The Pittsburgh Eagles Are Back

When I was in the service, about the time spring had arrived, I received a letter from my girlfriend back home.  She said that she had been walking past the living room where her father was listening to the baseball game on the radio, and that it gave her the feeling that in spite of all of the turmoil and trouble in the world, everything was in its place, and all would be well.

 

This is kind of like that.  Without regard to the economic situation, or the wars taking place around the world, the beautiful mated pair of Bald Eagles have returned to their nest in Pittsburgh.  And amidst the noise of passing trains, a nearby recycling facility, and the bicycle trail below where eagle watchers squeal and point and gaze up at them with binoculars, this drama is being played out once more.  It's the promise of spring in all of its natural glory... and, it's seeing old friends return.

 

I vowed that I wouldn't get all caught up in it like I did the last time.  I wouldn't get all mushy about it and stay up all night watching the webcam as the female bravely stood guard during a rain or snowstorm until morning when I would count the eggs along with the male we call Dad.  I wouldn't worry about the raccoons that would try to raid the nest in the middle of the night when the infrared camera allowed me to see the female fending them off with her razor-sharp talons.  I wouldn't again be moved to tears when learning of a nest in a different location being turned over in a windstorm, and of the heart-breaking reaction of the female as she helplessly witnessed the falling chick. Yet, there I am, once again.

 

It's the greatest nature documentary you'll ever watch.  It's the ultimate reality show taking place live and in this very moment.  It's the most exciting sporting event ever telecast, and you're there with your fellow fans, cheering on the home team, crossing your fingers, clutching your good luck charm, praying to God that all will be well.

 

Last year the pair raised three eaglets to the time when they fledged, a feat the eagle experts in the chat room tell us is a rarity.  Can they do as well again?

 

Right now, we're watching the reinforcement of the nest, a task the pair don't always seem to agree upon, but it's fun to watch.  Sometime within the next month, the first egg is expected, and maybe as many as three.  And then, the real fun begins, watching for signs of the first egg hatching, seeing the pair switch responsibilities and take turns hunting and sitting on the nest, seeing what's been brought home for dinner and trying to identify it... and commenting on every nuance of the experience.

 

Come and join us, along with people from all over the world, and partake in the miracle that is the Pittsburgh Bald Eagles.

Nevertheless

There are a couple of stories I've told over and over again to the point that I can't remember who I told or when. Usually, it's my kids who tell me that it's the third time I've repeated it. Anyway, this is one I tell frequently.

 

At one of the radio stations I worked at in Vermont, I was given the task of cleaning out some old shelves of records in a hallway you had to walk through between the business offices and the recording studio where we produced commercials off air. The contents of the shelves was to become trash, but there were a couple of old albums I saved -- one was a Nat King Cole collection, the other was the Mills Brothers.

 

I read someplace recently that the Mills Brothers records were the kind of thing that young people listen to when they're high and then say, "Wow, those guys really knew what they were doing," or something like that. Anyway, I used to do that... a lot.

 

From Ohio, originally, there were four in the group Herbert, Harry, Donald, and John Jr., along with their father John Sr., who played the guitar. John Sr. owned a barber shop where the group was formed, and I remember seeing them on TV when I was young.

 

It's made me sad to see to see them pass on one by one. Harry always seemed the most gregarious of the bunch and was usually the spokes person when they appeared on TV variety shows. I remember seeing him gain weight and eventually perform seated in a chair while the others stood around him. In the "Nevertheless" video linked below of their live performance on stage in 1981, he's on the far right and, by then, blind from diabetes. One of the things that touches me about that video is how the other brothers step away from the microphone letting him sing alone when he had to be lead on stage due to his inability to see.

 

When I really like something, I'm sometimes moved to tears. I've thought about that a lot, and I've come to the conclusion that it's greatness that makes me cry. I think the Mills brothers are great, and in particular, their interpretation of "Nevertheless."

 

It's playing right now, and tears are running down my cheeks.

 

Father's Day 2014

I'll never be nominated for the Father of the Year Award.  And, I'm continually amazed that there are still people willing to recognize me as their father and grandfather. How could I be deserving?

I always wanted to be a dad, but I feared the responsibility.  I also worried that I'd disappoint others as well as myself.  Funny thing about concerns like that, they have a way of coming true. 

The wise would counsel someone like me to pick myself up and try again but, how do you do that?  Of all the aspects of living, fatherhood seems like the one area where second chances don't apply.  People don't forget.

