My daughter Meredith turns 30 in a few days. I have a hard time with that statement. Goose is 30? No way. Way. The child who arrived while I slogged through graduate school in journalism at The University of Texas at Austin is now five years older than I was when she was born.
Did you get all that? I have a nerdish way with numbers, dates, etc. Sorry. To simplify, I was not-quite-26 when she was born. Now she’s 30, a graduate of this same university along with her older sister. I work a couple hundred feet from where I was attending classes back then. If I could impart one piece of wisdom to you who are on the road, as the song goes, it is to never be surprised at how things turn out. Savor the trip, folks — good, bad or just plain ugly.
When Mere was born in Austin, we lived in one of the final houses on Guadalupe Street where it tails off north of town. That used to be the boonies, near the end of the bus line. Now, well, those who live here know. The boonies are miles away in all directions. They tore down the old Brackenridge Hospital where she was born, a squat, red-brick building just west of I-35 near downtown. I used to tease Mere that she was the building’s demise.
I rarely call her Goose anymore, she being 30 and all. I have a hard time explaining why I started calling her that in the first place. It just fit when she was a wide-eyed baby examining the world. Then my mother shot a photo of her being chased by an actual goose at Teague Park in Longview. My artist dad turned that into a colored-pencil sketch entitled “Wild Goose Chase,” which now hangs in my house. Thus are sobriquets born and legends made. Mere is still scared witless by geese. I’m not crazy about them either, at least the chasing kind.
That’s just one thing we have in common, along with a love for books and writing. We walk alike, as anyone watching us coming down a sidewalk can attest. I have had people say, “That must be your daughter” after watching us both walk, feet splayed to the outside, a slight bounce to the gait. Folks say we look alike as well, though she’s obviously much cuter than me. We’re both short with brown eyes. I once had brown hair; now it has turned gray or turned loose. Her hair was once purple. I think she has outgrown that phase, save for Halloween, one of her favorite events.
Mere is a naturally gifted writer who has a great day job at a museum but really lives to fill empty spaces with words. She had her first poem published at age 8, sent in by her big sister Kasey, who fibbed and told Teen magazine that the author was 13. The poem went:
Hand in hand across the beach
Looking for something out of reach.
The moonlight shines upon the sea
Looking for something called destiny.
These days she writes a blog about horror movies and another that covers all types of entertainment and is part of a popular Austin blog called Badass Digest, sponsored by Alamo Drafthouse. Her piece on that site is called Borders Line and covers all sorts of genre. Google it some time. Parental-advisory warning: Some times she uses words not often found in family newspapers, or in this blog. It’s a generational thing. But her style is breezy and crisp, her ability to rattle off plotlines and character names is phenomenal, and I’m thrilled she semi-stole her blog title from the old man.
One of the most enjoyable exercises of my adult life was when we watched an advance screening of “Charlie Wilson’s War” together a few years ago, and each wrote separate reviews for the Lufkin newspaper. Hers was better.
Like me, Mere makes no money filling her space. She does it because she has to write, or her world doesn’t feel right. I know the feeling. That is why I continue writing a column each week, 29 years after I first started. Several featured a wide-eyed toddler with a goofy nickname. I was then and am now a proud father of all my daughters.
But this one is for Mere. Happy 30th, Goose. Love, Dad.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
A Blow Struck for Plain Writing
I was scouring websites for editorial ideas the other night, for my stringer work opining for the small newspaper in Kansas where I worked last year. Writing three editorials weekly keeps my skills sharp and provides eating-out money. I’m pretty fast at writing editorials after 29 years of doing so.
The key is finding a topic on which I can provide an opinion. With subject in hand, I can pound out 350-400 words in a half-hour at the most, thanks to the boundless resources of the Internet. There is really nothing on which I can’t find background material, stories, quotations and whatever else I need to put together an editorial.
I’m thinking this whole Internet deal is here to stay…
I ended up on the website for the federal Office of Management and Budget, reading a report on how environmental regulations are a net benefit to the economy because they save lives and cut down on pollution-related illnesses. Another topic caught my attention as I waited for my printer to spit out the executive summary. (Try as I might, I am still a dead-tree person when it comes to reading anything of substance.) I hit the print key again and soon had in hand the “Final Guidance on Implementing the Plain Writing Act of 2010,” from the OMB.
With all that was going on last year — midterm elections, UT’s lousy football team, Texas Rangers in the World Series, the Deepwater Horizon disaster — somehow we all missed passage of this crucial piece of legislation. No matter, since it took six months after passage to get the document now before me, which is the federal government’s game plan for encouraging government officials to write in plain English. Unsurprisingly, it takes six pages of 12-point text set at 1.5 line spacing to outline the plan. However, I must add that the document is written, well, in plain language.
The deadline for each federal agency to pick a Senior Official for Plain Writing and create a section on the website devoted to that topic just passed. Each agency was required to publish a plan for swearing off bureaucratese and writing plainly. I am happy to report that your government dollars have indeed been hard at work. I spot-checked the websites for the justice, agriculture, commerce departments, plus threw in the EPA for good measure. All have dutifully created such sections on their websites, swearing fealty to plain writing.
This is welcomed news. Anyone who has attempted to read the federal tax code, for example (My advice: Don’t), knows that the feds need a healthy dose of plain writing habits. Unfortunately, Internal Revenue Service apparently didn’t get the memo, since I couldn’t find any mention on its website of a new commitment to plain writing. Since I would prefer not to be audited again, I will withhold judgment on exactly what that means.
On the same site on which I found the Plain Writing Act of 2010 was a 171-page document, which I did not print, entitled the “2011 Report to Congress on the Benefits and Costs of Federal Regulations and Unfunded Mandates on State, Local and Tribal Entities.” This report obviously was written before implementation of the Plain Writing Act, so I have taken the liberty of reinterpreting a few passages.
The report states: “As discussed elsewhere in this Report (see Appendix A) as well as previous Reports, the aggregate estimates of benefits and costs derived from estimates by different agencies and over different time periods are subject to significant methodological inconsistencies and differing assumptions.”
In other words: Actual results may vary.
Also: “A possible approach to the potential difficulty of advance assessment of costs and benefits involves rigorous experimentation with respect to the likely effects of regulation; such experimentation, including randomized controlled trials, can complement and inform prospective analysis, and perhaps reduce the need for retrospective analysis.”
Translation: It is possible to predict benefits before a regulation goes into effect.
Finally: “In order to promote data-driven regulation, OMB continues to be interested in public suggestions on how to use retrospective analysis to improve regulations, perhaps by expanding them, perhaps by streamlining them, perhaps by reducing or repealing them, perhaps by redirecting them.”
Translation: We need to hear what the public thinks about our rules.
Once the Plain Writing Act transforms gobbledygook into plain English, let’s start working on all those acronyms. If I were in charge, I would allow CIA, FBI and IRS, but that is about it. The less alphabet soup the better.
The key is finding a topic on which I can provide an opinion. With subject in hand, I can pound out 350-400 words in a half-hour at the most, thanks to the boundless resources of the Internet. There is really nothing on which I can’t find background material, stories, quotations and whatever else I need to put together an editorial.
I’m thinking this whole Internet deal is here to stay…
I ended up on the website for the federal Office of Management and Budget, reading a report on how environmental regulations are a net benefit to the economy because they save lives and cut down on pollution-related illnesses. Another topic caught my attention as I waited for my printer to spit out the executive summary. (Try as I might, I am still a dead-tree person when it comes to reading anything of substance.) I hit the print key again and soon had in hand the “Final Guidance on Implementing the Plain Writing Act of 2010,” from the OMB.
With all that was going on last year — midterm elections, UT’s lousy football team, Texas Rangers in the World Series, the Deepwater Horizon disaster — somehow we all missed passage of this crucial piece of legislation. No matter, since it took six months after passage to get the document now before me, which is the federal government’s game plan for encouraging government officials to write in plain English. Unsurprisingly, it takes six pages of 12-point text set at 1.5 line spacing to outline the plan. However, I must add that the document is written, well, in plain language.
