Thunder, Lightning and Patience

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March 19, 2022, Brunswick, GA- The young lady looked at the stuck register and tried, several times, to process my modest dinner transaction. When a teenager has trouble with technology-the struggle is definitely real. The manager came and got the machine back on track, while simultaneously dealing with what looked like a HUGE order that had somehow been messed up by the kitchen staff. Such was Saturday night at the Zaxby’s, in Dublin, GA, a place that first won my heart a few years back. It’s nothing special, in the wider scheme of things, but the kids took good care of me in 2018, the last time I was down this way, flustered and looking for a place to spend the night.. There’s a different crew now, of course, but some of the same people, who were having dinner there then, were there tonight. A boy who must have been no more than five, the last time, somehow remembered me and waved hello.

Patience was definitely the order of the day, once I got to Budget Rent-a-Car’s facility, near Hartsfield. Airport car rentals are almost always swamped, but today every rental company’s staff was telling their customers the same thing: “Plan on one or two hours of waiting, folks. Our vehicle turnaround staff is shorthanded.” I was long ago gifted with the ability to see what other people are enduring, thanks to Mom, who instilled that in us. So, sitting calmly on the floor by a support beam and passing the time by watching and listening to people, who were in the same boat as I was, was not a huge deal.

Ninety minutes after I was let off by the Uber driver from Newnan, I was in my own vehicle- a black Hyundai Sonata, replete with push button starter, touch gears and a cruise control system that slows down automatically, when the vehicle is getting close to the one in front. There is also the safety tone that goes off when another vehicle is in one’s blind spot and a screen warning, if one drifts a bit and the car hits the lane bumps: “It may be time to take a break.”

When I neared Savannah, some 70 miles north of here, the rain started in earnest. Once in Brunswick, the thunder and lightning joined in the festivities. Fortunately, my time outside in the fracas was limited, as both of my bags could be carried in at once. Yes, this time, Mr. Bring-the-Household Along has managed to confine himself to a modicum of items. Gone are the days when I will be seen trudging along, underneath three or four bags, trying to find the door to the night’s lodging.

I will be here in Brunswick until Monday morning, with a possible jaunt up to Savannah tomorrow afternoon, weather-permitting. It was a supremely lovely visit with my Atlanta area family, and I look forward to equally enjoyable, if briefer, time with family and friends around the periphery of peninsular Florida, over the next twelve days or so.

Spring is about to get sprung!

A Picasso Immersion

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March 17, 2022, Newnan, GA- The conflict in Ukraine brings up images of Pablo Picasso’s Guernica, at least for me. Thus today’s visit to the Picasso Immersion, at the Pullman Warehouse Exhibition Hall, in Atlanta’s Five Points area, was particularly poignant. Guernica, for the unitiated, is the large painting in the center of this montage of Picasso’s cubist works.

Picasso’s works, from 1890-1960,were largely his reaction to the horrific World Wars, Spanish Civil War and what he saw as the rise of materialism. Pablo Picasso had his own mind about the political reality of the day and would depict those he regarded as corrupt and decadent, in a monstrous manner-representing Francisco Franco, for example, as a pile of inedible food, in Guernica, itself named for a village in northern Spain that had been bombed by Franco’s forces during the Spanish Civil War.

Picasso was a varied artist, though, and was able to represent people beloved to him, in a more conventional manner. He wrote poetry as well, such as the autobiographical “A Lonely Road Is That I Walked”:

“I walk a lonely road, the one and only one I’ve ever known.
I don’t know where it goes, but I keep walking on and on.
I walked the lonely and un trodden road for I was walking on the bridge
of the broken dreams.
I don’t know what the world is fighting for or why I am being instigated.
It’s for this that I walk this lonely road for I wish to be
ALONE!
So I am breaking up, breaking up.
It is the lack of self control that I feared as there is something
Inside me that pulls the need to surface, consuming, confusing.
Being called Weird, I walk this lonely road for on the verge of broken dreams.
And so I walk this lonely road and so just keep walking still” – pablo picasso

Like e.e. cummings after him, Picasso created in a self-deprecating fashion. He was somewhat devoted to his children, who were the only people allowed in his studio, while he worked. From the 1920s until the end of World War II, he hobnobbed with the avant-garde, in the south of France, only occasionally returning to Spain, for short periods of time. He reacted to what he saw as crass materialism, by becoming a Communist after World War II and continuing to depict members of the economic and social elite, in unflattering ways.

