A lot of ordinary things really aren't. Know how I know? Combat boots.
In a piece of fiction I once described something as "ordinary as an old boot." I thought of that recently when a picture of me showed up briefly on a National Guard website. It was a black-and-white snapshot taken at Grafenwohr, (West, at the time) Germany during one of my several REFORGERs, and what caught my eye was the combat boots I had on. They were the old style, the pair issued to me in 1980 in Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Back then, the uniform was olive drab, not camouflage, and the boots were black.
What surprised me was that I instantly remembered every detail of those old boots. They were still black the day I threw them away, but only through a soldier's discipline. The leather was soft, but badly scuffed and cut. Most of the paint was worn off the eyelets, so they showed brass instead of black. The soles were faded to gray and worn smooth. Just an old pair of boots -- there have to be thousands just like them in attics across this country.
I remember clearly the first day I wore those boots. Our drill sergeant used a garden hose to fill them with water; his theory was that by marching them dry we would break them in in one day. As things turned out, I would march them dry frequently that summer, as we trained in the rain and in rivers and squelched down mud-puddled trails.
Dig around the tongues of those boots and you might find grass seeds from Korea, bug parts from Panama, pastry frosting from Belgium and dust from maybe 30 states. I wore them for about 15 years, in rotation with a couple of newer pairs. Me and those boots did most of the things soldiers can do. A lot of them I'm proud of, but some things, not so much. Some I still can't talk about; some I just won't.
I wish I still had those boots. They were a floppy, beat-up, sweat-stained scrapbook full of memories. That cut on the left toe? Busting brush with a machete is harder than it looks. The chip out of the boot heel? The rope was shorter than the cliff. The missing corners on both tongues? Field-expedient rifle-cleaning patches. The dark smear along the side of the sole? Don't ask.
Those boots, in my memory anyway, capture the essence of my career. A lot of it was just training, but some of it wasn't. A few times I was aware of being involved in something significant, but most of the time it was just more duty in another obscure corner of useless geography. Some of the ops did what we planned them for, some didn't. At any one point, it didn't seem like much, but put it all together 25 years later and it spans Grenada and the Cold War and Panama and Somalia and both Gulf Wars. It's kind of impressive, even though I shouldn't be the one saying so.
I think our lives are like that; I'm not sure there's such a thing as an ordinary life. The locations might be just plain vanilla and the days might seem pretty mundane, but live enough of them and look what happens. Look at all those students taught or cars fixed or books read, look at what the kids grew up to be, look at the things you know and the places you've been and the wonders you've seen and the lives you've changed.
My grandpa was a farmer, retired for most of my memory. He was about as ordinary a man as you'd find, which means not very. He was a locally-renowned baseball pitcher who snuck off the farm to play on Sundays, a young hellion who drove way too fast. He was famous for his strength -- they said he could grab a bull by the horns and back it up. He plowed his fields with horses, and then tractors; he told of the day it rained frogs and fish; he remembered the first car ever bought in the county. Grandpa loved God, and he loved singing hymns. Even at the very end when he couldn't see or stand or even hold his head up, he still sang. I only realized when it was too late that he was one of the most fascinating people I knew.
It makes me think I should spend more time appreciating my life and less time wishing it was different. It makes me wish I had the trust of King David, who thanked God in Psalm 16 by writing, "The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance." It makes me hope my kids will be smarter about it than I was.
The odds of that seem pretty good.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Respect - The Lesson of the Flags
Why does it seem that the most respected people don't care if they are, while others crave respect?
Respect is a complicated thing to get, in both the blonde and Rodney Dangerfield senses of the term. But earning it is critical personally and professionally.
These ruminations started this weekend when I was on a college campus and noticed that, while the US and state flags were at half-mast in honor of a fallen soldier, the Canadian flag was still flying high. I was taught that, on American soil, nothing flies higher than Old Glory.
Now, it's possible that Canada has claimed some sort of ambassadorial presence on campus, in which case it seems appropriate that the flags were flying in front of the cafeteria. But more likely someone made a mistake. Either way, it could be seen as disrespectful.
In younger years my response would have been immediate and hotblooded and, therefore, probably un-helpful. Instead, I found myself engaged only on an intellectual level. In other words, I didn't care an awful lot.
I didn't care because it felt to me something like a grown man letting his little brother sit in the driver's seat. I mean, does anyone think for a minute that the relative heights of our flags somehow meant we couldn't beat up Canada if we wanted to? It seemed like the kind of gentle indulgence the strong can afford.