Anyone who has had the privilege will tell you that the title doesn't automatically grant you status, it has to be earned.  The honest ones will also explain that there is no greater feeling than the thought a person, or people, calling you "Dad." It's a challenge worth pursuing.  If you're lucky, those around you make you a better father, and on Father's Day, you'll receive either a card, a phone call, or a visit from family members.  If you're really lucky, like me, you'll receive all three.

I'm grateful for the children and grandchildren I've been blessed with, but most of all, I'm grateful to the woman who made me a father.

Bald Eagles In Pittsburgh, So What.

A pair of Bald Eagles had unexpectedly built a nest in Pittsburgh, PA, and produced three eggs... yeah, yeah... so what?  What’s the big deal?

I'd watch the Pittsburgh Bald Eagle Webcam a little in the morning before sunrise, and it was just a bird sitting there on the nest.  Most of the time, she had her head tucked under her wing or something and it was kinda boring.

By then, two eggs had hatched, the third egg was expected to hatch at any time.

I would watch as the male (which is smaller) would fly in with a fish, and both parents fed the hatched chicks. The female would then take off and the male would take his turn sitting on the nest. He was a fussy parent, and he didn’t always seem to know what to do, but I’ve never seen another bird or animal more attentive.

I've watched nature programs about Bald Eagles before, but to watch them in real time is a different experience. Once you started, it was hard to stop. In a chat window, people would talk about staying up watching all night. Bald Eagles haven't nested here for 250 years.  And, their ability to lay three eggs and raise them to the time when they would leave the nest was a testament to our ability to restore the rivers of Pittsburgh to their preindustrial condition.

People from all over the world came to watch and talk about the event.  It was a wonderful journey and I'll always fondly remember the spring that we shared with the Bald Eagles of Pittsburgh.

Jazz Is a Beautiful Woman...

Music has been a big part of my life, and for much of it, jazz was the theme playing in the background. But, saying that you like jazz is something akin to saying you like food. There are different kinds of jazz, and not all of it is for everyone. And, like various kinds of food, some kinds of jazz are an acquired taste.

 

I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California, when I noticed a barracks mate who frequently sat reading magazines while wearing head phones attached to a reel-to-reel tape recorder. One day, I summoned the courage to ask what he was listening to, and as he handed me the stereo head phones, I was instantly transformed. He had been listening to a guitar player named Wes Montgomery. My music world consisted of rock and roll, but this grabbed my barely-out-of-high school senses. I began asking about the music and he introduced me to other jazz artists like Antonio Carlos Jobim, Paul Desmond, and Herbie Mann.

 

I didn't earn much as a PFC in the Marine Corps, but I'd save as much as I could all week, avoiding impulse spending on base, and then on Friday night, I'd purchase a two-way bus ticket up to Anaheim and Disneyland. Because I was always short on funds, I found an all night bowling alley where I could sleep intermittently until Saturday morning, when I'd find a motel room. No one would bother me at the bowling alley, and no one bowled all night, either.

 

Radio music constantly played over the PA system, and every Friday night, when most of the people had left, a tall, thin older black man would change the station to one that played jazz, and he'd begin the long, arduous task of walking the one hundred bowling lanes as he pushed a wide dust mop in front of him. Occasionally, I'd sit up from where I'd hidden myself on the seats near the end of the building, and watch him as he floated from lane to lane, almost dancing to the music. He knew I was there, and could have easily asked me to leave, or even called the police to have me removed, but he never said a word.

 

The music was our connection. I waited one night until he was finished with the lanes, and gathered the courage to approach him to ask about jazz. I can't remember the entire conversation, but I recall that he had said it was when you get into the lives of the musicians -- who they were and what they did, that you started getting into jazz. I followed his advice, and soon I was reading about anyone else who played a style or a song that I liked.

 

After I was discharged, I came home vowing to never purchase another rock and roll record again. I bought the vinyl recordings of Dave Brubeck, George Shearing, and Stan Getz. I'd invite friends over, or I'd go visit them with my new record collection, and they thought I'd gone crazy for turning my back on rock and roll. But then, I met a girl with long red hair that I wanted to impress. So, for our first date, I took her to a small local bar where a handful of jazz musicians were crammed into the corner. She liked the trumpet player, but I liked the sax player, and I teased her all night that the trumpet player was too reserved. Of course, I had no idea what the musicians even looked like, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. When she returned from the ladies room, she was surprised that I'd noticed how she had literally let her hair down. That was the longest relationship I've had with a woman with the exception of my marriage. And through much of it, jazz was playing someplace.

 

Today, I've settled in on something loosely called smooth jazz, which is actually a radio format. But, the light style and frequently familiar pop songs suit me. I can have it playing in the other room as I'm making salads for dinner, or I can listen to it in the car without driving someone to the point of asking me to, "Please change that gawd awful music."