The deadline for each federal agency to pick a Senior Official for Plain Writing and create a section on the website devoted to that topic just passed. Each agency was required to publish a plan for swearing off bureaucratese and writing plainly. I am happy to report that your government dollars have indeed been hard at work. I spot-checked the websites for the justice, agriculture, commerce departments, plus threw in the EPA for good measure. All have dutifully created such sections on their websites, swearing fealty to plain writing.
This is welcomed news. Anyone who has attempted to read the federal tax code, for example (My advice: Don’t), knows that the feds need a healthy dose of plain writing habits. Unfortunately, Internal Revenue Service apparently didn’t get the memo, since I couldn’t find any mention on its website of a new commitment to plain writing. Since I would prefer not to be audited again, I will withhold judgment on exactly what that means.
On the same site on which I found the Plain Writing Act of 2010 was a 171-page document, which I did not print, entitled the “2011 Report to Congress on the Benefits and Costs of Federal Regulations and Unfunded Mandates on State, Local and Tribal Entities.” This report obviously was written before implementation of the Plain Writing Act, so I have taken the liberty of reinterpreting a few passages.
The report states: “As discussed elsewhere in this Report (see Appendix A) as well as previous Reports, the aggregate estimates of benefits and costs derived from estimates by different agencies and over different time periods are subject to significant methodological inconsistencies and differing assumptions.”
In other words: Actual results may vary.
Also: “A possible approach to the potential difficulty of advance assessment of costs and benefits involves rigorous experimentation with respect to the likely effects of regulation; such experimentation, including randomized controlled trials, can complement and inform prospective analysis, and perhaps reduce the need for retrospective analysis.”
Translation: It is possible to predict benefits before a regulation goes into effect.
Finally: “In order to promote data-driven regulation, OMB continues to be interested in public suggestions on how to use retrospective analysis to improve regulations, perhaps by expanding them, perhaps by streamlining them, perhaps by reducing or repealing them, perhaps by redirecting them.”
Translation: We need to hear what the public thinks about our rules.
Once the Plain Writing Act transforms gobbledygook into plain English, let’s start working on all those acronyms. If I were in charge, I would allow CIA, FBI and IRS, but that is about it. The less alphabet soup the better.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Sex With Chickens, and the Leander Police
I was reminded of the Sex With Chickens story while eating at Cowboy Chicken the other day. That’s a new franchise in Longview of which the Beautiful Mystery Companion — aka my bride — and I have become quite fond. Cowboy Chicken sounds like an unhealthy food choice, but actually the bird is roasted and the side dishes are fresh vegetables. What a concept: Fresh, healthy food in East Texas, no less.
Anyway, seeing all those naked chickens spinning their way on a spit through the ring of fire to land on plates of hungry people reminded me of a fight I had with the Leander Police Department early this year over releasing police reports, at my last newspaper gig. After several weeks toiling in suburbia, I finally noticed that we were not publishing police reports from Leander, but we regularly ran the Cedar Park department’s list of miscreants. I asked our able editor, who said the department wouldn’t turn them over, that he had banged his head against the wall trying to get them to see wisdom, to no avail.
To an ink-stained, Freedom of Information stalwart like yours truly, those were fighting words. This is public information, by gosh, and no small-town department is going to keep us from what anyone has the right to obtain — the so-called first page of incident reports. Besides, police reports make for some really excellent reading. People do the dumbest things to end up in the blotter.
Just the other day a woman was arrested in Cedar Park for stabbing her husband because he was snoring. I must say I am entirely opposed to such behavior, out of a sense of self-preservation. We don’t want this type of response to spread. At least I don’t, having pleaded guilty to sawing logs on more than one occasion.
Anyway, I started out slowly in my quest to force the Leander police department to obey the law — a novel concept, admittedly, them being peace officers and all. I had a pleasant conversation with the city manager — a really nice guy who sadly has since passed away. As always, he was affable but made it clear I would have to work it out with the chief.
“It’s that chicken story,” he said. This was not the first time I had heard that rationale for why the Leander police department didn’t want to release police reports. The newspaper, long before I arrived, had supposedly run a police item describing in graphic detail a complaint about a man having sex with chickens. The words used were considerably more graphic. It was told as gospel truth that the newspaper had actually dropped the F-bomb in describing what had occurred.
I found this a bit hard to believe. Community newspapers — even mediocre or badly run ones — shy away from using profanity in their pages. The F-bomb generally tops the list of Words You Won’t See in a Family Newspaper. Of course, what can get into a small newspaper by accident is Katy-bar-the-door. I once single-handedly saved the Lufkin Daily News from running a photo caption that said, during the first Gulf War, “A soldier returns to base after sitting in a bunker for 12 hours.” That’s what the writer intended. An extra “h” in “sitting” gave a whole new meaning to the caption. There is little doubt this typo would have ended up in print — and probably on “The Letterman Show” — if I hadn’t just been walking by. Pure serendipity.
I went sleuthing, with help from the newspaper’s staff, and we found the offending Sex With Chickens story, written in 2005. It reads, in whole:
“June 6
At approximately 6 p.m., a 50-year-old woman came to the police department and told an officer that she wished to file a complaint regarding a man in the 300 block of North Brushy who she saw having sex with chickens.
According to the complainant, who lives next to the subject, two men live in the home, an older man who owns chickens, and a younger man who is stealing them and having sex with them, causing them to die. The woman refused to give further information and is not willing to work with the police department. It is undetermined whether the information is accurate, as there is no evidence supporting this charge. The case has been forwarded to investigators.”
First off, there is no way any self-respecting newspaper humanoid is going to keep this out of the paper. This is pure gold, folks. Every one of you, I predict, went “Oh, my gosh” upon reading that squib. It is what we used to call a water-cooler story, folks standing around talking about the piece. Today’s edition might have broken a major scandal at City Hall, or published a prize-winning thumb-sucker about sewer collection issues. No matter. The story that folks would be talking about is some crazy dude having Sex With Chickens.
We filed a complaint with the attorney general over the Leander PD’s refusal to release reports. I wrote the usual impassioned editorial, pointing out that if crime reports are secret, then residents don’t know if they’re living next to someone just arrested for child molestation, or if there has been a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. (“Rash” is one of those newspaper terms we pundits love. “Mull” is another one.)
Readers largely yawned, though a few attaboys came our way. The Leander PD, after a few more weeks of obfuscation, saw the light and began releasing reports. Another small victory for sunshine in government, I suppose. I am simply thankful we did our small part to make neighborhood chickens safe from sexual assault.
Anyway, seeing all those naked chickens spinning their way on a spit through the ring of fire to land on plates of hungry people reminded me of a fight I had with the Leander Police Department early this year over releasing police reports, at my last newspaper gig. After several weeks toiling in suburbia, I finally noticed that we were not publishing police reports from Leander, but we regularly ran the Cedar Park department’s list of miscreants. I asked our able editor, who said the department wouldn’t turn them over, that he had banged his head against the wall trying to get them to see wisdom, to no avail.
To an ink-stained, Freedom of Information stalwart like yours truly, those were fighting words. This is public information, by gosh, and no small-town department is going to keep us from what anyone has the right to obtain — the so-called first page of incident reports. Besides, police reports make for some really excellent reading. People do the dumbest things to end up in the blotter.
Just the other day a woman was arrested in Cedar Park for stabbing her husband because he was snoring. I must say I am entirely opposed to such behavior, out of a sense of self-preservation. We don’t want this type of response to spread. At least I don’t, having pleaded guilty to sawing logs on more than one occasion.
Anyway, I started out slowly in my quest to force the Leander police department to obey the law — a novel concept, admittedly, them being peace officers and all. I had a pleasant conversation with the city manager — a really nice guy who sadly has since passed away. As always, he was affable but made it clear I would have to work it out with the chief.