But even though fear is a form of respect, it's not really respect if people act deferential just because you're bigger. Respect has more to do with agreement with or admiration for your values and actions. Every time some jobless teen-aged punk with his pants around his thighs and his hat on cockeyed gets in someone's face and says, "Don't dis me," I think, "Why, because you've done so much to earn our respect?" Fact is, I do dis him, because being tough isn't all there is to it.
So it's possible that the position of the flags was intended as disrespect. Even so, it's hard to see how that would improve if I got on my high horse and started firing off nasty-grams to everyone on campus with a public e-mail address. Being prickly doesn't seem like the right strategy to gain respect.
Besides, the flag itself is important only as a symbol. I put in a career in uniform based in part on the idea that people, even if they think differently than I do, should be free to express themselves in any legal way. To me, the fact that you can pour red paint on a flag in this country without the police playing the Symphony of the Batons on your head is all the proof you need that we are indeed the land of the free. In that context a paint-covered flag becomes a symbol of our tolerance and long-suffering. At half mast, beneath the Canadian flag, it seemed to me to be symbolic of our gentlemanly ability to not stand on our rights when it isn't important to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
To the extent we in our superior strength can continue to exhibit those traits of long-suffering, tolerance and chivalry, we will hold the respect of the world. If we start to default on our loans, throw our trash in other peoples' back yards, and beat up other countries for their lunch money, we won't.
It's good to remember that, be they flag or cross or corporate logo, whatever meaning our symbols have is derived from the actions we take in their name. That means that even in demanding respect we can diminish it. In that context we do well to think about our own names as symbols of our own personal brands. Do they garner respect? If not, why not? The answer has nothing to do with rank or wealth or power.
It's not unlike what Margaret Thatcher said about being a lady: If you have to tell people you're one, you aren't. In the same way, if you have to demand respect you don't have it. And you're not going to get it by flexing muscles or legalities. You get it by taking the high road, by behaving decently and honorably.
Hmmm . . . I'm beginning to see the problem As with so many other things, could it be we want the payout without putting in the work? Maybe we think people should respect us just because we're us, not because we've done anything in particular to earn it. That's true in a spiritual sense: We all have value derived from being made in the image of God, so we all deserve respectful treatment. But that general respect we extend to fellow humans as basic courtesy is different than being respected for the individuals we have become.
With all that said, I do think the things the Stars and Stripes stand for are worthy of respect, and I think for the most part our flag is respected around the world. And that's exactly why I'm willing to let this slight go by uncontested, whether it was an ignorant mistake or intentional raspberry. Because magnanimity is far more respect-worthy than virtuous self-righteousness.
Respect is a complicated thing to get, in both the blonde and Rodney Dangerfield senses of the term. But earning it is critical personally and professionally.
These ruminations started this weekend when I was on a college campus and noticed that, while the US and state flags were at half-mast in honor of a fallen soldier, the Canadian flag was still flying high. I was taught that, on American soil, nothing flies higher than Old Glory.
Now, it's possible that Canada has claimed some sort of ambassadorial presence on campus, in which case it seems appropriate that the flags were flying in front of the cafeteria. But more likely someone made a mistake. Either way, it could be seen as disrespectful.
In younger years my response would have been immediate and hotblooded and, therefore, probably un-helpful. Instead, I found myself engaged only on an intellectual level. In other words, I didn't care an awful lot.
I didn't care because it felt to me something like a grown man letting his little brother sit in the driver's seat. I mean, does anyone think for a minute that the relative heights of our flags somehow meant we couldn't beat up Canada if we wanted to? It seemed like the kind of gentle indulgence the strong can afford.
But even though fear is a form of respect, it's not really respect if people act deferential just because you're bigger. Respect has more to do with agreement with or admiration for your values and actions. Every time some jobless teen-aged punk with his pants around his thighs and his hat on cockeyed gets in someone's face and says, "Don't dis me," I think, "Why, because you've done so much to earn our respect?" Fact is, I do dis him, because being tough isn't all there is to it.
So it's possible that the position of the flags was intended as disrespect. Even so, it's hard to see how that would improve if I got on my high horse and started firing off nasty-grams to everyone on campus with a public e-mail address. Being prickly doesn't seem like the right strategy to gain respect.
Besides, the flag itself is important only as a symbol. I put in a career in uniform based in part on the idea that people, even if they think differently than I do, should be free to express themselves in any legal way. To me, the fact that you can pour red paint on a flag in this country without the police playing the Symphony of the Batons on your head is all the proof you need that we are indeed the land of the free. In that context a paint-covered flag becomes a symbol of our tolerance and long-suffering. At half mast, beneath the Canadian flag, it seemed to me to be symbolic of our gentlemanly ability to not stand on our rights when it isn't important to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
To the extent we in our superior strength can continue to exhibit those traits of long-suffering, tolerance and chivalry, we will hold the respect of the world. If we start to default on our loans, throw our trash in other peoples' back yards, and beat up other countries for their lunch money, we won't.