 

I don't know how to describe jazz to someone who doesn't find it enjoyable or entertaining, and especially the kind that contains lots of improvisation. But, I think comedian Sid Caesar summed it up best when he said, "Jazz is a beautiful woman whose older brother is a policeman."

Naming Christine

What's in a name? If it's naming your first born, it's everything. It's all about the parents and their values. It's about how they feel about life, it's about how they see their future. At some point, it's also about the child, and how they want that child to be thought of, remembered, and loved by others. You want the name of your first born to be perfect, and you fret and fuss over it more than the names of any additional children you may have somewhere down the road.

We didn't yet know (nor did we want to know) our first baby's gender. But, we knew that we didn't want our children to have crazy names, or something associated with a disgraced rock star, or someone with a bad reputation. We vowed not to make up a name, but to stick to established lists of names that were already acceptable to civilized people. Names that were hard to pronounce or easily mistaken for something kept in the medicine cabinet were out. It also shouldn't remind either of us of people from past relationships, in-law outlaws, or some fifth grade bully. It couldn't have already been used within the family, and yet, we wanted the family to approve of our selection. Having a good start, putting the child's best foot forward, giving our first born every opportunity to be initially welcomed through future doors, meant more to us than any decision we'd ever make as a couple.

We can no longer remember all of the names considered and then rejected, nor do we recall what we'd have selected had our first born been a boy instead of a girl. But we do remember where the name came from. My wife was a secretary at an insurance company where we lived at the time in Rutland, Vermont, and a coworker there often spoke of his wife, Christine. We also no longer recall the content of those stories, or whether they made us laugh or cringe. However, what I know is that I associated the name, Christine, with families that were above mine socially. For me, a girl named Christine would have been the smartest girl in the class. When I was growing up, someone named Christine would have been a girl that boys knew from summers at the pool -- a girl that they could only admire from a distance because she was so pretty that none had the courage to go and speak with her. A girl named Christine was a prize any boy would treasure and respect because she was above all others in every way.

Our family life didn't always seem like a heavenly picnic, and there were the usual teenage skirmishes. To say that I wasn't the best father I could have been, or wanted to be, is a gross understatement. I'm unable to count the hours that I reflect on how poorly I performed, or how badly I failed to meet the promises I made to my precious, beloved daughter the first time I held her in my arms. My hope is that time heals all wounds, and that with understanding, there might be a degree of forgiveness on her part. I'm grateful for the opportunity.

Today, our lovely daughter is 35-years-old, and the mother of a combined family with two children of her own, and two children from her husband's former marriage, a dog, and three cats. Add to the mix all of the things a busy, modern, overextended, self-sacrificing mom does for her kids, including dance classes, cheerleading practice, and visits to the gym while managing two of her own businesses. How she makes it all work is one of those Unsolved Mysteries. She's everything we always hoped she would be, and so much more. I'd like to think that she's become the woman she is because we named her Christine. But, in my heart, I know she did it all on her own.

Naming Robert

I had an uncle I'd never met because he died in an industrial accident before I was born.  It's a horror story. He had just purchased a new pair of gloves with elastic around the wrists.  He was tossing metal parts into a wire basked that would be lifted by a crane and then dipped into a pickling vat of boiling acid.  His glove caught on the wire and the crane operator couldn't see him.  The story goes that other men wouldn't help him for fear of being pulled in themselves.  But, he was athletic and a good swimmer and he got himself to the edge and pulled himself out.  He lingered a few days in the hospital and then died.  His name was Robert, and the one thing I constantly heard about him was that he was loved by everyone.

My stepfather had twin brothers, Robert and Vince.  They were identical twins but as different as night and day.  I was closer with Robert and for a time I worked with him at a salvage company.  Once a week we'd drive to Cleveland and spend two days there picking up every thing from cases of toilet paper to refrigerators that had been damaged in boxcars.  We spent lots of time in Altoona, PA where there would be damage to things like a car load of lumber, or those large cans of soup used by restaurants called "70 cans."  Uncle Robert was very sociable, unlike his twin.  He was known in every bar in town, and about half of them everyplace else I went with him.  Eventually, he died of cirrhosis of the liver.  I was so tore up I couldn't bring myself to go to his funeral, but I was told that it was one of the biggest ones around.  He, too was loved by everyone.

