"When I think about the moonlight on the Wabash..."

"When I think about the moonlight on the Wabash..."

I'm usually not posting at this time of the morning, but I just arrived home from Orlando and I need to unwind from making sure I stayed awake on the drive home from the airport.

I admit that I choose to live in a northern clime, so I'm not really complaining; and I was watching the weather news so it wasn't an intellectual surprise, but I gotta tell you walking down the jetway when we arrived at Detroit was a slap in the face. My forehead hurt.

The Disney Magic had expired for the family of five that sat next to me on the flight into Detroit. I'm guessing Mom had a migraine. On take off, Two-year old cried to be held by only her, and Five-year old threw up as we made the final approach to Detroit. Made me weary just watching.

Noisy...

Noisy...

Disney World does not get silence. I find the constant noise straining.

I think I arrived yesterday with a little residual guilt that I never brought my kids here when they wanted to come. But then I tried to imagine, if either of them ever has kids, whether they'll want to bring my grandkids here. I'm guessing they've both turned into adults who would see that the best thing about the place was the sunrise over the mist on the lake, and that it was the one thing that wasn't staged by "The Cast", and that there are far more cost effective ways to get to those sunrises.

But maybe I'm just just projecting my frugality on them. Maybe they'll be more responsive to their kids than I was.

But I would not have enjoyed a vacation like that in 1990 or 1992.

Grumpy mood...

Grumpy mood...

I'm writing this at about 8am from the Gate A7 at SBN. I'm enroute to Orlando for three days for a conference.

For the last 18 hours I've found my mood going down hill, and I finally realized why when I walked into the airport moments ago and started running into the TSA. I guess reading March in My Name has got me thinking more about security.

I had been thinking my mood shift was due to going on the road again - which certainly contributes to it - but two weeks ago I jumped in the car and drove up to Madison and I found myself looking forward to it. So why was this bugging me?

Air travel sucks to begin with. Planes are packed. Actually they're overbooked. The ticket agents and gate attendants are over-worked and over-loaded and have little control over much of what happens. And as a traveler I sometimes want to start mooing like a cow being herded out to the slaughter house.

Then you have to take your shoes off.

Maybe there is a good security reason for it, but let me call it what it is: demeaning. There is an old woman waiting a few rows away. She is probably my mother's age - well into her 80s. She had to take her shoes off. There other people in the area look like me - oh there are different ages and colors and genders. But we're all alike. None of us have a nefarious scheme up our sleeve. No plan to blow our plane out of the air. No intent to wrestle the flight attendant to the floor and commandeer the cockpit enroute to Chicago to crash it into the Sears tower.

I'm sick of air travel. Oh that we had fast trains that were better on the environment.

Tony Hellerman writes about purging ceremonies practiced by the Navajo when they've faced deep evil. Maybe I need a ceremonial purging when I get home.

I'll get over this.

"The Transportation and Security Administration reminds you we continue to operate under a threat level of Orange... Unattended baggage will be confiscated... Fear this..."

Update - It is just after 6pm. My 2nd flight was only 30 minutes late. On arrival I caught the Disney Magic Express bus that took about an hour and a half to get to my hotel. I got everything set up for tomorrow, and then went for a short run. But since there is no such thing as a running trail within 5 miles of my hotel I ran on the narrow, shoulder-less roads around Disney. Remind me sometime to tell you how it reminded me of a conversation a few weeks ago with friends about men spitting in public places.

Regardless, even a short run does wonders for my mooooo...d.

Actually Disney World is the perfect background for my current book: Kathleen Norris - The Cloister Walk. I recommend it (the book, not DW).

Friends...

Friends...

Tonight I met a friend for squash, followed by dinner and conversation.

"The bird a nest,
the spider a web,
man friendship."
- William Blake

I feel blessed by a few, deep, friendships.

Trolley update...

Trolley update...

Common wisdom in my fair city is that the Trolley has been running now for 4 or 5 years and still doesn't have any passengers. I want to report to you that that just isn't true.