“It’s that chicken story,” he said. This was not the first time I had heard that rationale for why the Leander police department didn’t want to release police reports. The newspaper, long before I arrived, had supposedly run a police item describing in graphic detail a complaint about a man having sex with chickens. The words used were considerably more graphic. It was told as gospel truth that the newspaper had actually dropped the F-bomb in describing what had occurred.
I found this a bit hard to believe. Community newspapers — even mediocre or badly run ones — shy away from using profanity in their pages. The F-bomb generally tops the list of Words You Won’t See in a Family Newspaper. Of course, what can get into a small newspaper by accident is Katy-bar-the-door. I once single-handedly saved the Lufkin Daily News from running a photo caption that said, during the first Gulf War, “A soldier returns to base after sitting in a bunker for 12 hours.” That’s what the writer intended. An extra “h” in “sitting” gave a whole new meaning to the caption. There is little doubt this typo would have ended up in print — and probably on “The Letterman Show” — if I hadn’t just been walking by. Pure serendipity.
I went sleuthing, with help from the newspaper’s staff, and we found the offending Sex With Chickens story, written in 2005. It reads, in whole:
“June 6
At approximately 6 p.m., a 50-year-old woman came to the police department and told an officer that she wished to file a complaint regarding a man in the 300 block of North Brushy who she saw having sex with chickens.
According to the complainant, who lives next to the subject, two men live in the home, an older man who owns chickens, and a younger man who is stealing them and having sex with them, causing them to die. The woman refused to give further information and is not willing to work with the police department. It is undetermined whether the information is accurate, as there is no evidence supporting this charge. The case has been forwarded to investigators.”
First off, there is no way any self-respecting newspaper humanoid is going to keep this out of the paper. This is pure gold, folks. Every one of you, I predict, went “Oh, my gosh” upon reading that squib. It is what we used to call a water-cooler story, folks standing around talking about the piece. Today’s edition might have broken a major scandal at City Hall, or published a prize-winning thumb-sucker about sewer collection issues. No matter. The story that folks would be talking about is some crazy dude having Sex With Chickens.
We filed a complaint with the attorney general over the Leander PD’s refusal to release reports. I wrote the usual impassioned editorial, pointing out that if crime reports are secret, then residents don’t know if they’re living next to someone just arrested for child molestation, or if there has been a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. (“Rash” is one of those newspaper terms we pundits love. “Mull” is another one.)
Readers largely yawned, though a few attaboys came our way. The Leander PD, after a few more weeks of obfuscation, saw the light and began releasing reports. Another small victory for sunshine in government, I suppose. I am simply thankful we did our small part to make neighborhood chickens safe from sexual assault.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Joining the Seemingly Endless Commute
I have recently become a big-city commuter. I live in the exurbs of Austin — in a land of cookie-cutter houses — and drive daily to the University of Texas campus to draw a paycheck working a dream job. I’m a lucky guy.
The prospect of this commute worried me. I am not good with traffic issues, generally. It makes me crazy when I am headed back to East Texas on I-35, and everything just stops for no apparent reason. The most frustrating aspect of those sudden stoppages is that one has no idea why it is taking place, or how long it will be before things loosen up. Sometimes it is caused solely because a DPS trooper has pulled someone over, so everybody is shifting to the left lane as law requires. Other times it is a grisly wreck, at which passersby feel compelled to gawk, slowing down in the process.
I had to give myself a Patience Pep Talk upon moving back to the Big City, which is a far cry from driving Behind the Pine Curtain. So far it has largely worked, though the new job and commute will be a test of my ability to keep my cool. I estimate that 90 percent of the profanity I use — and this is an area where the older I get the choosier I am about letting loose a blue streak — is while driving alone in traffic. Doltish drivers just set me off, though not in a road rage, gonna-get-in-a-fistfight way. I’m too old and small for that type of foolishness.
Thus I confine my imprecations to the car’s interior. Hand gestures are kept below the dashboard. But I must say, there are some goofy drivers on the road, texting and applying mascara at the same time, or popping open a tall boy while smoking a cigarette. At least I think it was a cigarette. I didn’t want to get too close.
Traffic patterns baffle me. I have learned that if I am pulling out of my driveway at 6:50 a.m., then I’m in the office by 7:30. If I leave at 7:00 instead, it could be close to 8 before I arrive. The opposite is true when headed home. If I leave at straight-up 5:00, I won’t be back in this 2011 version of Levittown — where I live — until 6:00. But if I wait until 5:30 or 5:45, the commute time is cut nearly in half.
I occasionally take the train, but discovered it actually means a longer commute — and I’m at the mercy of CapMetro’s schedule. That means I have to leave my house no later than 6:30 a.m. to make it to work by 8:00. Coming home, if I miss the 6:44 p.m. connection — which means I must leave the office by 5:30 to catch the express bus to the station — I would have a very expensive cab ride back to where my car sits baking in the sun. So, even though I’m a bleeding-heart liberal who drives a hybrid and sips red wine, this whole train thing doesn’t work daily for me.
The art of seizing the moment — when a tiny gap occurs to switch lanes and thus gain a few hundred feet momentum on MoPac — is absolutely critical to cutting a few minutes off the drive. Cell phones have made this quite easy, since about half the folks on the pavement are texting or talking during the tortoise-like advance north at rush hour. Thank goodness our fearless governor preserved the constitutional rights of drivers to put themselves and others at dire risk, when he vetoed a bill that would have banned texting while driving. Maybe next, Gov. Goodhair will allow drivers to brown-bag their beer when they hit the road, as in the not-so-good ol’ days.
I’m kidding, of course, though I do find it fascinating that the folks most interested in regulating women’s bodies and what goes on behind closed doors between consenting adults get all constitutionalist when it comes to banning behavior that could kill innocent folks — and in fact already has.
Sorry. I have a lot of time to think about such matters while commuting.
Finally, though I stay calm while stuck in Austin traffic, it is a different story when back in East Texas. I get impatient if I’m stuck at a signal for more than 30 seconds on Eastman Road in Longview. I can’t explain this shift in attitude. At least I have plenty of time to ruminate on the topic while stuck on the Hwy. 183 flyover in North Austin, looking down on an endless river of vehicles.
The prospect of this commute worried me. I am not good with traffic issues, generally. It makes me crazy when I am headed back to East Texas on I-35, and everything just stops for no apparent reason. The most frustrating aspect of those sudden stoppages is that one has no idea why it is taking place, or how long it will be before things loosen up. Sometimes it is caused solely because a DPS trooper has pulled someone over, so everybody is shifting to the left lane as law requires. Other times it is a grisly wreck, at which passersby feel compelled to gawk, slowing down in the process.
I had to give myself a Patience Pep Talk upon moving back to the Big City, which is a far cry from driving Behind the Pine Curtain. So far it has largely worked, though the new job and commute will be a test of my ability to keep my cool. I estimate that 90 percent of the profanity I use — and this is an area where the older I get the choosier I am about letting loose a blue streak — is while driving alone in traffic. Doltish drivers just set me off, though not in a road rage, gonna-get-in-a-fistfight way. I’m too old and small for that type of foolishness.
Thus I confine my imprecations to the car’s interior. Hand gestures are kept below the dashboard. But I must say, there are some goofy drivers on the road, texting and applying mascara at the same time, or popping open a tall boy while smoking a cigarette. At least I think it was a cigarette. I didn’t want to get too close.
Traffic patterns baffle me. I have learned that if I am pulling out of my driveway at 6:50 a.m., then I’m in the office by 7:30. If I leave at 7:00 instead, it could be close to 8 before I arrive. The opposite is true when headed home. If I leave at straight-up 5:00, I won’t be back in this 2011 version of Levittown — where I live — until 6:00. But if I wait until 5:30 or 5:45, the commute time is cut nearly in half.