After I came out of the Marine Corps, I found a job at H.J Heinz.  I worked one day with a guy named Robert, and we became good friends.  He's our daughter's godfather, but after his mother died he sort of drifted away.  I haven't seen him in years, but we used to drive around together, picking up girls.  That was back when you could still do that.  Everyone liked him, but the girls always took advantage of him.  He never really had a girlfriend that I can recall and never married.  His mother was blind and he had an older retarded brother.  He was the youngest of three boys and the middle brother left him with their mother and brother and went to become a dealer in Las Vegas.  Robert was the rock of the family.

When our son was born, I told my wife that I wanted to name him Robert, because everyone I ever knew by that name was loved by everyone, and I wanted everyone to love our son.  He's a grown man now, and while I'm 5'8" he's 6'2".  In my wife's family the men are all tall.  He still kisses me every time I see him, and he's everything I could hope he would become, and more.  But, it's not because of the name we wanted him to have, but because of the man he's worked to become, that everyone loves him.

Accumulating Stuff

We cleaned out the basement last week, tossing out articles we'd been saving needlessly, or things which had lost their usefulness over time. Things like old magazines, broken toys, household items, and objects that were once the property of deceased relatives or pets. It was sort of a Spring cleaning in the Fall.

Over time, I'd gotten used to weaving my way around piles of bags and turning sideways so I could slip past stacks of cardboard boxes. Meanwhile, others wondered out loud, "How can you live like this?" The years had provided a certain comfort knowing that I didn't need to make a decision about what would go and what would remain, as long as everything was under one roof and could stay dry. Lots of my "stuff" had sentimental value, while other portions, although broken, retained a kind of usability. Just the other day, I removed a magnet from an obsolete church key (bottle opener) and my son used it to retrieve an unreachable bolt that had dropped inside the car engine he was working on. See? Some things are worth saving.

I'm a sentimentalist. It's not easy for me to see my past tossed out. Items which are broken or seem no longer useful still have value to me on some level. Old toys our children played with when they still lived at home, the collar our dog wore as I took her to the vet to have her put to sleep, old black and white photographs of people who died before I was born, all have meaning to me. And so, I saved much that could have been thrown out.

The temptation now is to think that with all this room, we can store more stuff, but I've taken an oath to resist such activity. After all, I don't live alone. But someday, when I'm gone, others will go through what I've left behind, and perhaps, before tossing it all out, they will sense just a slight bit of what I felt by keeping it for all those years, and they'll see that it was because I was thinking of them.

Over And Outsourced

First, understand that I call myself a Liberal, with a capital "L," and I'm proud of it.

Employees where my wife works were required to go online and take Diversity Training, and it had to be completed by a certain date. About the same time, the company announced that the computer "Help Center," the department that office workers call with computer issues, was being outsourced.

My wife speculated that the two events were related, and of course, she was correct. The first time she called, she was unable to understand the person on the other end, and they said they'd have someone call her back in ten minutes, which never happened. Others in her department have reported having the same kind of experience.

I imagined the location would be somewhere in India, or perhaps the Philippines, but it's turned out to be Mexico, and company people who worked on the contract are already apologizing to employees.

It reminds me of a legislator in our state who thought that a mandatory seatbelt law was such a good idea in cars that it should also apply to motorcycles. Yet, even if you've never been on a motorcycle, it doesn't take much imagination to understand that if it goes down, the first thing you want to do is get off, rather than have it drag you... and keep you... in the flaming wreckage.

At some point, Corporate America has to realize that outsourcing is not always a good idea. And that some money-saving measures can be costly in the long run.

The Web-Bot Project

The Web-Bot Project is old news, but most of the people I talk with have never heard of it.

Originally, designed to search the web and then make predictions about the stock market, users claim they soon noticed the program making accurate predictions concerning things such as natural disasters and even the 9/11 tragedy.

The History Channel aired a program on the issue, tying in things like the Mayan Calender and the Chinese I Ching (book of changes) which like the Web-Bot Project, predict the end of the world in 2012.

You can watch a promotional video by clicking the link.

Bragging

Occasionally, because of that wonderful miracle called the internet, we get emails and pictures sent from friends and family, near and far, bragging about this or that accomplishment, or saying something about a son, daughter, or grandchild. Mostly it's mediocre stuff, or something so insignificant it's not worth mentioning -- like, "So-in-so just graduated, and now they're going off to college to become rich and famous."

I never really understood all the fuss and fawning over someone for doing what they should be doing anyway. I don't send out emails every time the flowers bloom outside, or when the cat does you-know-what in the sand box. That's what they're supposed to do and announcements aren't necessary.

I think the people sending out these "bragging emails" are really bragging about themselves, and not the person they're talking about, or the one in her prom gown in the picture. It's more of someone saying, "Look what I've done, my child got through school without ever being arrested... " or "Look what I made, she's so pretty, and she looks just like me."