It's good to remember that, be they flag or cross or corporate logo, whatever meaning our symbols have is derived from the actions we take in their name. That means that even in demanding respect we can diminish it. In that context we do well to think about our own names as symbols of our own personal brands. Do they garner respect? If not, why not? The answer has nothing to do with rank or wealth or power.
It's not unlike what Margaret Thatcher said about being a lady: If you have to tell people you're one, you aren't. In the same way, if you have to demand respect you don't have it. And you're not going to get it by flexing muscles or legalities. You get it by taking the high road, by behaving decently and honorably.
Hmmm . . . I'm beginning to see the problem As with so many other things, could it be we want the payout without putting in the work? Maybe we think people should respect us just because we're us, not because we've done anything in particular to earn it. That's true in a spiritual sense: We all have value derived from being made in the image of God, so we all deserve respectful treatment. But that general respect we extend to fellow humans as basic courtesy is different than being respected for the individuals we have become.
With all that said, I do think the things the Stars and Stripes stand for are worthy of respect, and I think for the most part our flag is respected around the world. And that's exactly why I'm willing to let this slight go by uncontested, whether it was an ignorant mistake or intentional raspberry. Because magnanimity is far more respect-worthy than virtuous self-righteousness.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Taxes
Guys, I hate to say it, but we need to pay taxes. And I think we need to pay more.
Call the medics for all those members of my Republican party who are currently coughing up a lung. And please don't think I've fallen under the sway of the evil liberals.
First off, none of the liberals I know are evil. But even if they were actually evil instead of just wrong, I'd be with them, at least partly, on taxes.
Maybe it's because around here we mostly pay as we go, but it seems like a pretty simple equation: Money in must be greater than or equal to money out or you pile up debt.
I know, a lot of America believes that money in only needs to be equal to the minimum monthly credit card payment, and even then you can always go to one of those debt consolidation places if things get too bad. But let's make believe for a minute here that the idea is to balance the checkbook, not just pile up stuff.
So anyway, if you have too much debt, you can't borrow anymore. And if you wait too long to pay your debt, the Sheriff comes and tells you your creditors get your stuff.
That's basically where we find ourselves as a nation. Too much debt, we can't pay it, and we're getting close to the point where China is going to want New Jersey.
OK, bad example. No one's going to complain if we lose New Jersey. But what if it was something we cared about, like the Mall of America?
I've been in debt, I'm currently not. I know what it took to get out of debt; I know what it takes now to stay debt-free. And I don't get how we can simply repeat "No taxes. No taxes" while we reel ever closer to the abyss.
Any person with reasonable math skills and a little rudimentary knowledge of our national budget knows that the only way we're going to get on top of this is with a combination of new taxes and spending cuts. Neither on its own is going to get us there.
OK, medics, haul out the defibrillator, because I'm about to cause more trauma to the GOP faithful: I'm inclined not to vote for any candidate who signs the Tea Party pledge. Not that I don't have some sympathy for their cause. It's just that their pledge is so rigid; it doesn't allow for changing circumstances. I think it's out of touch with reality because it allows only one option for four years of unknowns. And a candidate who signs it is either just as out of touch, or is a cynical manipulator doing what needs to be done to get votes. Either way, that's not my guy, or gal, as the case may be.
I'm looking for the one who says, "Look, I'm going to do what I can to keep a lid on taxes, but we're going to need more money if we want to keep a strong defense and keep Social Security intact." That's the only reasonable answer there is.
And I'm OK with that; in fact, I'm OK with paying more. They say the per capita share of our national debt is $2k each - I'd write that check today if a responsible government asked me to.
Until we Republicans are willing to say, "Hey, go ahead, cut the defense budget, and here's a couple more things we're willing to do without," then our choices are limited: more debt, or more taxes.
So I have a simple request for my party: Try an actual dialogue. Negotiate. Give and take. Work something out. We did it with the Koreans and the Russians and the Taliban. Surely we can do it with fellow Americans.
Call the medics for all those members of my Republican party who are currently coughing up a lung. And please don't think I've fallen under the sway of the evil liberals.
First off, none of the liberals I know are evil. But even if they were actually evil instead of just wrong, I'd be with them, at least partly, on taxes.
Maybe it's because around here we mostly pay as we go, but it seems like a pretty simple equation: Money in must be greater than or equal to money out or you pile up debt.
