asked how I would like to be remembered- for what I've done and mastered or as Fanny Crosby, writer of many hymns. Her grave marker said, "I have done what I could," or words to that affect. What humility!
I also read that people won't remember others for their expertise in sports or what kind of car they drove or the house they lived in. People remember a smile, an encouraging word; they remember a forgiving attitude and a giving attitude, or the opposite of the aforementioned.
Compassion, kindness and humility are the things that matter.
Now a friend who has a blog asked how I would like to be remembered- for what I've done and mastered or as Fanny Crosby, writer of many hymns. Her grave marker said, "I have done what I could," or words to that affect. What humility!
I also read that people won't remember others for their expertise in sports or what kind of car they drove or the house they lived in. People remember a smile, an encouraging word; they remember a forgiving attitude and a giving attitude, or the opposite of the aforementioned.
Compassion, kindness and humility are the things that matter.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Mechanics of the Metaphysical
Mysteries take a lot of my processor time, that is the processor inside my skull. What was the molecular or electrochemical process that began life? I believe the Creator actuated the process but I am curious about the mechanics, the dynamics. What is the nature of the soul? Does it exist in the brain?I imagine an ethereal, ghostly entity that lives after we shed our earthly mantle; it is the essence of our being, evil and good. (We all are a mixture of evil and good.)
What changes occur in the brain to forge our personalities? Why am I a phlegmatic/melancholy mixture with a penchant for depression and night terrors while my wife is of a sanguine nature. Another mystery: how does she put up with me?
I was mildly shocked to hear a friend say that he did not care for music. I thought that everyone loved some kind of music. Grieg's Piano Concerto #1 and symphonies by Sibelius and Bach and Mozart play in my head as well as jazz by Miles Davis and John Coltrane. Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, the Beattles, Fleetwood Mac and many other songs spontaneously (but not simultaneously) play. At this moment the music is from my satellite radio subscription playing through my computer's sound system. (Sullivan's overture ot the Mikado). Why is music an integral part of my life? (While talking to someone Mozart may be playing in my head.)
While my brain swirls with metaphysical and physical phenomenon and music I forget where I laid my truck keys or I panic because my wallet is not to be found. I forget medical appointments unless reminded by the office of the doctor or dentist. Did I take my pill or did I not? Where is that damned W-2? I can't remember receiving it this year.
It's almost 11 a.m. and I'll be late for my meeting!
See ya!
Monday, January 31, 2011
We do what we've got to do
I perched atop the front porch roof on Sunday afternoon to remove tons of dense, wind-packed snow. I worked rapidly to keep warm in the chilling north wind that was bringing more snow. The porch is thirty feet long and the depth of the snow was, give or take, three feet. I am reluctant to start the task but the bedroom windows were becoming obscured by the snow, telling me the porch carried a dangerous weight.
Structures have collapsed in Ironwood over the years, including a portion of the silk-screen business next door, a beer warehouse, numerous residences, garages and other businesses including a partial collapse of my dentist's roof during business hours. My appointment was not for that day.
I have (proactively) replaced the underlying structure of the porch roof and floor and installed new roofing and decking. Even an insurance check would not atone for the back-breaking work that went into renovation and repairs. It would not restore the circa 1900 detail of carpentry.
As I pushed snow off the roof I was comforted in my wife's efforts below. She was shoveling the porch floor beneath the roof on which I stood. She impressed me as a Proverbs 31 woman and discouraged my taking of any long breaks inside the house.
The cafe across the street was open and people in this small town are quite used to people standing on their roofs and removing the snow. Most diners were not clad heavily, wearing only a light jacket with the zipper halfway open but they only had to get into their cars which they remotely started during their dessert course. It didn't bother me that I wore a blizzard parka with a heavy hooded sweatshirt underneath. Elk skin choppers with woolen mittens inside held the shovel. My Sorel boots with wool felt liners were deep inside the snow and I felt chilled, as I often do, since qualifying as a senior citizen.
The job was completed before dusk and we retired to the comfort of our wood heat to watch a movie. We each slept through parts of it Seems to me that the same job did not tire me to this extent 10 years ago. I recall doing the job in an hour after Super Bowl III. The N.Y. Jets beat the heavily favored Baltimore Colts. Broadway Joe over Johnny Unitas.
With Super Bowl XLV rapidly approaching I take Alleve after cleaning off the roof instead of going out for a few beers with buddies.
I still have the garage roof to do. I'm hoping for a melt-down to take care of it.