There is good natured bragging, and then there's the bad kind that seems only to attempt to make others feel bad. "Look at us, we're better than you... look what we've accomplished and you didn't... look what we have and you don't."

Once I overheard two young women talking and one was telling the other... "My boyfriend and I have a very romantic relationship." Translation -- "We do, and you and the rest of the world don't. Don't you wish you were me?"

Good natured bragging is the kind that doesn't put others down, or make them feel bad by comparison. But, most bragging is best left alone. It's better to just present the evidence, in text or photo, without editorializing or offering direct commentary. Bragging is usually the kind of thing you have to let others say about you. If your relationship really is romantic, if your daughter really is pretty, or if you've done a good job, people will notice without you telling them... and will probably say so.

Spying On the Home Front

One of my favorite TV programs is FRONTLINE from PBS.

The show that aired on May 15, 2007, Spying On the Home Front, was both informative and a cause for concern. By clicking any of the links above you can watch it (and many other Frontline programs) online, for free.

Make some popcorn, or open a bag of chips, and be sure to view all five parts. It's something like 50 minutes in total.

It's interesting on several levels. First, there's the troubling aspect of the invasion of privacy. Then, there's the mentioning of the various special computer equipment and software used to spy on us.

You hear a lot of people say things like, "I'm not doing anything wrong and so it doesn't bother me." What strikes me most is that we know how data, once gathered, never goes away. And, once law makers are moved to create loopholes in the laws to allow our own government to spy on us, you never see those laws reversed and taken back to what they once were... things only get worse from there.

Let's even give the current administration the benefit of doubt and say that they're all well meaning and that they have the best of intensions... that they're only looking out for our best interest. And then, consider that some totalitarian dictator elected in the future, or one who might take over the presidency in some way other than by an election, is placed in office. And that this person might not have the same concern for our well-being, but is more concerned that he or she has to maintain control over a population that doesn't want him or her in office.

And now that the flood gates have been open... now that they have the technical ability and the legal right to invade our privacy... and destroy individuals... like say, by erasing your bank account... how could you fight it? What if it was just a mistake, and an innocent person's name was similar to a bad guy's name. How do you recover? Who would care?

Something that comes up from time to time is the repeal of Article II of the Constitution that states, "No person except a natural born citizen, or a citizen of the United States... shall be eligible to the office of President..." so that someone like Arnold Schwarzenegger can become president. Just imagine what that could lead to.

Pockets

I'm fond of pockets in my clothing. Being male, I don't carry a purse, and because I'm not a student or traveling hitch-hiker, I don't employ a backpack. But, there are items I need to have with me when I leave home, like my eyeglasses, car keys, and the ever present universal global communicator cell phone thing.

The problem is, they're not making clothing with pockets like they used to. I don't know, maybe it's because so much of our clothing is being manufactured in places where the constant presence of personal items, like say, a wallet, isn't really that important.

I like to wear pull-over jerseys with a collar, but I think there may be only one or two out of the dozen or so I own that have a breast pocket suitable for placing my eyeglasses, or for storing the occasional cash register receipt. Trust me, eyeglasses don't survive well in your pants pocket, assuming there are pockets in your pants to begin with.

At home, I like to dress casual and prefer to lounge about in sweats. However, sweat pants with pockets is a rare item, although I do own one or two pair. I like pants pockets because it's a good place to store change, cough drops, or the grocery list of errands I've made for myself.

Family members think I've become reclusive as I age, but it's just that I don't want to look like those people you see in the supermarket racing in with their car keys, cell phone, and a pack of cigarettes with butane lighter in hand. So, I stay home... 'cause I got no dang pockets.

Warnings

I’m not the brightest person around, and I have no experience or education in law enforcement. But, when situations such as the one at Virginia Tech arise and consume all of the TV airtime, and the front pages of our newspapers, I’m left wondering: Who is in charge, and what the hell were they thinking?

Shooter On the Loose:
After a double murder took place, and the shooter remained unaccounted for, wouldn’t any sensible person suggest that they should lock all the doors? Authorities would, and have, when an elementary, middle, or high school was in the vicinity. Are college students and faculty any less at risk?

Emails:
Does it make sense to issue a mass emailing as a warning when thousands may not check email for days, weeks, or even months? Was there no intercom system... were there no telephones, bullhorns, or disaster sirens available? Did anyone think to place an announcement on the closed circuit TV system, local cable television, or the student campus radio station, WUVT? Email is yesterday’s technology and not the first source for urgent information.

