Heroic Efforts

Just a day after a tornado in Edmond sent us to my parents' storm shelter, another much bigger and much more violent tornado hit Moore, Oklahoma, 22 miles south of us.  The tornado hit two elementary schools, and seven children died in the basement of one of them. This is the fifth major tornado to hit Moore since 1998. 
    I was asleep while all this was going on.  Gaby was watching the coverage when I got up, and we had two different channels on two different TVs going for several hours.  As my friend Mark said on Facebook, " This is like watching the 9/11/01 coverage. I want to turn it off but feel honor bound to watch it, you know?"
I personally couldn't post anything on Facebook.  The normal politico-economic stuff that usuall interests me just lost its flavor.  Even the project I worked on last night, which I would love to show off normally, because it's turning out really good, just didn't seem approprate.  I 'liked' some others' posts, but I just didn't have words that someone else hadn't already said.
      I particularly related to something my friend Becca said which was that she really wished she could actually be there to dig through the rubble, just to feel she was actually doing something.  It turned out, though, that she did have an outlet.  She's the Chairman of the Blue Energy Commitee at the hotel, and she spent the day compiling a list of volenteers for Feed The Children, and was an integral part in organizing the donations sent from the hotel.  So she got to be a heroine after all.   
    We needed to go to the grocery store today, and I had seen on Facebook a list of items that were needed to be donated, so I decided to pick up some of those as well.  Somehow I got very emotionally involved with this particular trip to the store.  I managed to control myself, but every time I saw someone go by with a cart loaded up with diapers and bottled water, I could have burst out crying right there in the store.  It was a totally unexpected reaction.
    We took our donations to one of the local TV stations, where Becca had told me a Feed The Children truck was located.  Three guys there separated our stuff out to pallettes loaded with like items.  I felt inadequate.  But time and money are not in great supply at our house, and I could have used that as an excuse to sit at home and do nothing.  I guess I should be satisfied that I did not.

Crushed/Crush

So, Jason Collins of the NBA comes out the other day, and in the middle of all this positive feedback he's getting, Chris Broussard, an ESPN basketball analyst, gives a dissenting and critical opinion on the air.  A friend of a friend on Facebook posted that video and voiced agreement and support for Broussard, and somehow it showed up in my newsfeed. 
    As I watched it, a couple of things stood out.  For one thing, he kept talking about the "gay lifestyle", which is just wrong, in the same way that talking about the "left-handed lifestyle" is just wrong.  But what I commented on was his equating being gay with having sex, to which the original poster responded, "Are you actually gay if you don't have homosexual sex?"
    It's astonishing to me that in a time when an understanding of the nature of being gay is becoming rather mainstream that there are still people out there who regard being gay as a behavior.  Even my own Congressional Representative thinks of it that way.  But I answered the question by telling some of my own story, because in many ways, especially the age of self discovery thing, I'm pretty typical.  (I stayed in the closet a lot longer than most, but that's another story.)  But answering that question made me wonder about the experience of some of my friends, so I asked a few of them a series of questions.
    The first question was When did you know?, and by that I meant, when did you know you were attracted to people of the same sex?  For me, it was around the first grade, when I was six.  Two guys told me they knew when they were five.  One young lady told me that the revelation came in stages, but she had her first "serious" girlfriend when she was eleven.  A fellow at work told me he was in his teens.
    The second question was When did you know that you were different?  It was a difficult question to phrase succinctly because it encompassed the idea that while one may know (he) finds (boys) attractive, (he) may not have any knowledge of the concept of  'gay'.  One said he knew right away (he's younger), while another said it was three years later.  It was four years later for me.
    That knowledge came to me one sunny morning on the playground at my grade school.  I was sitting on the stoop of one of the portable classrooms when a sixth-grader, one year ahead of me, asked me if I ever kissed my brother.  We were an affectionate family, so I said yes.  He said, "That means you're a fag, because only fags kiss other boys."
    It was a stunning revelation.  "It" had a name, and I was "it".  And "it" was bad.  And the notion that it was bad was reinforced by my peers for many years after.
    And it wasn't about kissing my brother --that part was complete nonsense.  It was about whose attention I wanted, and who I wanted to look at, and why I felt so utterly different from every other boy in my school.  And this new knowledge affected my self image and self esteem for the next three decades.
    Question three was, do you remember the name of your first crush, and how old were you?  I asked this question to a few people at work as well, most of them straight, and was amused that, gay or straight, most of the crushes occured about the same time of life, in kindergarten or early grade school.  And the question brought a smile to everyone's face.
    My first crush was a kid in my second grade class named Kent Malave.  He was Argentinian, and had an older brother named Ted, who I still see around town on occasion.  During our third grade year their family had moved back to Argentina, but Kent was back for fourth grade.  He came over to my house once that year, which thrilled me to no end.
    Kent had Mrs. Robinson as his fourth grade teacher and I had Mrs. Clark, but I had Mrs. Robinson for my reading class, and I sat at Kent's desk.  I wrote him a message in pencil for Valentine's Day that covered half his desk.  He was not happy, since he was the one who had to clean it off.
    I saw him at the hotel about three years ago.  His hair was completely white, and shorter, and he was no longer wearing those teardrop shaped glasses with the lenses that got dark when he stepped out into the sunlight.  His beauty had faded a bit.  Age does that sometimes.  I wish we'd had the chance to talk, but I was working, and he was part of a large party that was leaving.
    There were other boys I liked in  grade school:  David Sims, Kirk Neimeyer, Grant Hartzog, Steve Parduhn, Larry Ethridge. I was the dorky kid with the bad haircut, the bad jokes, the strange clothes, and the obsession with the Osmond Brothers (and, yes, I know I'm showing my age.)  One more thing to make me different was all I needed.
    It took me decades to figure out that deciding to be gay or straight was like deciding to be right or left handed.  There's only so much one's will-power can accomplish.  And the closet is a very bad place to be.  At some point in your life, you have to decide to be happy.
    So congratulations, Jason.  I think you'll find that the freedom of living without fear is worth a lot more than someone else's opinion.

