Category Archives: Uncategorized

Common to whom? (part 1)

While waiting for my order at a restaurant the other day, I picked up a section of newspaper that had been left behind by a previous diner. I was delighted to find that the section contained the daily comics and a number of other entertainments such as the horoscope, crossword, and various advice columns. Among these was a column called “Living with Children,” which intrigued me because I live with children myself. As I read the column, however, I wondered if it had been accidentally put in the wrong section of the paper; it read like tongue-in-cheek satire. When I reached the end of the piece, a tagline identified the author as a family psychologist and listed the URL for his web site. I smiled to think that there would be more delightful sarcasm where this came from.

I was surprised to find that the author, John Rosemond, might not have been aiming for satire when he wrote the column I so enjoyed. Each page of his web site asserts that the contents are “in touch with common sense.” This raised a cautionary red flag, because experience has shown that someone who uses the term “common sense” more often than not really means, “whatever I deem sensible, regardless of whether or not you and I hold this opinion in common.”

Mr. Rosemond is a proponent of what he calls “traditional parenting,” which he explicitly identifies as any parenting techniques practiced before 1960. The column that caught my eye is one of a series in which he criticizes “the myriad of stupid parenting ideas that came out of the 1960s” (April 7, 2009). He is spot-on in identifying and critiquing many of these notions and the practices that they spawned, but in the process he uses generalizations and assumptions that render his entire argument suspect.

Take the column I first read, for instance, which was about fathering. When someone (we’ll call him Mr. X) complained that his father was remote and distant, Mr. Rosemond’s response was, “I bet he wasn’t.” This seems an odd response for a psychologist; most people would ask, “What makes you say that?” or “What do you mean?” It would be more logical to discover Mr. X’s reasons for believing this in order to refute or debunk them.

Mr. Rosemond then tells Mr. X that he is the victim of “anti-traditional-male propaganda.” (This is point at which I began to think the piece was satire.) Mr. Rosemond goes on to describe Mr. X’s dad as “a responsible guy who worked hard…trying to provide well for his family,…and that when he came home he wanted nothing more than to spend time with…his wife.” Mr. X has an epiphany, recognizing the truth about his father in this description, and is told to go and do likewise.

(continued in next posting)

Innovative home (brewed) business

Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

This unattested saying is often attributed to Benjamin Franklin, though beer scholar Bob Skilnik has pointed out that Franklin actually wrote something similar about wine, not beer. This aphorism clearly appeals to beer drinkers far more strongly than to wine drinkers, because the (accurate) wine version is virtually unknown.

Enter the Southern Fried Science blog, which offers detailed instructions on how to brew beer in a coffee maker. The authors of the blog are two marine biology graduate students who have had the opportunity to work out some of the kinks (“perfect” is far too strong a word) in this process during lengthy ocean expeditions. The result is a beverage of variable, though generally low, quality, but I’m sure it compares favorably with the potent potables that desperate seagoing folk have improvised since time immemorial. After all, this is the 21st century, and these guys are scientists!

The directions are so simple and straightforward that I am tempted to try my hand at this, though I’m sure the coffee drinker in my household (who is not a beer drinker) would be very unhappy. Perhaps this would be an excellent use for one of those used coffee makers I see at the Salvation Army from time to time. It would certainly provide a good excuse to grow hops in the yard, which is an idea I’ve been toying with for a couple of years. (They’re really lovely plants.)

Yep, this could be the year I finally grow hops and start my own microbrewery. Think I might qualify for some of that economic stimulus money?

Seeing is not believing

It’s the Easter season, which means that the gospel readings on Sunday have been stories told by and about Jesus’ friends after his death. Over and over, the stories tell us that Jesus’ friends eventually realize he is among them, but they don’t recognize him right away. He first has to talk to them, or eat with them, or touch them.

Mary sees a gardener at the cemetary, but when she speaks to him she discovers the One she is seeking. The disciples on the road to Emmaus see a stranger, but when they invite him to share a meal with them, they find the One they have lost. An unknown person appears suddenly among the disciples gathered in Jerusalem, but when they talk with him, touch him, eat with him, they know they have met again the One they thought was gone them.

These stories suggest that the Christ, the chosen One, is not found in appearances but in actions. Perhaps the person they behold in these stories is not specifically Jesus, but rather the chosen One the disciples had found in their friend Jesus, whom they recognize by what he does rather than how he looks. Perhaps the Christ is not any particular person, does not bear any one person’s face, and can only be known through acts of communication, community, communion.

Could this be what Jesus meant when he told his friends that the Holy One’s authority was already within and among them rather than over them or yet to come?