Bomb Threats:
After two separate bomb threats within two weeks, might it have occurred to anyone responsible for student safety that, rather than a mere prank, someone could have been testing how the campus security force, and local police, responded to a dangerous situation?

Lastly:
When will people in charge finally start admitting they made a mistake? I’m sure there are legal and liability concerns, and there’s a risk of angering the public. But, from the leaders of our Country on down to the administration of the University, they only make themselves look foolish when they keep denying responsibility over and over again.

The End Is Near

Here's one for you, if you haven't already heard about it.

On a Sunday afternoon, I watched an interesting program on C-Span with Neil deGrasse Tyson. You'd know him if you saw him. He hosts a scientific program on PBS, and he's the Director of the Hayden Planetarium in New York City -- a really smart and entertaining individual.

Near the end of the program to promote his new book, there was a question and answer period and someone asked about "asteroids." After that, he went into a long explanation that included the following.

Apparently, in 2004, a new asteroid the size of a football stadium was discovered, and within a week, some rough calculations indicated that is was coming this way and would pass very close to the Earth in 2029. The same week of the discovery, there was a large tsunami that devastated Indonesia, and so the announcement was lost in the more pressing current news of the day.

The asteroid, called Apophis, is expected to pass over northern Europe so close that it will dip below the orbits of our communications satellites. However, there is a small window, called a keyhole, that if it passes through, will allow it to return and impact the Earth seven years later in April of 2036, striking a point in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Santa Monica, California. If that happens, monster waves will wipe out most of our west coast.

Fallingwater

It’s the sort of thing you always want to do, but for one reason or another, keep putting off. On a picture-perfect autumn day in mid October, we drove to Fallingwater. It was a chilly Saturday morning, and the turning leaves were in full display. The ride there was magnificent; the return trip, with the sun behind us, would be even better.

Ever since I first heard the name, Frank Lloyd Wright, and I learned of the futuristic home he’d designed that would rest on top of a waterfall, I’d wanted to see it. The very idea was crazy - like the mile-high skyscraper Wright had once proposed for the City of Chicago. While that plan remained an idea on paper, the house often referred to as “Wright’s Masterpiece” was real, had been lived in, and was only an hour’s drive away.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the emotional connection I felt with the family. It began with the tour guide, who casually listed the rules we were to follow, and then in an almost off-hand manner, lowered her voice and said, “As we enter the house, we will enter through the same door the family would have.”

More than a house, it is the home of the Kaufmann family, and you arrive at a snapshot in time decades ago, where personal possessions lie about. It’s as if you’re walking through the home of your grandparents after they’ve passed. Photographs of smiling friends and family taken out on the terrace, or laughing in oddly dated bating suits as they swim in the water that ceaselessly runs under the house, lend a sweet sadness to the experience. And although there are dozens of other people at different stages of the tour throughout the house, a respectful silence remains, amidst the ever-present soft background music of the waterfall.

A visit to Fallingwater is an emotional experience unlike anything I’ve found when visiting museums or the buildings where the rich and famous have lived. I’m sure we’ll visit again, perhaps in spring time, when the Rhododendrons are in bloom.

War: What is it Good For?

To say I'm disappointed would be a gross mischaracterization. It was my generation that faced the tragedy known as the Vietnam War. And unlike previous political conflicts that drew the collective national spirit together through reason and purpose (including "The Cold War") with Vietnam, there were more of us against it, than were for it.

Now, here we are again, invading another country, killing its citizens, and having the lives of American sons and daughters taken from us in return, with no goal or conclusion in sight.

Where is my generation that promised this wouldn't ever happen again, that we were tired of those who fabricated conflicts and bloody wars that seem to serve no purpose other than to thin out the growing population, to acquire the riches of others, and to consolidate power so that robbing other countries of their resources would be easier the next time?

I'm not merely disappointed, I'm downright angry. I want my generation, the one that agreed and proclaimed with absolute certainty that war was a thing of the past, and that fictitious events, like the Gulf of Tonkin incident that was used to escalate U.S. involvement in Vietnam would never be used to draw us into war again... to stand up at the ballot box, and begin correcting the mistakes we've been living with during the current administration.

A Prairie Home Companion

If, like me, you've been a fan of the live PBS radio broadcast that is a step back in time to a gentler era where you could count on the participants to be warm and friendly, and the content to remain non-offensive and family safe, and you've waited for the movie version to appear on DVD so you could rent it, save your time and money because you'll be greatly disappointed.

Like a lot of things that attempt to cross into another medium, A Prairie Home Companion falls short of expectations. The ironic part is that the show has been broadcast on television several times, and when it stayed true to its format, it was even more enjoyable. You saw the faces behind the familiar cast voices, the musicians and singers who produced incredibly simple but enjoyable music, and the sound effects people who brought humorous skits to life the way it was once done in old-time radio.