I occasionally take the train, but discovered it actually means a longer commute — and I’m at the mercy of CapMetro’s schedule. That means I have to leave my house no later than 6:30 a.m. to make it to work by 8:00. Coming home, if I miss the 6:44 p.m. connection — which means I must leave the office by 5:30 to catch the express bus to the station — I would have a very expensive cab ride back to where my car sits baking in the sun. So, even though I’m a bleeding-heart liberal who drives a hybrid and sips red wine, this whole train thing doesn’t work daily for me.
The art of seizing the moment — when a tiny gap occurs to switch lanes and thus gain a few hundred feet momentum on MoPac — is absolutely critical to cutting a few minutes off the drive. Cell phones have made this quite easy, since about half the folks on the pavement are texting or talking during the tortoise-like advance north at rush hour. Thank goodness our fearless governor preserved the constitutional rights of drivers to put themselves and others at dire risk, when he vetoed a bill that would have banned texting while driving. Maybe next, Gov. Goodhair will allow drivers to brown-bag their beer when they hit the road, as in the not-so-good ol’ days.
I’m kidding, of course, though I do find it fascinating that the folks most interested in regulating women’s bodies and what goes on behind closed doors between consenting adults get all constitutionalist when it comes to banning behavior that could kill innocent folks — and in fact already has.
Sorry. I have a lot of time to think about such matters while commuting.
Finally, though I stay calm while stuck in Austin traffic, it is a different story when back in East Texas. I get impatient if I’m stuck at a signal for more than 30 seconds on Eastman Road in Longview. I can’t explain this shift in attitude. At least I have plenty of time to ruminate on the topic while stuck on the Hwy. 183 flyover in North Austin, looking down on an endless river of vehicles.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Teens Perfect Art of Cellphone Self-Portraiture
My brand-new 13-year-old daughter is in love with my iPhone. One of her fondest wishes is that we buy her one. Well, if wishes were horses, and all that. Both her mother, my bride, and I agree that is an unnecessary expense — considering she has a laptop, iPod Touch and an adequate cell phone on which she can text faster than I can type. And I’m pretty fast.
What she loves to do most of all is take photos of herself. That is an activity that the latest model makes easy, since it allows one to switch the “viewfinder” so that you can see yourself on the screen and aren’t just shooting blind. No more trying to center one’s reflection in the silver apple on the back of the phone.
That was a brilliant move by Apple. Taking photos of oneself with a cellphone is clearly a national obsession with a wide swath of the younger generation, especially teen-aged girls. An added twist to these self-portraits is to use a mirror so that the finished result is an image that clearly shows the cellphone being used as a camera.
Abbie is quite creative in this new art. I admire her ability to shoot really amazing photos of herself, armed only with a cellphone camera and her imagination. The other day I stood in front of a mirror with my iPhone and attempted to recreate some of her interesting poses, with the horizon tilted, phone visible, big smile on my face. Of course, I looked like an idiot and quickly deleted these sad attempts. Do not try this at home if you are over the age of, say, 35. I’m being generous at that.
Girls in their teens definitely view this as the preferred way to create new Facebook profile photos. I confirmed this by checking Abbie’s Facebook page, which I do regularly as part of my parental duties. She doesn’t necessarily appreciate the snooping, but that is one of the rules for her being allowed to have a page. I personally am a minimal user of Facebook, mainly using it to alert folks I have a new column — and to keep up with my daughters.
The reality is that this social networking site has become the primary method of communication among a large portion of the younger populace. I still don’t know what to make of this phenomenon, though with more than 500 million active users, it is a safe bet that Facebook is not a temporary craze. I don’t have the same confidence that Twitter will be around years from now. But I learned some time ago not to predict the future on matters of technology — or anything else for that matter.
At least with Facebook there is a somewhat permanent record of the communication, which isn’t true with text-messaging. Young people have largely shunted aside email in favor of texting, to the point that a colleague told me she has to force students to email their communications instead of texting. It is pretty difficult to maintain a string of conversations with more than one person via texting, something that is straightforward with email.
Sorry, got sidetracked. Someone sent me a text.
I googled “iPhone self-portrait” and naturally was supplied with links to discussion boards and tips for taking better self-portraits. And, of course, there were links to dozens of folks who have posted self-portraits online, even made YouTube videos as they shot a photo of themselves. Now that’s complicated.
I found a fellow named Noah who, beginning in 2000, shot a photo of himself every day for six years, then made a six-minute video showing the results in rapid sequence. Noah is undoubtedly a creative, interesting young man, but after about two minutes I was sliding the fast forward control on YouTube. But it did reassure me that our 13-year-old is simply following a rather innocent trend with her cellphone self-portrait fascination.
Someday I might compile all her efforts into an Andy Warhol-like series on a single canvas and call it art. This might launch a new career, chronicling a pretty teen-age girl’s various poses in front of a mirror, phone held high. If not, at least I’ll have a cool collection of photos of our daughter at a special age.
What she loves to do most of all is take photos of herself. That is an activity that the latest model makes easy, since it allows one to switch the “viewfinder” so that you can see yourself on the screen and aren’t just shooting blind. No more trying to center one’s reflection in the silver apple on the back of the phone.
That was a brilliant move by Apple. Taking photos of oneself with a cellphone is clearly a national obsession with a wide swath of the younger generation, especially teen-aged girls. An added twist to these self-portraits is to use a mirror so that the finished result is an image that clearly shows the cellphone being used as a camera.
Abbie is quite creative in this new art. I admire her ability to shoot really amazing photos of herself, armed only with a cellphone camera and her imagination. The other day I stood in front of a mirror with my iPhone and attempted to recreate some of her interesting poses, with the horizon tilted, phone visible, big smile on my face. Of course, I looked like an idiot and quickly deleted these sad attempts. Do not try this at home if you are over the age of, say, 35. I’m being generous at that.
Girls in their teens definitely view this as the preferred way to create new Facebook profile photos. I confirmed this by checking Abbie’s Facebook page, which I do regularly as part of my parental duties. She doesn’t necessarily appreciate the snooping, but that is one of the rules for her being allowed to have a page. I personally am a minimal user of Facebook, mainly using it to alert folks I have a new column — and to keep up with my daughters.
The reality is that this social networking site has become the primary method of communication among a large portion of the younger populace. I still don’t know what to make of this phenomenon, though with more than 500 million active users, it is a safe bet that Facebook is not a temporary craze. I don’t have the same confidence that Twitter will be around years from now. But I learned some time ago not to predict the future on matters of technology — or anything else for that matter.
At least with Facebook there is a somewhat permanent record of the communication, which isn’t true with text-messaging. Young people have largely shunted aside email in favor of texting, to the point that a colleague told me she has to force students to email their communications instead of texting. It is pretty difficult to maintain a string of conversations with more than one person via texting, something that is straightforward with email.
Sorry, got sidetracked. Someone sent me a text.
I googled “iPhone self-portrait” and naturally was supplied with links to discussion boards and tips for taking better self-portraits. And, of course, there were links to dozens of folks who have posted self-portraits online, even made YouTube videos as they shot a photo of themselves. Now that’s complicated.
I found a fellow named Noah who, beginning in 2000, shot a photo of himself every day for six years, then made a six-minute video showing the results in rapid sequence. Noah is undoubtedly a creative, interesting young man, but after about two minutes I was sliding the fast forward control on YouTube. But it did reassure me that our 13-year-old is simply following a rather innocent trend with her cellphone self-portrait fascination.
Someday I might compile all her efforts into an Andy Warhol-like series on a single canvas and call it art. This might launch a new career, chronicling a pretty teen-age girl’s various poses in front of a mirror, phone held high. If not, at least I’ll have a cool collection of photos of our daughter at a special age.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
We Three (And Rosie) Are Now A Family
We met on a cold February afternoon 40 months ago, at a downtown coffee shop in Longview. Julie had emailed because she liked a column I had written about unpacking boxes of books, the simple pleasure of revisiting those old friends as I set up a new house. She suggested we have coffee and see if we might get better acquainted, possibly become friends. I agreed, intrigued. It turned out to be the most fruitful column I have produced in nearly 30 years.