I admit that four people on it at one time is a good crowd, but I'm not sure that I've ever been the only rider. This morning there were six people on when I boarded. Six! I made it seven. That might be a new record.

For the most part I've been really happy with the service. It is more or less on time, and since I live and work almost right on the route it is a huge convenience for me. I'm delighted to leave my car in the garage and jump on a bus when the streets are too slippery for my bike. I even get a few minutes to catch up on a little reading.

Twilight zone...

Twilight zone...

I thought maybe tonight I had stepped into the twilight zone.

I got home to find an airmail letter from my son in my mailbox. Strange, this is the first written correspondence I think I've had from him since when - maybe a post card when he was at summer camp? I'm not sure.

Anyhow it was in one of those airmail envelopes, and seemed to contain several sheets of paper, and I thought 'oh, maybe this is a belated Christmas letter.' But that didn't seem right.

Then I thought about how my Dad used to send letters in #10 envelopes just like this to me. I'd think 'Oh, look - here's a letter from Dad." Then I'd open it and it was always stuffed with some article he found in the paper or in the New Yorker that he was sure I needed to read. And usually (not always) there would be some very brief hand-scrawled note about the article - and not a word of news.

So the truth was I wasn't at all surprised when I opened this letter had found a couple of forms with a hand-scrawled note that read: "Hi dad! If you could mail this in to the address on the form, with $21, I promise I'll comment on your blog. Twice! No seriously. Thanks a million. Ben"

Maybe next time it will contain an article...

To tell the truth...

To tell the truth...

I found this on line and thought you might enjoy it.



And if that's not enough, try this...

Termites...

Termites...

Last year at this time I was in Mississippi gutting "The Termite House". You can read more about it here. At the time it all seemed so disjointed. The organization we were working for was, well, struggling to get organized. I wondered if all the work my crew had done would ever result in anything.

This week our church sent another crew down, and I've been following their blog with interest. I had decided not to take part a third year in a row (and I really do miss it), but asked Kevin to check out the Termite House to see whatever became of it. I was delighted to get this report with pictures posted earlier this week.

Kevin tells me that the house is being given to a family who needs it, and that they move in in a couple weeks. All this sort of redeems all that insulation and plaster dust I inhaled that week.

Another Farewell...

Another Farewell...

Where have I been? Johnny Frigo died on July 4, 2007 at age 90 and I only found out tonight.

Johnny Frigo was my fiddle hero. I first heard him in summer 2004 at the Elkhart Jazz Festival. He played to a packed house at the top of the old Elkhart House Hotel ballroom. I sat in the front row with my jaw hanging open. He was amazing.

Then about 18 months ago I saw that he was playing a public concert in Chicago. I knew he was in his upper 80s and I figured I wouldn't have many chances to hear him again. When I walked into the theater, Johnny was walking across the lobby with a crowd of well wishers and autograph seekers. He walked right up to me, shook my hand, and said "You look familiar!" I was so surprised - I'm quite sure he didn't remember me from two years ago prior, but who really knows.

He had a stage persona that is complete corn. Shtick. At the Chicago concert he did this whole routine where he brought out this bow that he said was from Bein & Fushi - the dealer of multimillion dollar fiddles in downtown Chicago. They loaned it to him to try out, so he started playing a tune and midway through, predictably, the bow shot out of his hand in a long arc across the stage. The whole band ground to a halt while he recovered the bow. I forget the rest of the punchline - who needs one? Then there was a famous story of appearing on Johnny Carson. Carson asked him why he waited so long to become famous, he replied, "Because there won't be enough time left for me to become a has-been."

Johnny played with such swing and style. He really rocked. I would like to have seen him in his prime - say in his late 70s. Because here is the amazing (and inspirational) thing: Johnny didn't start playing jazz fiddle until he retired at 65. He studied classical violin for a couple of years when he was a kid, then picked up bass and spent his working life playing bass on commercial jingles in downtown Chicago. It was only when he retired that he devoted all his time to the fiddle.