Missing, most especially, is the comforting, familiar, and always moving monologue delivered by Garrison Keillor as he talks off-the-cuff about his home town, Lake Wobegon, "where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average."

Disappointment begins in the opening moments as Keillor's radio private eye character, Guy Noir, enters played poorly by one of my favorite actors, Kevin Kline. The script is rambling and pointless with a failed attempt to create a story which includes a theater-saving angel that confusingly, some can see, but others cannot -- at different times.

The worst inclusion is actor Woody Harrelson who plays half of the cowboy singing team of Dusty and Lefty, as they pace the hallways passing gas and whose song lyrics and adult joke telling are reminiscent of vaudeville strip shows when the audience was comprised of only drunken men.

American nostalgia, Midwestern charm, and corny Lutheran jokes are gone, replaced with attempts to mix-in unfamiliar characters who die backstage, obsessively write teenage suicide poetry, or babble endlessly over each other's lines so that the dialog is completely obliterated, rendering the content incidental. What portions that are enjoyable, such as most of the music, is frequently interrupted with some meaningless cut to what is going on backstage.

A Prairie Home Companion, the movie, has forfeited its charm and wit in favor of reaching a younger audience who have probably never listened or watched it before, and allowed its character to be turned into a series of fart jokes. In its present form, it's neither welcome in my home, or a companion at all.

Keepers of the Western Door

A four-hour drive in a comfortable car beats a four-hour plane ride any day, especially if you're with friends or family. Take turns driving, pause at a roadside rest stop when the mood strikes you, stop for brunch or dinner at the halfway point. There are no pesky luggage searches, we take our shoes off and leave them off -- not for national security, but because it just feels good. We bring all the liquids we want without having to wastefully toss them in a trash can at the departure gate. Sitting together, we can talk without having to shout over the sound of jet engines; we're not interrupted by airline employees barking about what we can, and cannot, do. The journey seems almost effortless -- even enjoyable. Four hours pass as though they were only one.

As we arrive, we're greeted with smiles everywhere, and we feel welcome. It's a bit chilly, but at least we're not dripping with perspiration before we reach the front door like we had out in the western desert of Nevada. Once we enter, it's another world. Like Alice stepping Through the Looking Glass, we're not in Buffalo, New York anymore, but someplace that seems a lot like a hotel and casino complex, and one of the better ones at that. Everyone has heard of Las Vegas and Reno, but for someone like me with very little gambling experience, Seneca Niagara seems like it must be one of those well-kept secrets you never hear about. It's bigger and better than I expected. I like this... who knew?

This time I might get up the courage to do some honest-to-gosh gambling, rather than merely gazing at the fountains or admiring the decorating scheme. Instead of just hanging out at the penny slots, I might actually approach a Blackjack table, if someone would only talk me into it... or tie me to a chair, something like that... yeah, maybe then I might do it. But, somehow I do it, without anything involving cattle prods, or duct tape and kidnapping. I get up early when most others are just going to bed, brush my teeth and head down to the tables before I have time to begin forming self-doubt. Like a child lost in the mostly-vacant casino, I wonder around with my hands in my pockets, looking for an empty table and a friendly-looking dealer who might not mind answering a lot of stupid beginner questions, like... "Is this a Blackjack table?"

I find one. A man at least my age, perhaps a bit older, and he's chewing something that might be tobacco, or maybe broken glass, I'm not sure. This is someone I can communicate with. I explain it's my first attempt at Blackjack, and throw myself at his mercy. He's kind and informative, sometimes too much so. He divulges so much information, I'm unable to absorb it all, or even retain small amounts. I ask him to alert me if the cocktail waitress passes behind me, I need a large cup of black coffee. After about two or three hands, he's tapped out and an older woman takes his place. She's kind, friendly and informative. She's, also, skinny and sounds as though she smokes about three packs of cigarettes a day. She appears drunk, or on medication. As she's dealing (or maybe shuffling, I forget) about four cards fly out on the table and she calls the pit boss over and confesses. They talk and work out a solution that sounds like some kind of magic card trick, and suddenly we're back playing. She gives advice and tells me "what the book says," and because I follow it, by the time the original dealer returns, she's managed to strip me of $110 at a $10 table. Two men simultaneously sit at my table, one on the left and one on the right of me, and because I sense I'll receive less instruction, I cash in my chips and move on.