It's What You Scatter

Sent to me in an email from my Dad:

I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes... I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.
Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.

'Hello Barry, how are you today?'

'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good'

'They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?'
'Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time.'
'Good. Anything I can help you with?'
'No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.'
'Would you like to take some home?' asked Mr. Miller.

'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.'

'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?'

'All I got's my prize marble here.'

'Is that right? Let me see it', said Miller..

'Here 'tis. She's a dandy.'

'I can see that. Hmm mmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked.

'Not zackley but almost.'

'Tell you what... Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble'. Mr. Miller told the boy.

'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.'


Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever.
When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.'

I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado , but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.

Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking... They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket.

Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one; each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.

'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about.

They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size......they came to pay their debt.'

'We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho...'

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.

The Moral:
We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.

 

Oo-ooh That Smell

Paul Krugman directs us to a pdf file of a book called The Great Stink of London by Stephen Halliday, which chronicals the debate over construction of a sewer system in London in the mid 19th century.  The quote he chose was one in which The Economist, a publication that is still being printed, stated that the suffering caused by lack of a sewer system was divinely ordained.  While that quote was interesting enough to repost to my Facebook page, it was a later paragraph that really caught my eye:

"A question to Oxford about its plans for obtaining a clean and economical supply of water drew the answer 'never, and not likely to until compelled by Parliamentary interposition.'  Dr. John Snow, who hypothesised that cholera epidemics were water-borne, drew attention to the problems which arose from such attitudes while addressing the Social Science Congress in Bristol in 1849.  He stated that 'our present machinery must be greatly enlarged, radically altered and endowed with new powers,' above all with the power of 'doing away with that form of liberty to which some communities cling, the sacred power to poison to death not only themselves but their neighbors.'"

The reason I noticed it was because it reminded me of  a few years ago when Governor Rick Perry of Texas was battling with the EPA over pollutants produced by oil refineries.  EPA regulations were expected to "... improve air quality for an estimated 240 million Americans, preventing a projected 30,000 premature deaths and up to 15,000 nonfatal heart attacks, as well as hundreds of thousands of cases of asthma and other respiratory ailments."  A hyperbolic comparison of the time said that when Saddam Hussein poisons his people, it's called genocide.  If Rick Perry does it, it's called 'state's rights.'