Maybe there is hope for me yet.

Wakey, Wakey..

Wakey, Wakey..

This week and next I'm doing a series of presentations to one of my clients. I'm doing two presentations to two different groups. It is a world-wide company so one of the groups is scattered across North America. That is the easy one because they want the presentation mid-afternoon my time. The other group is scattered across Europe and Asia, so the time that suits everyone is broadcasting at 5am my time.

The broadcast consists of me logging into a website with my laptop and then 'sharing my desktop' over the internet. This means that anyone who comes to that website can see my computer screen. Then we all call a telephone number to a 'conference bridge' that lets everyone talk at the same time. It is pretty amazing technology and sure beats flying to the Netherlands, China and Florida for two hour meetings at each location. So I shouldn't complain about my alarm going off at 4:30 this morning, but I wonder if I can go back to sleep now.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Not Much, You?...

Not Much, You?...

Tonight I'm in Bucky Badger territory. On my drive up this morning I started listening to Moby Dick on tape. How many classics have I not read? What a great story!

I finished CD 3 as I rolled into Madison, so rather than start another I flipped to the radio and picked up most of Shubert's Symphony #5, which I've played a couple of times with the MCCO. Knowing the inside of a piece, so to speak, makes it great fun to hear it performed.

Then at the end of the piece came the usual introductions, and then a public service announcement like you so often hear on public radio. I don't remember what the announcement was, but there was no mistaking that voice: Jim Packard of Whad' Ya Know?.

It's been a few years since I've heard him, since our stupid local public radio affiliate took WYK off the air a few years ago, but there was no mistaking him. It reminded me of the time we drove all the way to Madison in, what was it... 1995? to attend a live broadcast. We got there early to claim our seats, and as we walked in the lobby, we overheard Jim Packard chatting with someone and we (especially Ben - 'cause I could see him) got saucer-eyed and elbowed each other and whispered to each other, "That's Jim Packard. He doesn't look anything like he sounds, but I'd never mistake that voice..."

We didn't get to play the quiz.

Loss...

Loss...

Last night while listening to NPR in the final preparation for dinner guests, I heard a rememberance for John O'Donohue. He died on January 3, at the age of 53. He was a poet, scholar and philosopher.

I first heard John a couple years ago when a friend gave me a tape of a radio interview on CBC. He talked in that interview about hunger for beauty and connection in a post-modern world. What I remember most was his voice, which was a rich baritone with a delightful Irish accent. Here was a man that you wanted to get to know, to sit down over coffee or a beer and compare notes on the human experience.

In a world that is sometimes overwhelmingly dark, he helped you believe that love and kindness are triumphant forces, and that beauty is as essential to the human experience as food, air and water.

Not that it made up for this loss, but last Wednesday I had a delightful evening with an as yet unnamed gathering of armchair philosophers. (I proposed GATAS - Guys Actually Talking About Stuff.) A friend from church convened the group and the light side of the agenda was a comparison of two chardonnays: the cheap $3 / bottle compared to the $12/bottle. Is the price difference worth it? (Since my friend bought the wine I concluded that it was.) The even more interesting agenda was an exploration of life, the universe and everything. The opening question was "How do you justify your existence on this planet?" This was a pretty heady group, including guys with PhDs in Chemistry, Physics and Computer Science. And then there was me. It was the most fun I've had in conversation since the great Pelee Island Greco/Christianity debate of Summer 2007. My friend promises this will be a monthly event.

To Do...

To Do...

Today is the day all of you should contact my mother and wish her a happy birthday. If you don't know her email or phone, post a comment here and I'll see that she gets it.

One is not supposed to give out ages, so I won't. But you can probably guess within 10 years if I tell you her birth year is divisible by 10.

Now her mother's age would have been even easier to figure out since her birth year was divisible by 100.

Happy Birthday Mom.