Maybe it’s a Scandinavian thing. Or generational. But when I was a kid, I remember well my parents saying usually on weekends – often a Sunday after Church – “let’s go see the Lynchs” or “Roland and Elaine” or “let’s stop over at Lor and Bill’s.” And we would get in the car, drive for half an hour and literally drop in on friends or relatives unannounced. Often around dinner time. The hosts would hurriedly throw some chicken breasts or burgers on the grill. My parents and their friends would talk. Smile. I would be bored out of my gourd. And we’d drive home.
On those days we didn’t drive off to see someone, I’d be out playing baseball and see a car pull into our driveway and mentally go “uh oh.” And know that my Sunday afternoon was shot.
If it was my cousin Jack, I knew I’d be able to play cowboys and Indians while sitting in a parked car with Jack at the wheel making sounds like a motorboat. My cousin Larry could always be counted on to play with soldiers. But today - no one just “drops in” on anyone. Unless it is a dire emergency. Today, plans are made weeks. Months. In advance. “Wanna have dinner on Friday?” “Oh mercy no – we can make it on a Tuesday in about eight weeks.” Was that a simpler time sixty years ago? You betcha. Maybe I should restart the “drop in” trend. Gotta start somewhere. All right. Listen up. We’ll be over on Sunday. I like my burgers medium well. With sharp cheddar. Onion roll. Grey Poupon. And Caymus cabernet . . . .
For me, one of the most poignant song lyrics comes from Pink Floyd’s classic album “The Dark Side of the Moon.” Pink Floyd’s “Time” offers the quintessential lament over the irretrievable passage of time:
“Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way. . . .
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you. No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.”
I think about this — and Pink Floyd’s subtle message. And each day, I wonder just what I will accomplish. I’m sure we all do. Most of us feel we are here for a reason. We want to make an impact. We want to live up to potential. We want to have value. Make a contribution.
As inspiration, I like the challenge that comes from one of Goethe’s couplets (which has hung for years in my office): “Whatever you can do, or dream you can. . . . . begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.”
In my post of January 9, 2014, I reported that my granddaughter’s favorite book is an art book – Mary Cassatt – published by Taj Book (Cary, NC). Well, Ms. Cassatt’s paintings of babies and mommies continue to be a hit but today, but there is so – so – much more.
Eve continues to devour books just like she does Mac ‘N Cheese, blueberries or flavored Yogis. She is now 2 years 9 months old and she already has a collection of books that might rival the Library of Congress. And she reads them. She has favorites of course. But new books always garner attention whatever the topic. “Look Eve – here’s a picture book on the various species of grass seed” – and she will give it a look. And listen. “Look at the fescue!” I’m not sure that I could be considered a “hoarder.” Yet. But we have a supply of books in our downstairs den that have taken on a life of their own. New books arrive regularly. English and Spanish. On great and glorious topics. Heck. When I was two years old, all I had was a Donald Duck comic book and Rosalinda the Donkey (which I well remember). Which probably tells you something. . . . . .
Last Sunday, Donna and I were at Church with Lauren and Trent. I was one of two ushers for the service. The service was winding up. I was outside the doors when in walks a woman who is sobbing. Barely able to speak. As might be expected, I asked “what’s wrong.”
The woman identifies herself as “Deborah ___” – a name I recognize vaguely. She says her daughter and granddaughter were killed early that morning in a car crash – drunk driver – near Madison, Wisconsin. They were coming down to attend church. She asked if she could leave a message for our priest. We go into an anteroom, the other usher joins us and I go into the sanctuary to advise the priest of what’s going on (who is now coming down the aisle having finished the service). The priest exits, greets the woman, listens and the woman cries into his vestments. She says she’s on her way to Madison and needs a few bucks. He gives her some $$$ and so do I. And the woman departs. And then it dawns on us. . . . .
Turns out she is not a member of the Church (though frankly in a legitimate “situation” that might not make a difference). And no one knows her. We Googled the names and alleged incident. And found nothing. The reason I recognize the name “Deborah ____” is that Donna has a friend of that name. Scammed. . . . .