I walked up the alley from the newspaper office at the appointed hour, reaching Green Street as Julie crossed, wearing a maroon raincoat, curly hair blowing in the winter breeze. She recognized my face from the newspaper mug shot and said my name. I said hers.
Talking about having me at hello.
We went inside for coffee, out for dinner the next night, a long walk the morning after that. We have been inseparable since, hanging on to each other through thick and thin — certainly enduring our share of the latter.
I told anyone who could tolerate listening that I had met my life’s love at that coffee shop, at that moment. Most folks nodded politely, figuring it was merely an infatuation that would eventually pale. It wasn’t, and it hasn’t.
Her daughter, Abbie, then 10, and I quickly bonded as well. The first time we met was at Pizza King. She was reading the fourth Harry Potter book, a beautiful child with porcelain skin and a quick wit. In the three-plus years since, we three have had grand adventures, to Washington, D.C., New England and Longhorn games each fall.
I stunned Julie by proposing on Thanksgiving night while on holiday in Wimberley nine months later. That morning all three of us had leaped into the Comal River, gasping with the shock of the cold water. First Julie jumped, then Abbie — both shivering and squealing about the frigid water. I had no choice but to follow, then quickly realized if I didn’t get out immediately I might suffer what Minny in Kathryn Stockett’s “The Help” called a “Cadillac arrest.” The hot tub never felt better than after that escapade.
When I handed the woman I call my Beautiful Mystery Companion a ring that night and asked for her hand, the day became forever known as When We Took The Plunge. Events conspired to keep us from getting married: a house too small for us that wouldn’t sell, job loss and relocation, yet another move and job change. Finally we concluded that if we waited for everything to be perfect, one or both of us would be returned to dust before we wed.
We married on a hot late-spring afternoon out in the East Texas countryside under a grove of trees, a dozen or so family members in attendance. Abbie, now 13 going on 20 most days, stood beside us. Now she is my daughter as well. Rosie the Wonder Dog carried our rings in a pouch tied around her furry neck, firmly secured with a leash. I happily will carry to my grave the image of Julie walking down the hill in her wedding dress, flowers in her hair, a bouquet in her hands. I forgot to breathe for several seconds. Abbie whispered to me something about how beautiful her mom looked while I nodded dumbly. Our preacher broke the silence. Birds chirped and cows lowed as we exchanged vows.
I’m grateful the event was recorded both on video and still photography. Everything is a bit of a blur for both of us, and it will be lovely to relive the event. Our honeymoon was brief with a longer trip planned later this summer. We still must live apart for a time because of our jobs. But we are a family, at long last.
It is humbling to realize that — at an age when movie theaters and museums give me the senior discount without asking — I get the chance to love again. We will raise Abbie together as best we can. My daughters have joyfully accepted her as their sister. Even Rosie likes me. (Of course, she likes everybody.)
I am truly blessed. We will have a grand life together, we three and Rosie.
I walked up the alley from the newspaper office at the appointed hour, reaching Green Street as Julie crossed, wearing a maroon raincoat, curly hair blowing in the winter breeze. She recognized my face from the newspaper mug shot and said my name. I said hers.
Talking about having me at hello.
We went inside for coffee, out for dinner the next night, a long walk the morning after that. We have been inseparable since, hanging on to each other through thick and thin — certainly enduring our share of the latter.
I told anyone who could tolerate listening that I had met my life’s love at that coffee shop, at that moment. Most folks nodded politely, figuring it was merely an infatuation that would eventually pale. It wasn’t, and it hasn’t.
Her daughter, Abbie, then 10, and I quickly bonded as well. The first time we met was at Pizza King. She was reading the fourth Harry Potter book, a beautiful child with porcelain skin and a quick wit. In the three-plus years since, we three have had grand adventures, to Washington, D.C., New England and Longhorn games each fall.
I stunned Julie by proposing on Thanksgiving night while on holiday in Wimberley nine months later. That morning all three of us had leaped into the Comal River, gasping with the shock of the cold water. First Julie jumped, then Abbie — both shivering and squealing about the frigid water. I had no choice but to follow, then quickly realized if I didn’t get out immediately I might suffer what Minny in Kathryn Stockett’s “The Help” called a “Cadillac arrest.” The hot tub never felt better than after that escapade.
When I handed the woman I call my Beautiful Mystery Companion a ring that night and asked for her hand, the day became forever known as When We Took The Plunge. Events conspired to keep us from getting married: a house too small for us that wouldn’t sell, job loss and relocation, yet another move and job change. Finally we concluded that if we waited for everything to be perfect, one or both of us would be returned to dust before we wed.
We married on a hot late-spring afternoon out in the East Texas countryside under a grove of trees, a dozen or so family members in attendance. Abbie, now 13 going on 20 most days, stood beside us. Now she is my daughter as well. Rosie the Wonder Dog carried our rings in a pouch tied around her furry neck, firmly secured with a leash. I happily will carry to my grave the image of Julie walking down the hill in her wedding dress, flowers in her hair, a bouquet in her hands. I forgot to breathe for several seconds. Abbie whispered to me something about how beautiful her mom looked while I nodded dumbly. Our preacher broke the silence. Birds chirped and cows lowed as we exchanged vows.
I’m grateful the event was recorded both on video and still photography. Everything is a bit of a blur for both of us, and it will be lovely to relive the event. Our honeymoon was brief with a longer trip planned later this summer. We still must live apart for a time because of our jobs. But we are a family, at long last.
It is humbling to realize that — at an age when movie theaters and museums give me the senior discount without asking — I get the chance to love again. We will raise Abbie together as best we can. My daughters have joyfully accepted her as their sister. Even Rosie likes me. (Of course, she likes everybody.)
I am truly blessed. We will have a grand life together, we three and Rosie.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A Cute Canine Business Opportunity
My fiancé and I were walking Rosie, the World’s Cutest Dog, the other day. I am quite certain at least some of you will take issue with me unilaterally bestowing that title on Rosie. Some of you might even be under the misapprehension that the World’s Cutest Dog resides at your house. There surely are a number of dogs owned by readers that are mighty cute. I have two grand-dogs, Zelda and Ernie, who live with my daughters and fall into that category. But both daughters would admit if pressed that Rosie has that cute thing going on in a major way. They want to stay in the will, for one thing.
An unfortunate encounter with an overzealous dog groomer temporarily took away much of Rosie’s cuteness, but after more than two months her fur is growing back as curly and goofy as ever. When in full cuteness mode, Rosie looks like a 10-pound version of Chewbacca, from “Star Wars.” She loves all humans, indeed all animals that don’t make too much noise. Yapping dogs make this puppy that never peeps nervous, but otherwise she loves all creatures great and small. Once my Beautiful Mystery Companion sent cell phone photos of Rosie wrestling playfully on the walking trail with a large tabby cat, who came up to say hello — perhaps sensing a kindred spirit. My BMC finally had to drag Rosie away as the tabby looked on mournfully.
When we walk, Rosie turns heads virtually without exception. She is always smiling, prances on her feet and makes passersby smile and invariably ask what breed. She’s a rescue mutt, a little of this and that. More than once someone has said, “If you don’t want her, I’ll sure take her.” This is an exceedingly strange comment probably meant as a compliment, but weird nonetheless. Why would we not want this adorable dog? Do we look unhappy that we’re out here on a breezy spring day enjoying God’s handiwork while walking the dog?
I often wonder what would happen if we said, “Yes, take her. We’re tired of being licked to death. Best of luck.” Not that we would dream of doing such a thing, but it’s interesting to imagine.
If Rosie could be cloned, and if such procedures didn’t make me exceedingly nervous, I have an excellent revenue-producing idea. We could rent the cloned Rosie (the original is too close to our hearts for crass commercialism) to single men and women looking for a way to break the ice with attractive members of the opposite sex walking on the trail. She is a proven walk-stopper. If a single attractive guy walked down the trail with this pooch, I guarantee women would constantly be stopping him to pet Rosie the Clone, ooh and aah. The rest, as the say, would be up to the couple in question, in terms of exchanging emails or phone numbers. Rosie, as they say, is a surefire chick magnet.