I know, a lot of America believes that money in only needs to be equal to the minimum monthly credit card payment, and even then you can always go to one of those debt consolidation places if things get too bad. But let's make believe for a minute here that the idea is to balance the checkbook, not just pile up stuff.
So anyway, if you have too much debt, you can't borrow anymore. And if you wait too long to pay your debt, the Sheriff comes and tells you your creditors get your stuff.
That's basically where we find ourselves as a nation. Too much debt, we can't pay it, and we're getting close to the point where China is going to want New Jersey.
OK, bad example. No one's going to complain if we lose New Jersey. But what if it was something we cared about, like the Mall of America?
I've been in debt, I'm currently not. I know what it took to get out of debt; I know what it takes now to stay debt-free. And I don't get how we can simply repeat "No taxes. No taxes" while we reel ever closer to the abyss.
Any person with reasonable math skills and a little rudimentary knowledge of our national budget knows that the only way we're going to get on top of this is with a combination of new taxes and spending cuts. Neither on its own is going to get us there.
OK, medics, haul out the defibrillator, because I'm about to cause more trauma to the GOP faithful: I'm inclined not to vote for any candidate who signs the Tea Party pledge. Not that I don't have some sympathy for their cause. It's just that their pledge is so rigid; it doesn't allow for changing circumstances. I think it's out of touch with reality because it allows only one option for four years of unknowns. And a candidate who signs it is either just as out of touch, or is a cynical manipulator doing what needs to be done to get votes. Either way, that's not my guy, or gal, as the case may be.
I'm looking for the one who says, "Look, I'm going to do what I can to keep a lid on taxes, but we're going to need more money if we want to keep a strong defense and keep Social Security intact." That's the only reasonable answer there is.
And I'm OK with that; in fact, I'm OK with paying more. They say the per capita share of our national debt is $2k each - I'd write that check today if a responsible government asked me to.
Until we Republicans are willing to say, "Hey, go ahead, cut the defense budget, and here's a couple more things we're willing to do without," then our choices are limited: more debt, or more taxes.
So I have a simple request for my party: Try an actual dialogue. Negotiate. Give and take. Work something out. We did it with the Koreans and the Russians and the Taliban. Surely we can do it with fellow Americans.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Truth
Nothing is as hard to hunt down as the truth. Like the elusive South Dakota jackalope, it's impossible to spot in the wild, and the ones people try to sell you are fakes, cobbled together from bits and pieces of reality.
When you want the truth about something, where do you look?
Where is the truth regarding government and public employee unions? One side says the unions are milking the states dry; the other says union members are underpaid. And both sides are convinced, or at least want us to be, that the very future of the Republic depends on what happens in Wisconsin. I'm disturbed that we left the future of the Republic laying around where Packer fans could get their hands on it, but no one else seems alarmed so it's probably OK.
What's the truth about Halliburton - evil corporate money-grubbers or courageous humanitarians? Depends if Dick Cheney is actually as wicked/wonderful as your party portrays him. Can health care reform work? Are Libyans capable of democracy? Will the iPad 2 make me happier?
The truth is hard, because it seems so subjective. I see tan, my wife says taupe. But next time it's not taupe, it's ecru. Or, in the case of hosiery, nude, which is a color you'd think guys would recognize immediately and women would disapprove of. You can measure all of them with a computer and place them precisely in the color space, but that means we're reduced to taking a computer's word for it. That's only slightly better than believing our spouses.
More than that, sometimes the truth seems unknowable. Yeah, FatSecret says an apple has 71 calories, but some apples are bigger, but then sometimes I don't eat as close to the core, so . . . . And did I really burn 450 calories on that run? I'm in pretty good shape, and that distance should be easier for me than some fat guy who's been on the Lazyboy workout plan for the last decade, so when they say it should burn X, which of us are they talking about? In the end, did I have a calorie deficit or surplus yesterday? How do I really know?
Yet some people seem to know. Rush Limbaugh is pretty confident he does; so is Charlie Sheen. How do those people know? How could celebrities tweet the "truth" about Bahrain when reporters couldn't get into the country? How can Westboro Baptist Church know without doubt what God is doing?
Most of the time, except for a few things that are absolute, I'm not confident I know what the truth really is. But I am confident that there is objective, unequivocal truth. I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to believe we're all free to find our own truth; I'm supposed to tolerate whatever nonsense anyone else wants to put out there.
Well, folks, here's a tip: Denying the truth doesn't change it. He can say Obama isn't an American citizen, she can believe chupacabras are killing motorists in Texas, you can claim the Masons control a secret world government, I can call cookies health food. I can say it, swear to it, and believe it to my dying day but that will not change the truth, no matter how many people I point to who claim to have lost 45 pounds and cured their diabetes with an all-Keeblers diet.