The girls are back

For weeks the male robins have worked to establish their territories, skirmishing in yards, posturing on sidewalks, singing from the top of every tree and house. And now it’s show time: the ladies are in town. One is shopping on my front lawn, attended by a hopeful and solicitous male who eagerly points out the amenities.

“A gardener lives here,” I can hear him say. “Lots of juicy worms in these well-amended flower beds! She’s always digging, and when it gets hot and dry she waters, making it easy to find them.” The female cocks an ear to the ground then pounces on some tasty morsel. “See all these old-growth trees?” he continues, wheedling, as he cautiously hops a little closer. “That means the soil is undisturbed so there are always cicadas.” She pauses and looks at him — now for the grand finale!

“Here, let me show you the lovely nesting site I picked out,” he says, flying up into a nearby tree. She follows him, which I take to be a good sign. I’m rooting for them both. With any luck, in a month or so there will be fledgling robins sitting on my hammock.

Chicken love

Yesterday I bought a magazine solely because it had a chicken on the cover. I justified the purchase to myself by noting that it had articles on herbs, solar power, and compost, but the real reason I bought it — the only reason I bought it — was for the feature article on chickens. I love chickens; it is my dream someday to have chickens of my own.

According to family lore, my fascination with chickens goes pretty far back. Somewhere around the tender age of three, I spent an entire Sunday School program looking toward the top of my head rather than singing the songs I had practiced in the car for weeks. When asked by my grandmother why I didn’t sing during the program, I replied, “I couldn’t sing, Grandma. I had a chicken on my head.” I have no personal recollection of this incident, but it seems so perfectly reasonable to me that I don’t doubt it happened just as they say it did.

We had a variety of birds when I was growing up, zebra finches, parakeets, and a cockatiel. We even raised and released a few baby robins that the cats dragged in. When I was old enough to get a job, I found employment at a wonderful mom-and-pop pet store that specialized in tropical fish and hand-raised tropical birds. All this avicultural experience certainly solidified my love of bird folk, but I’m still not sure where the particular enthusiasm for chickens came from.

Perhaps a genetic component is involved: another family story involves chickens and my paternal grandmother (not the one who asked me about singing). She and my grandfather were to be married at her parents’ home on the family farm, but when the wedding party arrived for the event, she was out feeding the chickens. She came in, tidied herself up, and proceeded to marry my grandfather. Maybe she, too, was irrationally fond of chickens, or maybe she was just nervous and found comfort in their familiar company.

I can’t ask her about this because she has been gone for many years, but I do remember that to my eyes she became very bird-like in her appearance and manner at the end of her life. I like to think that she wouldn’t have asked me about my singing had she been at that Sunday School program when I was three — she would have seen the chicken, too, and would have asked me about it instead.

Perfidy of memory

Yesterday I thought of something I wanted to write about, but I cannot now recall what it was. The perverse operations of memory are maddening: I clearly remember thinking, “That would be a great subject for tomorrow’s blog entry,” and making a mental note to write about it, but I haven’t the foggiest notion what “it” was. The experience is something akin to watching a video in which some portion — a date, a sign, a face — has been deliberately blurred to prevent identification. Ironically, the whole point of this mental note was to enable me to recall and identify the very thing that has been blurred out.

Perhaps this is the origin of the expression “Swiss cheese for brains.” A quick online search reveals that “Swiss cheese brain” is a medical term used to describe certain physical brain conditions caused by pathology or genetics. There is even an actual Swiss cheese gene found in certain mutant fruit flies. I wonder if it can cross over to humans? I’ve eaten a few overripe bananas in my day, and we all know that fruit flies come from bananas.

In the end, my mental note did produce a subject for writing. So why do I still feel frustrated? In a further ironic twist, experience has shown that if I make a Herculean mental effort and finally wrest the missing piece of information from the dark recesses of my brain, it will prove to be so trite and uninteresting that I will wonder why I ever bothered to make a mental note about it at all. In other words, I can’t win.

But I’m steering clear of overripe bananas from now on, just to be on the safe side.

Lives of their own

Books have lives, and stuff happens to them that you never planned. — Amity Schlaes

The life of Amity Schlaes’ 2007 book The Forgotten Man has become very interesting lately. According to a Politico article, the book has become a bit of a hot ticket because of its critical stance on the New Deal. The article quotes a Washington, DC, bookseller: “If all my books sold that well, I’d be a rich man.” That’s sweet music to an author’s ears.