This would work well for women, though long experience indicates that men need the most help. The advantages are considerable. This beats meeting women in bars, which I never figured had a lot of future. We would keep rates low enough to compete with eHarmony or Match.com. Pet patrons would have the opportunity to see their potential match in person and not be at the mercy of an online posting of a photo taken 10 years and 50 pounds ago. Besides, someone that one meets on a walking trail clearly is interested in good health and fitness, which is a good trait.
Single fathers out with their babies or toddlers have long realized that a cute baby is a definite draw for women, who will come up and talk funny to the tyke. Renting out a baby, however, as a dating tool seems fraught with all sorts of legal and moral problems not faced with a mere dog.
I see definite franchising possibilities here, especially in neighborhoods with large numbers of single people who enjoy physical exercise. Hey, weirder business notions have worked.
An unfortunate encounter with an overzealous dog groomer temporarily took away much of Rosie’s cuteness, but after more than two months her fur is growing back as curly and goofy as ever. When in full cuteness mode, Rosie looks like a 10-pound version of Chewbacca, from “Star Wars.” She loves all humans, indeed all animals that don’t make too much noise. Yapping dogs make this puppy that never peeps nervous, but otherwise she loves all creatures great and small. Once my Beautiful Mystery Companion sent cell phone photos of Rosie wrestling playfully on the walking trail with a large tabby cat, who came up to say hello — perhaps sensing a kindred spirit. My BMC finally had to drag Rosie away as the tabby looked on mournfully.
When we walk, Rosie turns heads virtually without exception. She is always smiling, prances on her feet and makes passersby smile and invariably ask what breed. She’s a rescue mutt, a little of this and that. More than once someone has said, “If you don’t want her, I’ll sure take her.” This is an exceedingly strange comment probably meant as a compliment, but weird nonetheless. Why would we not want this adorable dog? Do we look unhappy that we’re out here on a breezy spring day enjoying God’s handiwork while walking the dog?
I often wonder what would happen if we said, “Yes, take her. We’re tired of being licked to death. Best of luck.” Not that we would dream of doing such a thing, but it’s interesting to imagine.
If Rosie could be cloned, and if such procedures didn’t make me exceedingly nervous, I have an excellent revenue-producing idea. We could rent the cloned Rosie (the original is too close to our hearts for crass commercialism) to single men and women looking for a way to break the ice with attractive members of the opposite sex walking on the trail. She is a proven walk-stopper. If a single attractive guy walked down the trail with this pooch, I guarantee women would constantly be stopping him to pet Rosie the Clone, ooh and aah. The rest, as the say, would be up to the couple in question, in terms of exchanging emails or phone numbers. Rosie, as they say, is a surefire chick magnet.
This would work well for women, though long experience indicates that men need the most help. The advantages are considerable. This beats meeting women in bars, which I never figured had a lot of future. We would keep rates low enough to compete with eHarmony or Match.com. Pet patrons would have the opportunity to see their potential match in person and not be at the mercy of an online posting of a photo taken 10 years and 50 pounds ago. Besides, someone that one meets on a walking trail clearly is interested in good health and fitness, which is a good trait.
Single fathers out with their babies or toddlers have long realized that a cute baby is a definite draw for women, who will come up and talk funny to the tyke. Renting out a baby, however, as a dating tool seems fraught with all sorts of legal and moral problems not faced with a mere dog.
I see definite franchising possibilities here, especially in neighborhoods with large numbers of single people who enjoy physical exercise. Hey, weirder business notions have worked.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Golf Is Flog Spelled Backwards
Golf is a good walk spoiled. — Mark Twain
Samuel Clemens must have never broken 80. That would have changed his outlook. I have shot in the 70s just five times. You remember such momentous events, though the last time I did so was more than 10 years ago. I lost my obsession with this game when I concluded:
• I will never be more than a mediocre golfer, able to shoot in the low 90s most days but perfectly capable of blowing up and busting the century mark.
• The game takes too much time. I should be more productive in my leisure hours.
• A sport where drinking is not only allowed but actually encouraged is not conducive to good health.
Golf has become a semi-annual event at most for me, usually in scrambles held for charity affairs. A scramble, for you non-golfers, is a tourney usually four people play as a team, using the best shot of the quartet. A scamble takes the pressure off hackers like me. Beer drinking is required, which improves neither my game nor my intelligence. Fortunately, it has the same effect on my teammates, so we enjoy ourselves. A nap invariably follows.
A buddy and I indulged in an inaugural 2011 round the other day, nine holes at Austin’s Hancock golf course, which is the original Austin Country Club founded in 1899. The back nine lies below the shopping center across the street. The remaining nine holes consist of hardpan fairways and sketchy greens. But it is cheap to play there, seldom crowded, and is one of the first courses I played after taking up the game 20 years ago.
We rented pull carts and began an unspoiled walk on a windy spring day. My first golf swing in nearly a year results in a soaring, string-straight tee shot that sailed over the par-three green. Five strokes later, the ball rolled into the cup. My short game is shot. Not to worry. I fully intended to enjoy this morning and not obsess over the score. Nothing was going to spoil this walk — even a three-putt from 12 feet away that any fool should make who is worth a flip at this infernal game that ought to be banned before it turns middle-aged guys like me into quivering mounds of anger. Sorry. Had a moment.
Golf courses have their share of characters, folks who play every day wearing attire one doesn’t expect to see on a golf course. Never bet with a golfer wearing overalls; they’ll take your money every time. Avoid toothless guys as well. There was a fellow nicknamed Chicken at the course I played in East Texas. He wasn’t entirely toothless but working on it. Chicken chain-smoked Camels, drank beer nonstop and bestowed free mini-golf lessons on hackers like me, whether you wanted them or not. Chicken would reward a topped tee shot that dribbled down the fairway, barely clearing the women’s tees with the comment, “That was hell for straight.”
I once played on the base course down in Corpus Christi with an older gentleman who early on said he was blind in one eye. He pointed to a tank parked rather incongruously near the teebox on which we stood. “That (expletive-deleted) tank is how I lost my eye.” I thought he meant in combat, but it was an errant tee shot that hit the tank, ricocheted back and hit him square in the eyeball. The fact that he still played golf on the same course where he lost half his vision is testimony to the game’s addictive power. I’m glad I was able to kick the habit before a similar mishap occurred.
I knew another fellow who was bitten by a copperhead while looking for his ball in the woods. He was out of commission a few months while his leg healed. This prompted establishment of the FYOB rule at this course, meaning, “find your own ball.” That rule was invoked by a golfing partner when I hit an approach shot on a par five that landed just short of the green. I was razzing him about the lovely shot, which outdistanced his by a good bit, when a fox came out of the woods, picked up my ball and trotted into the woods on the other side of the fairway. I guess the fox thought it was an egg.
“You know the rules,” he said. “You have to play it where it lies.”
Tough game. Tough crowd.
Samuel Clemens must have never broken 80. That would have changed his outlook. I have shot in the 70s just five times. You remember such momentous events, though the last time I did so was more than 10 years ago. I lost my obsession with this game when I concluded:
• I will never be more than a mediocre golfer, able to shoot in the low 90s most days but perfectly capable of blowing up and busting the century mark.
• The game takes too much time. I should be more productive in my leisure hours.
• A sport where drinking is not only allowed but actually encouraged is not conducive to good health.
Golf has become a semi-annual event at most for me, usually in scrambles held for charity affairs. A scramble, for you non-golfers, is a tourney usually four people play as a team, using the best shot of the quartet. A scamble takes the pressure off hackers like me. Beer drinking is required, which improves neither my game nor my intelligence. Fortunately, it has the same effect on my teammates, so we enjoy ourselves. A nap invariably follows.