The truth is out there. I believe Jesus when he said he is the way, the truth and the life; a lot of people don't. That just proves that relativism doesn't work: if we believe mutually-exclusive things then we can't both have found the truth. Alternate reality was cool on The Matrix, but life doesn't work that way.
I guess I'm suggesting that we should all be seekers for truth. Instead of thoughtlessly re-tweeting or forwarding the chain e-mails or propagating any of the propaganda that pollutes our conversational space, let's take the time to be informed of the facts and to examine the data. And then let's discuss. I promise to listen before I decide; I hope you'll do the same.
When you want the truth about something, where do you look?
Where is the truth regarding government and public employee unions? One side says the unions are milking the states dry; the other says union members are underpaid. And both sides are convinced, or at least want us to be, that the very future of the Republic depends on what happens in Wisconsin. I'm disturbed that we left the future of the Republic laying around where Packer fans could get their hands on it, but no one else seems alarmed so it's probably OK.
What's the truth about Halliburton - evil corporate money-grubbers or courageous humanitarians? Depends if Dick Cheney is actually as wicked/wonderful as your party portrays him. Can health care reform work? Are Libyans capable of democracy? Will the iPad 2 make me happier?
The truth is hard, because it seems so subjective. I see tan, my wife says taupe. But next time it's not taupe, it's ecru. Or, in the case of hosiery, nude, which is a color you'd think guys would recognize immediately and women would disapprove of. You can measure all of them with a computer and place them precisely in the color space, but that means we're reduced to taking a computer's word for it. That's only slightly better than believing our spouses.
More than that, sometimes the truth seems unknowable. Yeah, FatSecret says an apple has 71 calories, but some apples are bigger, but then sometimes I don't eat as close to the core, so . . . . And did I really burn 450 calories on that run? I'm in pretty good shape, and that distance should be easier for me than some fat guy who's been on the Lazyboy workout plan for the last decade, so when they say it should burn X, which of us are they talking about? In the end, did I have a calorie deficit or surplus yesterday? How do I really know?
Yet some people seem to know. Rush Limbaugh is pretty confident he does; so is Charlie Sheen. How do those people know? How could celebrities tweet the "truth" about Bahrain when reporters couldn't get into the country? How can Westboro Baptist Church know without doubt what God is doing?
Most of the time, except for a few things that are absolute, I'm not confident I know what the truth really is. But I am confident that there is objective, unequivocal truth. I'm not supposed to be. I'm supposed to believe we're all free to find our own truth; I'm supposed to tolerate whatever nonsense anyone else wants to put out there.
Well, folks, here's a tip: Denying the truth doesn't change it. He can say Obama isn't an American citizen, she can believe chupacabras are killing motorists in Texas, you can claim the Masons control a secret world government, I can call cookies health food. I can say it, swear to it, and believe it to my dying day but that will not change the truth, no matter how many people I point to who claim to have lost 45 pounds and cured their diabetes with an all-Keeblers diet.
The truth is out there. I believe Jesus when he said he is the way, the truth and the life; a lot of people don't. That just proves that relativism doesn't work: if we believe mutually-exclusive things then we can't both have found the truth. Alternate reality was cool on The Matrix, but life doesn't work that way.
I guess I'm suggesting that we should all be seekers for truth. Instead of thoughtlessly re-tweeting or forwarding the chain e-mails or propagating any of the propaganda that pollutes our conversational space, let's take the time to be informed of the facts and to examine the data. And then let's discuss. I promise to listen before I decide; I hope you'll do the same.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Doors
[Disclaimer for brother Eric, on the off chance he might actually check this out: This is not about a classic rock band, or any Jim Morrison conspiracy theories.]
This quirk became evident recently, when I spent part of a sick day flipping through electronic photo files. I noticed that in almost all my folders, be they of Europe or Texas or family or even just downtown, tucked between snaps of the beefeaters and Lady Di's fountain would be an image of some random door or gate. Since I rarely take the time to label things, I have only the foggiest recollection of where these doors are, but I still find them compelling.
I wonder why. I'd like to say it reveals something deep and significant, like maybe that I embrace change, or I'm always ready to pass on to that next stage in life. I suspect the truth to be something less positive (nosiness?).
There's a certain sense of mystery to doors. An unfamiliar door shields unknown things, possibly treasures, maybe horrors, maybe something interesting, probably just the mundane detritus of a life not much different than mine. But until the door is opened, it could be anything, and sometimes its fun to imagine what it might be. I felt this very strongly outside a residential gate in Lucerne, for instance; for some reason it seemed that those who lived there must be fascinating people doing fascinating things, and I wanted to meet them. Another time, I considered for a long time a worn door to an interior room in an old Spanish mission and imagined a selfless Jesuit on his knees or maybe a Native American child being punished for his waywardness. These are the entrances pictured here.
