My Home State In The News

Fall                                        Full Harvest Moon

HYDRO, Okla. – An elderly Hydro man landed in jail after springing his prized pooch from the town kennel. Instead of paying a $100 fine for not having his poodle on a leash, 73-year-old Edwin Fry decided to bust Buddy Tough out, driving his lawnmower to the city pound Oct. 13 and breaking into the cage with bolt cutters.

As the pair escaped, police officer Chris Chancellor intercepted them.

Chancellor told The Oklahoman officers had received numerous complaints about Buddy Tough, who had been in the pound before. He said Fry had been told he could retrieve the dog and sort out the fine in court.

“I’ve been in law enforcement 20 years, and this is the first time I’ve known of anyone that has busted a dog out of jail,” Chancellor told The Oklahoman.

As for Buddy Tough, he was euthanized while Fry was in jail.

On Defining Maturity

Fall                                            Full Harvest Moon

Three lily beds planted, topped with a serving of tiny yellow daffodil bulbs.  I realized today that planting bulbs in the metaphoric equivalent of maturity.  Putting lily corms in the ground in autumn to produce flowers in June, July and August of 2011 defines delayed gratification.  So.  There.  In spite of my personal measure of maturity–did I get a napkin the first time I went through the line–I seem have passed a different test.  Gotta make it before I hit 65.

Kona helped.  She chased down marauding chipmunks and rodney danger squirrel.

Kate’s off at work, each evening a chip closer to retirement.  I’m about to head on the treadmill for a late work out.  Watching Ghost Writer now.  Pretty good.

All For Obama Stand Up and Holler

Fall                                        Full Harvest Moon

Obama.  Has done a fine job.  The Republicans and far left (my crowd) need to back the **** off.  He succeeded in the economic stimulus.  He passed health care legislation.  He reinvigorated the EPA.  He took a good shot at climate change legislation.

His presence in the office is steady and, I believe, calming, though the dark noise of the chattering classes seems to suggest otherwise.  Once the Republicans dug in their heels and decided there was no political mileage for them in bipartisanship the whole Washington scene has devolved back to the Newt Gringrich era, even further back, the right wing nut job politics of the early sixties:  the John Birch Society, the Minutemen and the hangovers from the McCarthy period.

We are lucky to have him in the office and I’m glad and proud that I voted for him.

Nunc disco.

Harvest Moon, For Me and My Gal

Fall                                               Full Harvest Moon

What a great moon in the southern sky.  As I drove back from St. Paul, after sheepshead, the night had grown chill.

On the way in the full harvest moon hung high in the east behind a scrim of cirrus clouds, casting a pale circle, surrounding itself in a nimbus of moonlight.  On the east, the full harvest moon, and on the west, the skyline of downtown against the late twilight sky.  Skylines have their own beauty, a fragile outline in light of daytime sturdy buildings.

We had a sixth tonight at sheepshead, a friend of Roy’s in from Appleton, Wisconsin.  The dealer sat out and we played our usual five man game.  Dick Rice came away the big winner.

Health.

Fall                                            Waxing Harvest Moon

At the Woolly meeting at Paul’s this Monday night, Mark talked about a woodworking group to which a friend (nephew?) belongs.  They get together, teach other how to do woodworking, chip in on special tools and have a good time learning together.  Sounds fun.  If you want to learn woodworking.  What got my attention was a moment in the evening they have called the organ recital.  A new term to me.  Each guy reports on his organs are doing.  It reminded me of  friend Morry Rothstein who often starts conversations amongst the geriatric docent crowd with the question, “Any new parts?”

The Woolly evening had the ritual obeisance to the nostrum, “You don’t have anything if you don’t have your health.”  This in the context of the wealth discussion we had.  At the time I burned my sacrifice on the altar of health as we all nodded sagely, wise old men agreeing that wealth doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have your health.

When I got home, though, I got to thinking.  We may be setting ourselves up for incredible unhappiness in the not so far distant future.  Or in the here and now if you’re, say, Mark, recovered from prostate cancer, but now battling a bum knee.  Or if you’re, say, Frank with his bum ticker, a widow maker artery that could take him out anytime.  Or Paul, whose hemoglobin count mysteriously dropped to worrying levels, but has now rebounded.  Or, even me, with high blood pressure (under control) and kidney functions that haven’t looked the best of late.

(the nine Greek Muses along with Hygeia, goddess of health, and a very young Apollo, the god of medicine)

What’s my point?  Soon or late, the body decompensates, succumbs to the inexorability of the 2nd law of thermodynamics.  Entropy always wins against life, a losing bet from the very beginning.  Between good health and that final reckoning with the laws of nature we may, and probably will, become ill with one of several now manageable conditions:  certain cancers, congestive heart failure, declining kidneys or any of several non-lethal, at least not right away, conditions.

What do we say then?  Oh, no.  My life is over, turn on the gas, or do we discover, as so many have, that health is not in fact everything.  Everything includes love which transcends disease, enjoyment of literature, the arts, travel,  sex, friendship, family.  None of these come to an end because of a diagnosis or a condition.  Might COPD or chronic pain limit the type and kind of things you do?  Of course.  But look at your life now.  Travel has its limits, if not by funds, then by time.  How much time can you be gone?  Work has its limits now.  Already you work so many hours, then rest.  You could certainly change the ratio.

This is not a plea to cast healthy living to the wind just so we can transcend suffering, far from it.  In fact, living healthfully as long you can makes total sense.  The key words there are, as long as you can.  When you cannot, learn a new way of living.  We’ll all have to do it, unless we just drop dead.  And that doesn’t seem so desirable to me right now.