A buddy and I indulged in an inaugural 2011 round the other day, nine holes at Austin’s Hancock golf course, which is the original Austin Country Club founded in 1899. The back nine lies below the shopping center across the street. The remaining nine holes consist of hardpan fairways and sketchy greens. But it is cheap to play there, seldom crowded, and is one of the first courses I played after taking up the game 20 years ago.
We rented pull carts and began an unspoiled walk on a windy spring day. My first golf swing in nearly a year results in a soaring, string-straight tee shot that sailed over the par-three green. Five strokes later, the ball rolled into the cup. My short game is shot. Not to worry. I fully intended to enjoy this morning and not obsess over the score. Nothing was going to spoil this walk — even a three-putt from 12 feet away that any fool should make who is worth a flip at this infernal game that ought to be banned before it turns middle-aged guys like me into quivering mounds of anger. Sorry. Had a moment.
Golf courses have their share of characters, folks who play every day wearing attire one doesn’t expect to see on a golf course. Never bet with a golfer wearing overalls; they’ll take your money every time. Avoid toothless guys as well. There was a fellow nicknamed Chicken at the course I played in East Texas. He wasn’t entirely toothless but working on it. Chicken chain-smoked Camels, drank beer nonstop and bestowed free mini-golf lessons on hackers like me, whether you wanted them or not. Chicken would reward a topped tee shot that dribbled down the fairway, barely clearing the women’s tees with the comment, “That was hell for straight.”
I once played on the base course down in Corpus Christi with an older gentleman who early on said he was blind in one eye. He pointed to a tank parked rather incongruously near the teebox on which we stood. “That (expletive-deleted) tank is how I lost my eye.” I thought he meant in combat, but it was an errant tee shot that hit the tank, ricocheted back and hit him square in the eyeball. The fact that he still played golf on the same course where he lost half his vision is testimony to the game’s addictive power. I’m glad I was able to kick the habit before a similar mishap occurred.
I knew another fellow who was bitten by a copperhead while looking for his ball in the woods. He was out of commission a few months while his leg healed. This prompted establishment of the FYOB rule at this course, meaning, “find your own ball.” That rule was invoked by a golfing partner when I hit an approach shot on a par five that landed just short of the green. I was razzing him about the lovely shot, which outdistanced his by a good bit, when a fox came out of the woods, picked up my ball and trotted into the woods on the other side of the fairway. I guess the fox thought it was an egg.
“You know the rules,” he said. “You have to play it where it lies.”
Tough game. Tough crowd.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Saying Farewell To My Mom
One of my earliest memories of my mom comes from when I was four, or possibly five. I was playing with one of those toys where kids pound plastic objects of different shapes into the corresponding shaped holes. As usual, I was trying to put a square peg in a round hole. My mom came outside to say she was going to the store and asked if I wanted to go with her. Normally I would have jumped at the chance and the prospect of perhaps talking my way into a piece of candy. But this time I said no, I would rather stay home and play.
She looked vaguely disappointed but said OK and left. I’m sure my dad was in the house or perhaps perched over his artist’s easel in the converted barn behind our house that served as his studio. She wouldn’t have left me alone at that young age. And as she turned the corner and started the car, I came to the realization, for the first time that I was separate from my mother, that I would always be me until I left this sphere. And she would always be my mom, until her time came.
Sadly, that time has arrived. My mom passed away at night last week with family at her side, fighting until nearly the very end. As I wrote a few months ago on her 81st birthday, my mom was a tough old bird. But it was time for the fight to end, for her to have peace. Our family came to accept that. After more surgeries than we can recall — heart, hip, tailbone, gall bladder, neck — her body shut down over four days until she just slipped away while unconscious.
My mom was hell on wheels when I was a kid. There’s no getting around that. She was tough and willing to go toe-to-toe with me when I was a smart-aleck teenager. (Short as I am, I still had four inches on her. I come from a long line of short people, including my mom.) I learned to avoid her wrath, and truth be told, I was about half scared of her. So were my brothers.
I became independent financially and personally at a young age, 17, similar to the path my mother took and probably for the same reasons. Neither of us liked being told what to do, though of course you eventually learn someone is going to be telling you what to do the rest of your life — boss, spouse, caregiver. The latter term is what best describes my mom’s greatest achievement. She was trained as a nurse but didn’t work much outside of the home when we three boys were under the roof, though she did teach nurse aides classes in Longview for a few years.
In 1990, my father became disabled at 59 because of a botched surgery. That is when my mom became truly a shining star. For the next 17 years, until I took over and placed them both in assisted living, she cared for my father at home. She took him to doctor’s appointments, cooked, cleaned, and made sure he took the medications that covered an entire shelf in the kitchen. She paid the bills, filed insurance claims and continued to take pleasure in her six grandchildren.
It wore her out. By the time we figured out neither of our parents could safely stay in their home anymore, she had become a brittle diabetic. Worse, she kept losing her car in the parking lot of the doctor’s office. Even worse, she thought she owned a black Maxima. It was a bronze Altima.
In her final years, my mom mellowed tremendously. After my dad’s death a little over two years ago, she lived alone in nursing care, loved by the staff for her good humor and even disposition. Even in the last days, when she could still talk, she invariably answered the question of how she was feeling with, “Pretty good.”
She cared for my dad and lived out her last years with dignity and grace. That befitted her name: Grace Adrian Bourque Borders.
She looked vaguely disappointed but said OK and left. I’m sure my dad was in the house or perhaps perched over his artist’s easel in the converted barn behind our house that served as his studio. She wouldn’t have left me alone at that young age. And as she turned the corner and started the car, I came to the realization, for the first time that I was separate from my mother, that I would always be me until I left this sphere. And she would always be my mom, until her time came.
Sadly, that time has arrived. My mom passed away at night last week with family at her side, fighting until nearly the very end. As I wrote a few months ago on her 81st birthday, my mom was a tough old bird. But it was time for the fight to end, for her to have peace. Our family came to accept that. After more surgeries than we can recall — heart, hip, tailbone, gall bladder, neck — her body shut down over four days until she just slipped away while unconscious.
My mom was hell on wheels when I was a kid. There’s no getting around that. She was tough and willing to go toe-to-toe with me when I was a smart-aleck teenager. (Short as I am, I still had four inches on her. I come from a long line of short people, including my mom.) I learned to avoid her wrath, and truth be told, I was about half scared of her. So were my brothers.
I became independent financially and personally at a young age, 17, similar to the path my mother took and probably for the same reasons. Neither of us liked being told what to do, though of course you eventually learn someone is going to be telling you what to do the rest of your life — boss, spouse, caregiver. The latter term is what best describes my mom’s greatest achievement. She was trained as a nurse but didn’t work much outside of the home when we three boys were under the roof, though she did teach nurse aides classes in Longview for a few years.
In 1990, my father became disabled at 59 because of a botched surgery. That is when my mom became truly a shining star. For the next 17 years, until I took over and placed them both in assisted living, she cared for my father at home. She took him to doctor’s appointments, cooked, cleaned, and made sure he took the medications that covered an entire shelf in the kitchen. She paid the bills, filed insurance claims and continued to take pleasure in her six grandchildren.
It wore her out. By the time we figured out neither of our parents could safely stay in their home anymore, she had become a brittle diabetic. Worse, she kept losing her car in the parking lot of the doctor’s office. Even worse, she thought she owned a black Maxima. It was a bronze Altima.
In her final years, my mom mellowed tremendously. After my dad’s death a little over two years ago, she lived alone in nursing care, loved by the staff for her good humor and even disposition. Even in the last days, when she could still talk, she invariably answered the question of how she was feeling with, “Pretty good.”