The mystery is enhanced by the interesting appearance of the doors I photograph. Many are rustic, some are ornate, but all are, to me anyway, aesthetically interesting. There is artistry here; some craftsman steeped in the lore of fine door-making wrought this. Surely a door so out of the ordinary must conceal extraordinary things! They suggest to me hippie communes, Tolkein-esque villages, Japanese tea gardens, Monte Cassino in an old war movie starring John Wayne back when he was still lean.
And then there's the functional nature of doors: They are, alternately, barriers or protection. They keep us safe from things like ax murderers and siding salesmen. They can also bar us from entry, an annoying trait I associate with the faculty door at the Rowenhorst Student Center where I work out; it's just across the street but often locked, necessitating a hike of a block or more to get to a public entrance.
An unlocked door, on the other hand, is permission. It is access granted, an invitation, inclusion. Where a locked door is a limitation, an unlocked door represents possibility, even opportunity. That's why I choose to believe that the doors I photograph are all unlocked, and why I never check - I suspect very few of them actually are. Probably they lock them when they see me coming.
If I did open one of these doors, what would I hope to find on the other side? What wondrous thing, what amazing experience, what wise person or beautiful sight or decadent treat would live up to the promise of the door? To speculate about such things is to think about who I am, why I believe I'm here, and what holes are still empty in my life. It's kind of scary, and potentially discouraging -- what if, after all that soul-searching, I discover that my fondest dream, the wonder I hope lies on the other side, is an all-meat pizza, a micro-brew, and the Twins beating the White Sox on a big-screen TV?
It makes me think about my own doors, physical and spiritual. Too often, I fear, I have them tightly locked, a means of keeping my self to myself. I want my family and friends see my doors as invitations to something we will share, but do they? Do they see opportunity and the promise of memorable things, or are they too accustomed disappointment and a long trudge around to the public entrance?
Mental meanderings such as this are why it's amazing I'm still married -- this is the point where Dawn's eyes are usually glazed and she's struggling to find a polite response. Dad would say a door is just a door, you need one to keep the snow and neighbors from blowing in, that's all. I have rightfully been accused of thinking too much.
A vibrant thought life can be a handicap, especially in Northwest Iowa, where Dutchmen, farmers and Republicans tend to dominate -- pragmatic groups all, who don't normally put a high value on deep thinking. But I think if we take time to wonder, and wander, about the world, we find ourselves continually encountering the One who made it. That's a good enough reason for me.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Enough
I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of "enough." Actually, I've been thinking about this off and on for years, ever since we paid off the house and everyone immediately assumed we'd turn around and buy a bigger one. We looked - having friends in real estate is like having family members who sell financial instruments, they're always pitching something - but we found we didn't want any of those big houses. So now, years later, we're still blissfully unaware of how miserable we are in our little house.
The funny thing is, a lot of folks think it's because we don't have enough money. We just think this is enough house for two people. And we're left with this shameful problem of money in the bank, and a lot of well-intentioned advisors telling us that we need some debt. Because paying taxes is bad but paying Citibank is good? At least I get something for my taxes.
The same thing happens with cars (I guess a half-ton pickup should embarass me enough that I'll eagerly take on another three years of payments just to avoid the death blow to my image) and vacations. And a huge industry has sprung up just to address the sensitivity men have about the size of their TV sets.
And how about food? If an eight-ounce steak is good, a 10-ounce steak is better, and best of all is that two-pound monster you get for free if you can finish it all. The best restaurants are buffets, right? European friends say only in America is the quality of a meal judged by it's quantity. No such thing as eating enough; all our best celebrations involve food comas.
The truth is, I guess, that for most of us enough isn't. We need more . . . than we have now, than the other guy has, whatever. After all, isn't that what Nelson Rockefeller is supposed to have said when asked how much money is enough - just a little bit more?
It's an important question, because until we have enough, everything we get goes to feeding our own insatiable need. There's more than enough wealth in this country to end poverty, stamp out hunger, fix education, put people back to work. There are so many digits to the left of the decimal point of our collective worth that we can't really comprehend it, yet each individual one of us still thinks we don't have enough. So all that money goes up in interest-payment smoke, or gets locked into the IRA.
At least, though, we're all a lot happier. Oh, you're not?