Elsewhere on my reading list, for the past several days a lot is being written about Paul Ryan's new budget, which thematically isn't that different than his old budgets, though updated for current events, so none of the econobloggers is really saying anything different than what they've been saying since 2010.  Two exceptions:  the Onion made fun of Ryan's youthful appearance, and Dana Milbank compared the budget to a Mad Lib.  It was clever enough that I decided to try it for myself with Gaby giving the answers.
    Gaby is from Mexico.  Apparently they don't have Mad Libs in Mexico.
    After a short explanation, I asked him first for an adjective, and then all the rest.  The result:

The former Republican vice presidential candidate’s budget eliminates skinny loopholes in the tax code, cutting the needle and the fish deductions. It reduces spending on the rose program by 69% and the glass program by 21%. Retirees would see paddling, students would experience pedaling and the poor would be cut.

Let There Be (More) Light

Daylight Savings Time begins today, and for people like me, project oriented, yet nocturnal, it means another hour to work in the garage.   At least, that's the plan.  I got myself a new toy, and I'm hoping that having spent money on a scroll saw will inspire me to acually get out and use it.  I have a few projects in mind to do as soon as the weather is consistently warmer.  The biggest obstacles of course are Facebook and general failures of time management.
    I'm spending this weekend at home in front of the computer with a massive head cold.  I feel like I've got a baseball sized glob of Jello behind my eyes and nose, and my OTC medicines are having mixed results.  I've stayed home from work on both Friday and Saturday night, which has cost me a bundle of money.  I haven't even been able to use the time off productively because sometimes it's an effort to hold up my head.
    So, I've spent a lot of time either in bed, in front of the computer watching movies and shows on Hulu, or reading on my Nook.  Gaby fixed some homemade chicken soup this evening,which was very good, and we ordered pizza last night.  I keep thinking of things I could be doing, but my energy level is so low, I don't even want to try.

I'm so bored. 

Maybe I'll try to force myself to do something when it's time for the next pill.

If It's On The Internet...

The story as it appeared on Facebook:

The story as it appeared in a Libyan English language newspaper on October 19, 2011:

Verdict: Uncle Sam's Misguided Children is not a reliable source of news.

To Get and Get Not

Our annual holiday celebration was a few days later than normal this year.  Normally, we celebrate during the week following Christmas, but this year it was the week following New Year's Day.
   I was looking forward to seeing my brother this year.  He's had an eventful year, but as far as I can remember we actually haven't talked to each other since last January, a few days after his last visit.  He hasn't even been on Facebook much, so what I do know about his year has been through the parents.  In visits past, we've been able to steal away for some time together, just the two of us, but this year (and last year, too) our available time has been minimal.  This visit was essentially only three days long, and he had brought his job with him, and other family members had agendas that kept me busy as well.
   My Dad was the one having the worst time.  He felt like he was just hemorrhaging money, and things kept going wrong for him.  We went out to dinner at Outback, only the third time since they opened in the late 80s, and it was our third bad experience.  My Dad got a steak that was so gristly that he couldn't cut through it, and the one they replaced it with was cooked rare (he likes his well done), and then he lost his credit card.  He thinks he left it in the waiter's ticket book, but he called the restaurant the next day and they said they didn't have it. 
   Thursday the 3rd we opened presents, and after a couple years of saying he didn't need or want anything, my Dad got what he asked for.  He was disappointed.  Turns out that that wasn't what he wanted at all.  (I actually hadn't finished shopping yet, so he got my present later.) Then a hot water tank quit working at one of the rent houses, which kept him away part of the time.  He's had funner years.
    Though I didn't get to spend time with Scott, I did spend a lot of time with his daughter.  Now that she's outgrown the hormonal grumpiness of early adolescence, she's really a lot of fun.  She and her cousins insisted that I drive them to the mall, first to finish their Christmas shopping, and then to spend the money they found under the tree.  I spent a bit of time talking to her, and I feel like I got to make friends with her all over again.  Honestly, I think that that was the best part of my Christmas.