Picasso has always been a source of fascination to me, although admittedly an acquired taste, and requiring of considerable pondering and rumination, as to the meaning of his surrealist work. This immersion event has whetted my appetite for exploration of other great artists of our time and of earlier eras.

There was no corned beef and cabbage for us, today. The crew gathered for St. Patrick’s Day dinner, at a Taco Max in Dunwoody, north of Atlanta, and enjoyed fairly copious amounts of guacamole-along with rather good Mexican dishes. The children have their own take on everything, much like Senor Picasso. I hope to see them reach for the stars and not suffer undue hardship. It was a rare, but most enjoyable visit with our Dunwoody family.

May art, and creativity, ever be honoured and encouraged.

The Trumpeters

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March 16, 2022, Newnan, GA- Three trumpeter swans, mother, father and son, make the rounds of Lake Redwine, an artificial lake around which many new homes on the west side of this relatively serene town in west Georgia have sprung up in recent years. I am here, for three days, visiting my middle brother and his wife.

The swans, for years, kept other water fowl, particularly ducks, from settling in around the lake. An attack on the mother swan, by a snapping turtle, three years ago, resulted in her losing her lower beak. This seems to have mellowed out the trio. They have turned inward, reverting to the cygnine behaviour of parents bullying their cygnet into leaving the nest, once it comes of age. So far, it has not worked. Dutiful son still looks after his mother, even if it seems she may want him to move on.

How close to human are these opposing behaviours? The difference is that the birds are acting on instinct. Humans, with the powers of reason and utterance, still manage to hold grudges and thrive on half-truths. I will not give any specific examples, out of respect to those involved, but I keep learning of families in which parents and children push each other away, and not always out of a desire to see the other become self-sufficient.

With the swans, there are winners: The offspring get to start their own family and the parents can hatch a new set of cygnets. With humans, the hits often just keep on coming.

Humility and forgiveness-are these so impossible?

A Tale from 2007

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March 5, 2022- It has now been eleven years, since Penny winged her flight to be with our Lord. As her passage took place on a Saturday, this day was especially poignant. Having been in Phoenix, and the cemetery, on Thursday took some of the edge off of this day’s ambiance. I also followed my Saturday morning routine, and having a Baha’i Zoom devotional, that was itself based in Phoenix, as part of that routine was also a plus.

Ten of our twenty-nine years together were spent in Phoenix. Although the community is large and the people are quite busy with their daily lives, Penny made a positive impression on a lot of people. Her joie de vivre was irrepressible, almost to the end. She did not use her disability as an excuse to refrain from living her faith. Fifteen years ago, in the midst of her decline in mobility, and just after she had to be wheelchair bound, we were invited to attend a prayer meeting that was on the second floor of an apartment complex, and there was no elevator.

She asked me to help her to the stairs, and proceeded to carefully climb the stairs, on her hands and knees, reversing the process by coming down each step on her buttocks when the meeting was over. I brought the empty wheelchair up and down, standing behind, then in front of her, as was prudent. The device was her chair while we were in the apartment.

There went a genuine hero.

A Simple Message

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March 3, 2022- The little toddler looked over at me, from her booster seat, and began to twirl her still-wrapped straw, as other family members were eating. I was waiting for my own meal to be served, so I picked up my still-wrapped straw and began to play with it, thus engaging the child for a bit. Across the room, the bartender/server was watching me, with some consternation, until her busser remarked that there was a baby involved. Thus, I avoided being carted off by the White Coat Squad.

The day had started with a check of my Saturn’s computer system, and a reset of one of the warning lights. That done, I headed to Phoenix, and commemorated Penny’s passing, which was eleven years ago, this Saturday. Flowers, prayers and reflection at the gravesite do not minimize her remaining spiritual presence, all these years later. At the end of my day in the city, an hour or so was spent with a resilient soul, who has cultivated paternal and avuncular relationships with a good many young people, the world over. I cannot hold a candle to “Uncle Lal”, in that regard.