Then let me suggest that you think a little bit about enough. Because there's a lot of happiness, in a weird sort of way, in giving away 15% of what you earn and then finding out you managed to save even more than that. In backing your bought-for-cash truck out of your paid-for garage and realizing you haven't paid a dime of interest to anyone in over a decade. In helping three families get into homes because your credit is not only golden, it's completely unencumbered.
There is such a thing as enough. And figuring out what it is is half the fun.
The funny thing is, a lot of folks think it's because we don't have enough money. We just think this is enough house for two people. And we're left with this shameful problem of money in the bank, and a lot of well-intentioned advisors telling us that we need some debt. Because paying taxes is bad but paying Citibank is good? At least I get something for my taxes.
The same thing happens with cars (I guess a half-ton pickup should embarass me enough that I'll eagerly take on another three years of payments just to avoid the death blow to my image) and vacations. And a huge industry has sprung up just to address the sensitivity men have about the size of their TV sets.
And how about food? If an eight-ounce steak is good, a 10-ounce steak is better, and best of all is that two-pound monster you get for free if you can finish it all. The best restaurants are buffets, right? European friends say only in America is the quality of a meal judged by it's quantity. No such thing as eating enough; all our best celebrations involve food comas.
The truth is, I guess, that for most of us enough isn't. We need more . . . than we have now, than the other guy has, whatever. After all, isn't that what Nelson Rockefeller is supposed to have said when asked how much money is enough - just a little bit more?
It's an important question, because until we have enough, everything we get goes to feeding our own insatiable need. There's more than enough wealth in this country to end poverty, stamp out hunger, fix education, put people back to work. There are so many digits to the left of the decimal point of our collective worth that we can't really comprehend it, yet each individual one of us still thinks we don't have enough. So all that money goes up in interest-payment smoke, or gets locked into the IRA.
At least, though, we're all a lot happier. Oh, you're not?
Then let me suggest that you think a little bit about enough. Because there's a lot of happiness, in a weird sort of way, in giving away 15% of what you earn and then finding out you managed to save even more than that. In backing your bought-for-cash truck out of your paid-for garage and realizing you haven't paid a dime of interest to anyone in over a decade. In helping three families get into homes because your credit is not only golden, it's completely unencumbered.
There is such a thing as enough. And figuring out what it is is half the fun.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Confusion
I like to think that I have one of those cooler heads they always talk about (maybe it’s just because not much work gets done in there) but I’m beginning to be concerned at the direction this country is taking.
It started with the wussification of coffee. No longer is it the great American beverage that fueled cattle drives and kept soldiers alert through the dark hours of their watch. Thanks to Starbucks, Caribou and all their frilly little friends, coffee has been yuppified beyond recognition. For one thing, you can’t even get a regular cup, you have to start with tall and go from there to sizes that don’t even exist in English. And then you can’t fill the cup with actual coffee without the barista (huh, she’s barely 18 and can’t make change but she’s a barista?) letting you know through the same facial expression she uses when she hears the word “curfew” that you are hopelessly not cool and old. You’re supposed to order a frappucino or some sort of candy beverage with five words in the name. I mean, a venti white chocolate mocha cappuccino has more sugar, more syllables and almost as much solid matter as two pieces of tiramisu, with less coffee flavor. So if you learned to love coffee by waking up at zero-dark-thirty only two hours after you came in off patrol, and you want it black and hot even if it is July, there aren’t a lot of places where you’re welcome anymore.
The next thing I noticed was that our young people can no longer discern the differences in our political parties. Just look: the voice of the Young Republicans is a woman who loves burlesque shows, tweets her bra size, and supports tolerance for gay marriage, while the kid credited for the Internet –based social networking that got Obama elected is a graduate of Harvard Business School with solid venture capital creds. C’mon, you two, how’d you wander into the wrong party? Can’t you tell the difference between an elephant and a donkey? Well, it is getting harder. With the substitution of a few key words like “renewable energy” for “oil company,” the rhetoric is a lot the same. The Democrats have their own war now, and bought a chunk of General Motors. The Republicans are screaming about the deficit and proposing taxes. They have become each other. In fact, we really have a one-party system with two distinct camps, just like most church denominations.
And now we’re playing baseball in the winter. Games are postponed because of snow, and the talking heads are buzzing about what will happen if the Angels or Dodgers have to play in 40-degree weather. And the Twins have abandoned the Dome for a new outdoor park.
Now that I’ve spelled it out, can you see it? Our most sacred institutions – coffee, politics and baseball – have fallen victim to the creeping liberalization of our age. It’s time to swallow our pride and admit what we have denied for too long: Al Gore is right. It’s all due to global warming.