The author herself seems to have a healthy sense of detachment from her work, boundaries she diplomatically articulates in the article.  She deflects effusive praise by emphasizing her reasoning and approach when writing the book. (Great PR lesson there, fellow writers — redirect attention to the book.) While clearly pleased by the attention the book is getting, she distances herself from any uses to which its words may be put. Using a quote or idea from a book to support an argument does not equate to an endorsement of that argument by the book’s author, a subtle point of reason that is too often overlooked in the current age of sound bites.

May we all enjoy such good fortune as to have our books become the darling of some highly visible demographic, and may we all be blessed with such a sense of calm perspective as Ms. Schlaes!

Spun story

I used an online story prompt device called Story Spinner to give me an idea for something to write. This is what I came up with:

The building in which they met had once been a ladies’ undergarment factory on the wrong side of the tracks. Now it housed a Japanese noodle house, a dry cleaner, and stylish loft apartments. Their mutual friend Patty had set them up on a blind lunch date.

“There’s a built-in time limit,” she said to each of them. “You both only have an hour for lunch. If you consider travel time to and from the restaurant plus time to order and eat, you only really have to make conversation for 20 minutes or so.”

Patty could be very persuasive. She even arranged with the owner of the restaurant to pay the bill for the meal herself. “How can you say no to a free lunch?” she weedled, knowing this was an argument that no guy could resist. Mike caved pretty quickly; he really liked udon.

“All right!” Joyce surrendered, throwing her hands in the air. “I’ll go. But only if you swear never to do anything like this again!” She glared at Patty, who agreed a little too readily, solemnly vowing never to fix Joyce up on a date again. Joyce scowled, but she had already said she would go. She, at least, would keep her word.

Joyce arrived first because her workplace was in the next block. She chose a table near the door, where the lunch traffic might afford a distraction and she could make a quick getaway if necessary. Mr. Yoshi himself came to the table when he saw her sit down.

“Don’t worry,” he beamed at her reassuringly, “Patty is a good friend.” Joyce rolled her eyes but managed to smile back.

The door opened, and a man entered and looked about, clearly searching for someone. Mr. Yoshi ushered him to the table where Joyce sat, then hurried off to the kitchen to bring them tea. Joyce took a deep breath.

“You must be Mike,” she said to her table companion, with a smile that hardly looked at all nervous. He nodded and smiled back.

“You must be Joyce,” he replied.

Rhythm and blues

Each community has a different rhythm, created by the movements of its comings and goings, work and play, meetings and partings. The rhythm of the community itself may change over time, depending on how it discerns its own identity in the midst of a changing world. — Jan L. Richardson, Sacred Journeys: A Woman’s Book of Daily Prayer, p. 189

I belong to a community of writers that has various circles of involvement: a large group of people who just pass through, a medium-sized group of people who participate occasionally, a small pool of people who are regulars, a core group of dedicated die-hards, and two facilitators who work in tandem to see to the infrastructure of the community. Change is inherent in such a loose, broad framework, but the high degree of stability in the regular and core groups allows these fluctuations to enliven and energize the community rather than destabilize and dissipate it. Change within those circles of greatest stability, however, may seem like a different matter.

Jan Richardson writes the passage above in her discussion of a community faced with the challenge of continuing to be a community when one of its leaders has suddenly died. She further writes that members have their own individual rhythms within a community, rhythms that also change over time, depending on how they see their roles in the community. When one of the facilitators of my writers group moved out of town a few years ago, she found someone to take her place before she left. This was a major change at a level of deep stability, but members of the community adjusted their roles and adapted quite successfully. The group now faces the loss of a facilitator through an unexpected death. Although this feels far more catastrophic, functionally it isn’t all that different from the previous change in leadership.

I find great comfort in Jan Richardson’s observations about the dynamics of change within a community. The writers group to which I belong is built to incorporate and make good use of change; its flexible structure will accommodate this latest difficulty, even the accompanying pain of sudden loss. Roles will shift, and the rhythms of the community and its members will transform. In a sense, the community will be reborn. I guess that’s not such a bad outcome after all.

Going in circles

Yesterday I learned that a colleague and friend passed away quite unexpectedly last week. We weren’t extremely close, but we had worked together on various projects over the past few years and often ran into one another at events in which we had a common interest. A deep sadness arises in me when I think of the conversations we will never have, the places we will never bump into each other, the unfinished projects that lie in that great gulf now between us.

I feel especially melancholy thinking of the work at which we labored as part of a team, because one of the oars is now unmanned, and the one who pulled that oar was great of heart and strong of back. It feels as though we are left to row in circles — how can we go forward when we are so unbalanced? I suppose we will simply stop rowing for a while and lie becalmed on this troubled sea until our grief subsides or the tides of time threaten to throw us onto the shoals of our deadlines.