Getting back to the initial story: I had stopped at a steak house, just southeast of Prescott Valley, which I hadn’t visited in over a year. I like taking one of the high top tables, which are just suited for either single diners or couples. Across from my table was the family of five, including the engaging little girl. In between her acceptance of bites of food offered by her mother, she would hold up two fingers and point to herself, which I took to mean that she was two. Then she would point at me, and again at herself, and hold up two fingers.

It was a simple message, recognizing that none of us are ever really alone.

Red Hearts, Not Broken

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February 14, 2022- Short of being on a trail or on a journey of connection and observation, there is no place that I’d rather be than surrounded by the energy and ingenuity of youth. This is what keeps me going into schools, on occasion, over a year after official retirement. This, and continuing to notice the occasions when children and youth are treated in less than stellar fashion.

My own parenting skills were not A+, but there was never a time when Son was not loved and treated in a respectful manner, befitting his age. He was accustomed to hardship, during the time of his mother’s illness. He was still very much front and center, for both of us. It is thus, that Aram is a compassionate and loving husband, and should it be their wish, he and Yunhee will make loving parents.

The people with whom I spent the day, today, for the most part showed all the signs of being well-tended and loved. There are many reasons, none good, why people don’t show their children the love they deserve. There is one major reason why those who are worthy parents step up and raise their kids well: They themselves are grounded and have a clear vision of what the next generation, and the one after that, should be.

My siblings and I had that sort of upbringing, and it is with my gratitude that Mother is still with us and able to see her grandchildren-and great-grandchildren also turning out to be strong, forward-looking, compassionate people. Their hearts have not been broken, and I pray that remains ever so.

Likewise, I will continue to work to mend the hearts that are broken and keep the rest whole. The cliche is right: It shouldn’t hurt to be a child- or for that matter, to be human.

Unk

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February 11, 2022- Tim Lynch was the biggest kid in the room, and lit up that room as soon as he entered. He was one of those who held that “Close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes”-with the caveat that no one ever even think of bringing the former anywhere near his place. Horseshoes, the game, was a different matter, and each Labour Day weekend, for at least the seven years of my adolescence, the extended family found its way to the backyard of Tim and Margie Lynch. I got close several times, and may have even landed a ringer, or two, but Uncle Timmy almost always piled his shoes around the stake.

He was a classic Irish boyo, roguish in a way, but always a man’s man. He knew the value of hard work, and gave his best in his chosen occupation. Once the party started, though, Tim gave that his best as well. Whether in the small backyard in Lynn, Massachusetts or at the beach in either Seabrook or Salisbury, any time spent with Uncle Tim and Aunt Margie was the highest form of memorable.

He was also a man of character. When one of my cousins made snarky comments about another relative, Tim shot the kid down, posthaste. His love for his family was never more clear, on the day when one of his daughters and her little family were left homeless, after one of the worst apartment fires in Lynn’s history. When it was necessary to crowd into the house for a while, that’s what was done. The shattering moment of his beloved wife’s untimely passing, in 2000, brought a change in his demeanor, and the parties became quieter, less frequent-but he never lost his love of life.

Timothy D. Lynch was one of the last of my paternal uncles by marriage. He left the Blessed Mess behind, very early this morning, but he also left us with two sons and two daughters -having taught them to be nobody’s fools and to carry themselves proudly. He taught his nieces and nephews to never look down their noses at anyone-especially not at ourselves. Rest in Paradise, Unk.

Their Presence

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February 9, 2022- The little girl hovered around, while her parents were engaged in a teleconference. Occasionally, one of them would answer her question, whilst muting themselves. She still wanted to hear much of what was being said, and so kept a discrete but noticeable presence, to the side of the camera.

The comely young woman posted that she liked me, and asked if we might be friends. Doing a courteous bit of diligence, I saw the likely reason for her out-of-the-blue comment: All of her friends, and several of the posters on her page, were from a part of the world known for grifters. She herself may or may not have had a sincere interest in befriending a man old enough to be her grandfather, but I’ve been among the people whom she counts as online friends, and the hands are outstretched, 24/7. I took a pass.