The End of Days

Fall                                           Waxing Harvest Moon

The end of days.  No, not that one.  Just this one and the others.  The end of days is an important moment for me, a time of reflection.  Often, not always, but often, I will sit down and write, thinking as I do back over the day, the anxieties of which, as the New Testament said, were sufficient unto it.  So, here in the quiet, the gathering darkness headed toward the Solstice of Winter, I cast off those anxieties, trying to get to sleep.

Most of the time, over the last few years anyway, getting to sleep has not been a problem for me.  Sometimes, rarely now, I’ll awaken and not be able to sleep.  I’ve learned that instead of railing against it, I just get up and read until I feel sleepy again.  Won’t be a problem tonight.  I hope.

Most of the time sleep comes with difficulty when I’ve either been over stimulated during the day, an exciting debate or tour or new idea keeps kicking around even after bedtime; or, I’ve got an event upcoming in which I need to perform well.  Sometimes that causes me to lose sleep.  A speech, a tour of Chinese art for the Chinese Heritage Foundation, finishing a sermon.  Not often in either case, but they do happen.

I love sleeping.  And dreaming.  Off and on over the years I’ve kept records of my dreams.  I like to do it on a regular basis, but it doesn’t hold my interest for long, in spite of my intense curiosity.  The dream time has given me many important insights.  Right now my body is telling me I need to go dream.  Good night.

Various Ways to Watch A Movie

Fall                                              Waxing Harvest Moon

When I workout, on my treadmill 5-6 days a week, I watch movies.  That means I need a source of movies since I can go through 2-3 in an average week.  I used Comcast for a while, with their movies on demand, but the cable box won’t let me.  I’ve swapped it out twice with no joy and had a comcast person come by the house and offer to set up a service call.  I took him up on the offer, but no one showed up.  I still have the service, in part because they also provide a reasonably good internet connection, though it’s slow and expensive relative to the rest of the world.  I bought movies for a while, but that was expensive and I had to buy a lot.  Blockbuster and I shared many transactions, but that required physically going to the store and remembering to return stuff on time.  My current solution is netflix.  They mail me movies, I watch them and mail them back.  Pretty easy.

Netflix also has a service which allows you to watch movies over the internet if you have a properly configured device.  Upstairs, where Kate’s Wii sits, I long ago connected with our wireless router and happily watch movies up there without mailing, buying or stopping somewhere.  A while back I began looking at the Playstation 3 because it has a blu ray DVD player and the capacity for wireless link up.  The Wii is not blu-ray.  So, I ponied up the cash and bought one for downstairs.

It took the better part of 3 hours to get it connected to the internet, get permission to stream the Netflix movies and configure the blu ray remote I purchased.  It took so long because computers are, in essence, stupid things that only do exactly what they’re told and if you miss a beat on a password, a step in a process, or don’t wait long enough for a particular action, nothing happens and you have to start over.  I know this from years of handling electronics in various forms, still I dithered, shuffling my desktop with a password over to the Playstation, then back to the desktop to finally write down the password I’d not remembered quite correctly.  And so on.

Still.  I got it done.  Now I can watch movies from a broad selection with minimal hassle.  It’s important to keep in mind when mumbling through the set up of some electronic device that the time it will save way more than compensates for the groaning and moaning, so it’s worth it.  I keep telling myself that.

Representative

Fall                                                     Waxing Harvest Moon

Spent much of the day with stars in my eyes.  Literally.  After those damned dilating drops at the ophthalmologist.  However, my pressures are still below glaucoma level and the photographs of my retina show insignificant change.  The technician photographing my retinas kept saying, “Watch the green dot.  Your eye’s moving.  Watch the green dot.”  Well, geez.  I thought I was doing a damned good job of keeping my eye from doing its normal task, checking out those flashing lights to the left.  Apparently not good enough.  Anyhow.

Over to Cafe Ena, a Latin fusion restaurant, at the intersection of 46th and Grand for lunch with the docent outing crew.  I had mofongoed Yucca.  This involves pounding and cooking it in some way according to our waiter.

After lunch I walked with Allison and Jane MacKenzie from the Cafe to the Weinstein gallery.  Martin Weinstein, the gallery owner, introduced the current show of Robert Mapplethorpe, Alec Sloth and August Sanders portraits.  He represents Alec, a local boy now part of Magnum, and Robert Mapplethorpe’s estate.

Curious about the business side of gallery work, I asked Martin how representing an artist worked.  Turns out he ships art, packing and insuring it, both incoming and outgoing.  He frames all the pieces or arranges for them to be mounted.  He manages the three buildings that constitute his modest, spare gallery space, pays a woman to assist in the complex logistics of the business.  He also collaborates with museums to mount shows of his artists, mostly on his nickel.  In addition he mounts several shows a year with all the attendant costs, including a reception with wine and cheese, plus boarding and expenses for the artist.  This is all sunk cost, paid out long before any commissions come in from sales.

It is, he emphasized, “A very stressful business.  Always this coming, that going.”  Martin is a tall, slightly stooped man with a shock of white hair and round architect type glasses, thick ones.

The photographs were elegant, Martin was entertaining and there was a good turn out.  A fine afternoon.  Thanks, Allison.

Leaving Us, June Cleaver

Fall                                          Waxing Harvest Moon

That ol’ harvest moon has swollen past a half and has Jupiter as a pendant.  The jewelry that adorns our night makes the homogeneous light of day seem dull, unimaginative.

Two more signs of approaching old age:  June Cleaver dies at age 94.  Mr. Cunningham from Happy Days dies at age 83.  Oh, my.  Say it ain’t so, Beav.