While this has never happened before (and probably will not again), we have discussed a possible protocol for dealing with such situations: are you a member?; know anyone here?; photo ID?; wait right here while we get someone to help. Not a good feeling having been “taken” like that.
So this guy sticks his head into a barbershop and asks “how long before I can get a haircut?”
The barber looked around the shop full of customers and says “about two hours.” The guy left.
A few days later, the same guy stuck his head in the door and asked “how long before I can get a haircut?” The barber looked around the shop and said “about three hours.” The guy left.
A week later, the same guy stuck his head in the shop and asked “how long before I can get a haircut?” The barber looked around the shop and said “about an hour and a half.” The guy left.
The barber turned to his friend and said “hey, Bob, do me a favor, follow that guy and see where he goes. He keeps asking how long he has to wait for a haircut but he never comes back.”
A little while later, Bob returned to the shop laughing hysterically. The barber asked “so, where does he go when he leaves?”
Bob looked up and wiped tears from his eyes and said . . . .
In World War II, 70 to 80 million people were killed. In six years. The Germans carpet bombed cities in Europe with impunity. Rotterdam, Warsaw, Wesel, Leningrad, London, everyone. Everywhere. Military targets were prime but then the Germans thought that killing civilians would sap morale. Anyone that got in the way – men, women, children – died in the rubble. Japan slaughtered 20 million Chinese. 80% of them were civilians. In response and retribution, American and British forces narrowed their eyes – and carpet bombed German and Japanese cities with relish. Tit for tat. Plus two nuclear devices. A black horrific whirlwind of destruction and violence. Brutal. Vicious. Effective. Civilian casualties were the vast majority. The world swam in blood. And the allies read about it and rejoiced in it — if it was our enemies who were getting killed. At the end, Germany and Japan were crushed. Devastated. And they capitulated. Today, Germany and Japan are America’s BFF (or at least GFF’s).
I read with great sadness about the murder – by ISIL militants – of Samira Salih al-Nuaimi – a young woman lawyer from Mosul. Samira was at home with her husband and three children when gunmen broke in and hauled her away. She was brutally tortured and savaged for five days. And then murdered. Her crime? Criticizing the destruction of religious sites by ISIL and questioning aspects of Islam.
The world has dealt with terror for years. But not effectively. And over the last few years terror organizations are well-funded, stronger, spreading and growing. They are frankly all over. Cancer. There are talks of impending attacks in Western Europe. And America. When you read about Samira – and the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of innocents like her who have been murdered by this growing army of Islamic jihadists, and when you contemplate their intentions, you have to wonder if a return to the tactical mindset of the Allies in World War II might serve the world more efficiently. And effectively.
In my post of August 16, 2013, I spoke of sitting on a crowded train while a woman sitting next to me called her credit card company, loudly repeated her card number, security code (“noooo, two THREE eight“) and expiration date – and then proceeded to discuss several contested charges (“They Dwell Among Us“).
I also sit on the train while some people blabber so loud on their cell phones that people in the next car can hear them (“Hi Sweetie Pumpkins Dooty Dooty, I love you sooooo much. What’s for din din Sweetums?” “Hey Frank. I got a big deal cookin’ with the Smorgasbord Company. Nobody knows about this. Relates to that property on Western Avenue. . . . “). Let me say this — it’s one thing to talk with your hand over your mouth – and receiver. And speak quietly. And quickly. I’ve done it (“Donna, I’m on the six o’clock. I get in at six thirty” CLICK). But there are people who believe it is their public obligation to let everyone on the train know their personal and private business (“Man – I really got wasted last night. . . . “). YOU HEAR THIS STUFF!
So I have an idea. Or I’m looking for an inventor for an idea. I want to develop an electronic device that I can aim at some loud-mouth yabberer and ZAPPP! Their telephone will emit a 400 decibel screech that will have their ears ringing for days. OR – I want an invention that will remotely hang up a call (“Oh Bambi – I can’t wait to see you . . . . Bambi? Bambi?). Ninety-five percent of the people on the train will cheer. ZAPPP!!