Noon at a local bakery/restaurant is packed solid, yet I found a table in the sunny patio. Most of those present were my age or older, lunch being one of the prime social hours of the day. I was pleasantly surprised that my simple order took less than ten minutes to reach the table. That speaks well of the perks of simplicity. I wished the crowd a very fine afternoon.

Today was my self-imposed deadline to get a Valentine’s card to Mother, in the mail. Every year I can send cards, and small gifts, for the days set aside for her being honoured is a very good year. Her presence means the world, as long as she is feeling well and happy-and, all the more, of sound mind.

What Makes Me Proud

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February 8, 2022-

What makes me proud of the man I helped raise? His work ethic, independent frame of mind, commitment to the well-being of humanity, love for his wife and maintaining self-care. What makes me proud of the young people I help educate? Their day-to-day enthusiasm, even when it is a bit loud; concern for one another and for the adults who show them respect; open-mindedness, even towards those whose beliefs seem antiquated; dogged pursuit of truth; gradual and steady outreach to those who are marginalized. What makes me proud of my community? The commitment to virtuous behaviour, even when it flies in the face of demands made by those towards whom some feel obligated to show fealty; the standing up for what one believes, whilst for the most part letting opposite points of view be openly expressed; the commitment to open space and increasing willingness to conserve resources. What makes me proud to bear witness to my Faith? It is based on the oneness of humanity; owning up to, and working to shed, prejudices and other flaws; independent investigation of truth, not dependent on group pressure or self-aggrandizement; the equality of women to men.

I am proud to be part of a world where the best among us work to empower one another, to show respect, even to those who disrespect us.

Random Thoughts On The Passing Scene

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February 7, 2021- I had a relatively productive day, getting a Special Needs child to do what her lead teacher said was a prodigious amount of work. That the child let me know when she’d had enough, in a nice way, was certainly fair, and she got a break for the last half hour.

The title of today’s post is borrowed from the great Thomas Sowell, with whom I have rarely agreed, but whose tone has always been respectful towards those of other viewpoints and whose diction has always been impeccable. Dr. Sowell’s columns of this ilk would touch on three or four items of general interest. This post will look at three such topics.

I am curious, as to why Supreme Court Associate Justice Clarence Thomas joined in a ruling that stayed a prior ruling, by a lower court, which would have nullified redistricting maps for Congressional seats, in the State of Alabama. Then again, he ruled earlier, with the majority of the Court, that much of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 was antiquated and thus worthy of disposal. It is likely that the good Justice feels he will vote anyway, when the spirit moves, and needs no special fiat from Congress, or any other organization. He’s right in that respect, and it should always have been thus. Reality, though, oftentimes needs a nudge. No one in their right mind is going to tell an Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court to shuffle on down the road. As for those among the Joe and Jane Sixpacks of the nation, who happen to be African-American, the facts sometimes tell a different story. We have a long way to go, in the area of bona fide equality between the “races”. Going backwards should never be on the table.

Nina O’Brien, one of the top members of the United States Olympic Skiing Team, suffered a debilitating leg injury, in yesterday’s competition, at the Beijing Games. My parental mode kicked into gear, at this news. The heart hurts when any young person hurts, especially when the person is acting responsibly and in good faith. Active sport always entails a risk, as does any vigourous activity. Nonetheless, and even though this particular Games event is unlikely to turn out to be an American medals blowout, my heart goes out to everyone who has made the effort to keep this a sporting event, and not a High Five for authoritarian excess.

On a more personal note, in planning a combination observational and family/friends visit to the Southeast, from mid-March to mid-April, I came upon an eponymous soul, who is one of the management team at a botanical garden, in southwest Florida. He says he’ll be glad to meet me, and likewise. There are only about a half dozen of us, so this interesting encounter will likely be far more personally affirming than, say, a gathering of the John Smith Association or Mohammad Ali Society, if such entities even exist. That said, my best to everyone named John Smith, or Mohammad Ali.