Structures have collapsed in Ironwood over the years, including a portion of the silk-screen business next door, a beer warehouse, numerous residences, garages and other businesses including a partial collapse of my dentist's roof during business hours. My appointment was not for that day.
I have (proactively) replaced the underlying structure of the porch roof and floor and installed new roofing and decking. Even an insurance check would not atone for the back-breaking work that went into renovation and repairs. It would not restore the circa 1900 detail of carpentry.
As I pushed snow off the roof I was comforted in my wife's efforts below. She was shoveling the porch floor beneath the roof on which I stood. She impressed me as a Proverbs 31 woman and discouraged my taking of any long breaks inside the house.
The cafe across the street was open and people in this small town are quite used to people standing on their roofs and removing the snow. Most diners were not clad heavily, wearing only a light jacket with the zipper halfway open but they only had to get into their cars which they remotely started during their dessert course. It didn't bother me that I wore a blizzard parka with a heavy hooded sweatshirt underneath. Elk skin choppers with woolen mittens inside held the shovel. My Sorel boots with wool felt liners were deep inside the snow and I felt chilled, as I often do, since qualifying as a senior citizen.
The job was completed before dusk and we retired to the comfort of our wood heat to watch a movie. We each slept through parts of it Seems to me that the same job did not tire me to this extent 10 years ago. I recall doing the job in an hour after Super Bowl III. The N.Y. Jets beat the heavily favored Baltimore Colts. Broadway Joe over Johnny Unitas.
With Super Bowl XLV rapidly approaching I take Alleve after cleaning off the roof instead of going out for a few beers with buddies.
I still have the garage roof to do. I'm hoping for a melt-down to take care of it.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Things Happen - Google Docs
Things Happen - Google Docs
Happenstance
Sometimes I ride a bumpy road,
On which I pull a heavy load.
I take it not in graceful stride,
For me it is the road of strife.
Is this God’s wrath made known
In cogs and gears and gaskets blown,
Failures in the stuff I own?
God’s revenge for sins I’ve sown?
What of the laws of science and nature,
Which God hath put in place,
To rule machines and beings and beasts,
Regardless of His grace?
I think it’s natural to worry,
To sit and rant the day away.
The heart within my breast in fury,
As trouble seems to have its way
_________G. Robert Nordling
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
A Small-Town Street
Somewhere in the universe a tiny blue speck exists. Earth is relatively microscopic, yet it teems with a microcosm of life consisting of plants, animals, people, music, wars, commerce, crime, love, hatred, mountains, seas and small-town streets.
I have the pleasure of living on a small-town street. No sophistication here, just traffic, houses and a cafe across the street. My wife, Lois and I can view Fourth of July fireworks from our front porch. Sometimes a car toots its horn and we don't know who the driver is. People remark, "I love your picket fence," or "your lawn is so lush," and we wonder how they know where we live.
We are mature people in terms of years therefore I can remember Hudsons and Packards that parked in front of hour house as they had coffee across the street. I recall the smell of creosote on the telephone poles that the Michigan Bell utility trucks had. As a teen I played the pinball machines before they were removed in a city-wide raid and smashed to bits by sledge hammers in Carrie Nation fashion. The cafe has had seven different owners since I can recall and that's 58 years of recollection.
The Assembly Of God church was next door and years later became a real estate agency. The gospel of Christ replaced by commerce! Half a block to the west the Methodist Church stands with its ramparts of stone defying the sin of the world. The parsonage gave way to a parking lot, practical, I suppose but I miss seeing the pastor and his family coming and going.
Much of who I am comes from this small-town street.
I have the pleasure of living on a small-town street. No sophistication here, just traffic, houses and a cafe across the street. My wife, Lois and I can view Fourth of July fireworks from our front porch. Sometimes a car toots its horn and we don't know who the driver is. People remark, "I love your picket fence," or "your lawn is so lush," and we wonder how they know where we live.
We are mature people in terms of years therefore I can remember Hudsons and Packards that parked in front of hour house as they had coffee across the street. I recall the smell of creosote on the telephone poles that the Michigan Bell utility trucks had. As a teen I played the pinball machines before they were removed in a city-wide raid and smashed to bits by sledge hammers in Carrie Nation fashion. The cafe has had seven different owners since I can recall and that's 58 years of recollection.
The Assembly Of God church was next door and years later became a real estate agency. The gospel of Christ replaced by commerce! Half a block to the west the Methodist Church stands with its ramparts of stone defying the sin of the world. The parsonage gave way to a parking lot, practical, I suppose but I miss seeing the pastor and his family coming and going.
Much of who I am comes from this small-town street.
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