Another table and the dealer is available -- a man who looks younger, and even more stupid than me. I can only hope. Yes, it's a Blackjack table (I'm still asking dumb questions) and as I place $90 worth of chips down, and he begins shuffling, I tell him it's the second time I've played Blackjack, and I've just lost $110. Also, because I'm feeling a little nervous, I inadvertently find myself in a rambling monologue that discloses all of my shortcomings and the major events of my life. Well, it was his own fault; it took a long time for him to shuffle the eight decks of cards that comprise the shoe he was about to deal from. Had it been a single deck, I could have shortened my story. Now, here's the kicker -- as soon as he finished, he was tapped out and a different dealer now stood before me. Is this a pattern, or just an indication of my bad luck? This guy was even younger, sported one earring, and he had a space between his front teeth wide enough to hold a dollar's worth of nickels. Even worse, he was fast, smooth, and smart. But bless the gods and saints of card players, he was friendly, and gave explanations as though I was playing with his money. I noticed that when I didn't do "what the book said," sometimes I did better.... sometimes not. Another player sat down at the table, and I "colored up." I read that phrase someplace, and since it sounded good, I used it.

A third table, and a dealer with a shaved head like mine is standing alone. I concluded this was either a good sign or a bad one, I couldn't be sure, but whichever it was, it was very much so. He was tall and thin, and he didn't look too smart. By now you'd think I'd know better... he wouldn't be dealing Blackjack if I was smarter than he was. Since I now had experience, I no longer asked stupid questions, but expressed myself in declarative statements. "Hey," I said with an air of confidence, "This is a Blackjack table." "This is Twenty-One, sir." I paused a moment, rolling the words over in my mind and while I wasn't sure at first, it now seemed that meant the same thing.

After an awkward moment when he jokingly asked me to assist him in mixing the cards, and I began to oblige (I knew I wasn't permitted to touch the cards, I just forgot) the game began. Like all the other dealers, he was an affable soul. He told me how "the book" said I should handle situations, and why. Some of his advice contradicted the things I thought I already knew about the game, and sometimes when I went against the prevailing logic, I did better than if I'd followed it... sometimes not. Another player sat down and I left with my chips. Crossing the casino, I paused at a row of slot machines and emptied my pockets to count my winnings. To my surprise, I was $45 ahead of the original amount I started with. I couldn't believe it, I had to count it three times to be sure. And, because the casino was starting to get busy and there were no more empty tables, and because I was ahead, it seemed like a good time to stop.

During our overnight stay at the hotel, we had a fabulous steak dinner, saw an entertaining magic show, and spent time at the in-house night club where we observed several well-known football players rubbing elbows with us common folks, all without ever setting foot outside of the building. We had a wonderful time, and to the best of my knowledge, we each came back still wearing our shirt. Thank you again Chris and John, thank you Danielle for watching "Morph the Wonder Dog" so we could all go, and thank you especially, to the Seneca Nation of Indians, Keepers of the Western Door, for your hospitality. I sometimes wonder, if Indians were in the White House instead of cowboys, might things have been handled better?

9/11/01

One of the most over-used phrases you hear in regard to the 9/11 tragedy goes something like "Not all Moslems are terrorists, but all terrorists are Moslems." Another is the mistaken rhetoric involving what has been erroneously labeled "The War on Terrorism," sometimes shortened to, "The War on Terror," in the same simplistic way one might have a "War on Drugs," or a "War on Poverty," only with bombs.

By now, enough experts on the terminology of conflict have instructed us that only Congress can declare a State of War under Article I, Section 8 of the U.S. Constitution, which it has not formally announced since World War II. In 1973, Congress, in response to the escalating conflict in Vietnam, passed the War Powers Act (technically, the War Powers Resolution) requiring presidents to seek congressional approval within 90 days after introducing troops into hostile action.

Whatever the means, methods, or label... we now find ourselves entangled in an unending hostile military conflict in which neither side can win. It has robbed us of -- and will take for the unforeseeable future -- the lives of sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and fathers and mothers, from many countries, needlessly, regardless of how most of us feel. It's been inflicted upon us all, and now that it has started, there's nothing we can do about it.

The single solution lies within the worldwide Moslem community itself. There's just no way to rid ourselves of every radical Moslem fundamentalist bent on striking out at the world as they seek revenge for some insult, real or imagined, and it's impossible to predict where or when terrorism will rear its ugly head in some perverted sense of justice-seeking for the poor and downtrodden members of that society. However, what is clear is that only when the larger, non-aggressive, truly compassionate, peace-loving members of the Moslem culture soundly reject the destructive activities of the terrorist few, and express their disapproval loudly and in unison, will peace return to our lives, and theirs.