In retrospect, the progression is obvious. Once women started demanding we wear deodorant, our over-use of spray cans caused a hole in the ozone layer which allowed solar radiation to begin warming our climate. No, I don’t know why, since the hole is over the South Pole, Antarctica didn’t melt first but just shut up. So then, it got maybe two degrees warmer in the last 20 years except for the places where it got colder, like Gore’s hometown, and more parts of the world turned to desert except where we now have green grass seven months of the year instead of brown crunchy lawns in August. All this global warming led to the collapse of the “stuff we like when it’s cold” industry, like hot chocolate (except at Starbucks where you can get more kinds of chocolate than actual coffee) and studded snow tires. All those hot-chocolate factory workers who were suddenly un-employed could no longer make the payments on the million-dollar homes in Florida they bought as investments, so the government gave a bunch of money to some banks, bought into the car business and is going to get the money back by paying for health care for everyone. If you follow the obvious trends, this all can only lead to . . . hrmm, Al Sharpton freaking out about Rush Limbaugh owning an NFL team? No, that’s too weird, even for America.
Fortunately, there is someone in charge of this funny farm, and Psalm 2 says He’s just watching us and laughing. He’s going to make something good out of this mess, and I for one think it’s going to be kind of fun to watch.
It started with the wussification of coffee. No longer is it the great American beverage that fueled cattle drives and kept soldiers alert through the dark hours of their watch. Thanks to Starbucks, Caribou and all their frilly little friends, coffee has been yuppified beyond recognition. For one thing, you can’t even get a regular cup, you have to start with tall and go from there to sizes that don’t even exist in English. And then you can’t fill the cup with actual coffee without the barista (huh, she’s barely 18 and can’t make change but she’s a barista?) letting you know through the same facial expression she uses when she hears the word “curfew” that you are hopelessly not cool and old. You’re supposed to order a frappucino or some sort of candy beverage with five words in the name. I mean, a venti white chocolate mocha cappuccino has more sugar, more syllables and almost as much solid matter as two pieces of tiramisu, with less coffee flavor. So if you learned to love coffee by waking up at zero-dark-thirty only two hours after you came in off patrol, and you want it black and hot even if it is July, there aren’t a lot of places where you’re welcome anymore.
The next thing I noticed was that our young people can no longer discern the differences in our political parties. Just look: the voice of the Young Republicans is a woman who loves burlesque shows, tweets her bra size, and supports tolerance for gay marriage, while the kid credited for the Internet –based social networking that got Obama elected is a graduate of Harvard Business School with solid venture capital creds. C’mon, you two, how’d you wander into the wrong party? Can’t you tell the difference between an elephant and a donkey? Well, it is getting harder. With the substitution of a few key words like “renewable energy” for “oil company,” the rhetoric is a lot the same. The Democrats have their own war now, and bought a chunk of General Motors. The Republicans are screaming about the deficit and proposing taxes. They have become each other. In fact, we really have a one-party system with two distinct camps, just like most church denominations.
And now we’re playing baseball in the winter. Games are postponed because of snow, and the talking heads are buzzing about what will happen if the Angels or Dodgers have to play in 40-degree weather. And the Twins have abandoned the Dome for a new outdoor park.
Now that I’ve spelled it out, can you see it? Our most sacred institutions – coffee, politics and baseball – have fallen victim to the creeping liberalization of our age. It’s time to swallow our pride and admit what we have denied for too long: Al Gore is right. It’s all due to global warming.
In retrospect, the progression is obvious. Once women started demanding we wear deodorant, our over-use of spray cans caused a hole in the ozone layer which allowed solar radiation to begin warming our climate. No, I don’t know why, since the hole is over the South Pole, Antarctica didn’t melt first but just shut up. So then, it got maybe two degrees warmer in the last 20 years except for the places where it got colder, like Gore’s hometown, and more parts of the world turned to desert except where we now have green grass seven months of the year instead of brown crunchy lawns in August. All this global warming led to the collapse of the “stuff we like when it’s cold” industry, like hot chocolate (except at Starbucks where you can get more kinds of chocolate than actual coffee) and studded snow tires. All those hot-chocolate factory workers who were suddenly un-employed could no longer make the payments on the million-dollar homes in Florida they bought as investments, so the government gave a bunch of money to some banks, bought into the car business and is going to get the money back by paying for health care for everyone. If you follow the obvious trends, this all can only lead to . . . hrmm, Al Sharpton freaking out about Rush Limbaugh owning an NFL team? No, that’s too weird, even for America.
Fortunately, there is someone in charge of this funny farm, and Psalm 2 says He’s just watching us and laughing. He’s going to make something good out of this mess, and I for one think it’s going to be kind of fun to watch.
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