She cared for my dad and lived out her last years with dignity and grace. That befitted her name: Grace Adrian Bourque Borders.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Busking on Sixth Street
Busking — Chiefly British: To entertain by dancing, singing, or reciting on the street or in a public place. (From dictionary.com.)
|———|
Guy Forsyth said while on stage in Longview a few weeks ago that he started out busking in Austin, a word with which I was just vaguely familiar. I thought I knew what it meant, but I have learned not to rely on guesswork when it comes to words I don’t really know. Such carelessness has caused past problems when I mangle words, using them in the opposite way as intended. Once I used “opprobrium” when I should have used “approbation.” The latter means approval, the former the opposite. If I had good sense, I would have used neither, since I was unsuccessfully trying to pretend I own an extensive vocabulary. An alert reader pointed out my error. It was a humbling experience.
Forsyth is a popular and frequent performer on the Austin scene whose reputation has spread. A friend first alerted me to his music four years ago. He adeptly plays guitar, harmonica, ukulele and the saw, on which he wobbles a haunting version of Gershwin’s “Summertime” at most shows. His voice is his greatest instrument, with a wide range as he sings in a genre his website describes as Americana and blues. He works hard, playing the other night in front of perhaps 75 appreciative folks at the Longview Museum of Fine Arts. The museum in my hometown hosts a fine music series that features folks one often sees in Austin — including in the past few years Jimmy LaFave, Eliza Gilkyson and Slaid Cleaves. It’s quite a treat to see such stellar artists in a cozy venue, so I make a point of catching these shows when possible.
Guy, his band and I share a couple of bathroom experiences. The last time I saw him before Longview was three years ago at Antone’s in downtown Austin. I was with a group of friends and family. Guy and I ended up in the bathroom together. I recognized him, of course, as we both stood facing the wall. “Good luck, tonight, Guy,” I said. He said thanks. That seemed to be stretching the limits of conversation one should have in a men’s bathroom with a stranger, even a semi-famous one, so I stopped at that, not wanting to violate men’s bathroom-conversation protocol.
|———|
I headed toward Longview early on a Friday afternoon, figuring I would make it to Guy’s concert with 90 minutes to spare. Just south of Belton traffic suddenly stopped on I-35 in that sickening way that anyone has experienced, if they have traveled this “Highway From Hell,” which is what I would call this interstate if it starred in a movie. Drivers go from 75 mph to zip in seconds and for the next 30 minutes crawl along. I had no idea why and how long the delay would be, so began plotting an escape route by cell with help from my fiancé and her brother, who works for the highway department. If I could just get to the exit, I would cut across on a different highway and avoid I-35, which could be a parking lot all the way to Waco, where I start heading east.
Before I got to the exit I came upon the wreck, which involved a couple of 18-wheelers — one of which was hauling carnival rides and ended up upside-down, straddling the median and tying up both sides of I-35. I arrived about 45 minutes later than planned but still made the concert in time.
As it turns out, Guy and his two band members, traveling in a white box van, were stuck in the same traffic jam. He apologized while tuning up just minutes before showtime. There was a terrible wreck on I-35. Later, during a break, I end up next to his drummer in the dual restroom line and ask her if it was the same accident that waylaid my journey. Turns out we were likely within a few hundred yards of each other. We should have saved gas and shared a ride.
|———|
A few weeks later I wandered Sixth Street on a hot Sunday afternoon during the Pecan Street Festival and happened along a world-weary busker. He was a one-man band, sweat-soaked and wearing a fedora, a drum and cymbal contraption strapped on his back and operated with a foot strap, a banjo in front, a harmonic rack in front of his mouth. He was about my age, I figure, flirting with the double-nickel. Painted on his drum was a caricature of the musician and the words, “MR. TOJANGLES, ONE-MAN BAND.” He did a credible version of “Blue Moon,” and received several dollar bills in the glass tip jar propped in the banjo case.
I joined others in filming his performance with my iPhone and tossed in a buck as well. This is hard work, especially when the temperature is knocking on 100 degrees. My hat goes off to all those street musicians who start out on street corners, hoping someday like Guy Forsyth, to get to play at places like Antone’s. But even Guy has to hit the road and play modest-paying venues like the Longview museum. For that, I’m grateful.
Originally published in The Hill Country News, (Cedar Park, Texas), May 19, 2011.
|———|
Guy Forsyth said while on stage in Longview a few weeks ago that he started out busking in Austin, a word with which I was just vaguely familiar. I thought I knew what it meant, but I have learned not to rely on guesswork when it comes to words I don’t really know. Such carelessness has caused past problems when I mangle words, using them in the opposite way as intended. Once I used “opprobrium” when I should have used “approbation.” The latter means approval, the former the opposite. If I had good sense, I would have used neither, since I was unsuccessfully trying to pretend I own an extensive vocabulary. An alert reader pointed out my error. It was a humbling experience.
Forsyth is a popular and frequent performer on the Austin scene whose reputation has spread. A friend first alerted me to his music four years ago. He adeptly plays guitar, harmonica, ukulele and the saw, on which he wobbles a haunting version of Gershwin’s “Summertime” at most shows. His voice is his greatest instrument, with a wide range as he sings in a genre his website describes as Americana and blues. He works hard, playing the other night in front of perhaps 75 appreciative folks at the Longview Museum of Fine Arts. The museum in my hometown hosts a fine music series that features folks one often sees in Austin — including in the past few years Jimmy LaFave, Eliza Gilkyson and Slaid Cleaves. It’s quite a treat to see such stellar artists in a cozy venue, so I make a point of catching these shows when possible.
Guy, his band and I share a couple of bathroom experiences. The last time I saw him before Longview was three years ago at Antone’s in downtown Austin. I was with a group of friends and family. Guy and I ended up in the bathroom together. I recognized him, of course, as we both stood facing the wall. “Good luck, tonight, Guy,” I said. He said thanks. That seemed to be stretching the limits of conversation one should have in a men’s bathroom with a stranger, even a semi-famous one, so I stopped at that, not wanting to violate men’s bathroom-conversation protocol.
|———|
I headed toward Longview early on a Friday afternoon, figuring I would make it to Guy’s concert with 90 minutes to spare. Just south of Belton traffic suddenly stopped on I-35 in that sickening way that anyone has experienced, if they have traveled this “Highway From Hell,” which is what I would call this interstate if it starred in a movie. Drivers go from 75 mph to zip in seconds and for the next 30 minutes crawl along. I had no idea why and how long the delay would be, so began plotting an escape route by cell with help from my fiancé and her brother, who works for the highway department. If I could just get to the exit, I would cut across on a different highway and avoid I-35, which could be a parking lot all the way to Waco, where I start heading east.
Before I got to the exit I came upon the wreck, which involved a couple of 18-wheelers — one of which was hauling carnival rides and ended up upside-down, straddling the median and tying up both sides of I-35. I arrived about 45 minutes later than planned but still made the concert in time.
As it turns out, Guy and his two band members, traveling in a white box van, were stuck in the same traffic jam. He apologized while tuning up just minutes before showtime. There was a terrible wreck on I-35. Later, during a break, I end up next to his drummer in the dual restroom line and ask her if it was the same accident that waylaid my journey. Turns out we were likely within a few hundred yards of each other. We should have saved gas and shared a ride.
|———|
A few weeks later I wandered Sixth Street on a hot Sunday afternoon during the Pecan Street Festival and happened along a world-weary busker. He was a one-man band, sweat-soaked and wearing a fedora, a drum and cymbal contraption strapped on his back and operated with a foot strap, a banjo in front, a harmonic rack in front of his mouth. He was about my age, I figure, flirting with the double-nickel. Painted on his drum was a caricature of the musician and the words, “MR. TOJANGLES, ONE-MAN BAND.” He did a credible version of “Blue Moon,” and received several dollar bills in the glass tip jar propped in the banjo case.
I joined others in filming his performance with my iPhone and tossed in a buck as well. This is hard work, especially when the temperature is knocking on 100 degrees. My hat goes off to all those street musicians who start out on street corners, hoping someday like Guy Forsyth, to get to play at places like Antone’s. But even Guy has to hit the road and play modest-paying venues like the Longview museum. For that, I’m grateful.
Originally published in The Hill Country News, (Cedar Park, Texas), May 19, 2011.
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