Despite frequent bouts of knuckleheadedness, I somehow made it through my teen years without ever being grounded. I even managed to dodge that bullet following the Shameful Shoplifting Incident of 1975, when I was caught, red-handed, with one of those "I Love You This Much" plasticine statues as I headed to the exit doors of Sears. Certainly, it would make sense that a long stretch of grounding would have followed.
Alas, my dad did something much worse.
When I came home that afternoon, shamefaced with ticket in hand, my dad simply continued to read the newspaper, ignoring me entirely.
Perhaps that's why I pursued journalism, having witnessed its immensely distracting powers on that fateful day in 1975.
For most of my life since then, I have sought to be grounded, not so much as punishment but rather as a salve against the wacky world "out there." And, for the most part, I have succeeded in finding and relishing in it.
That is why yesterday--a crisp, blue Saturday with nary an obligation--was so important to me.
Following my heady weekend at Yale, there was nothing spectacular or noteworthy about this Saturday. Just a week ago, I was, without a doubt, the dumbest person in the room,--not to mention the least nattily dressed--surrounded by people whose lives are naturally lived on a grand scale. I suppose there were moments when I found myself wishing I were one of them, making significant contributions to vast swaths of lands and peoples.
But mostly, I kept thinking about how much I missed my family and home.
When I read the obituaries--which I read faithfully every day--I continually am drawn to those in which a small life, well lived, is celebrated. Sure, I might find myself temporarily jealous of that person who was a titan of industry, someone whose accolades eventually require more ink at the press. But, mostly, I am heartened by those who made a wicked lasagna and whose garden fed their contented family and friends, year after year after year.
It's possible that my longing to have a small life well lived is simply my intellectual "uncle," one in which I've given up the golden dreams of Making A Difference on a Grand Scale. If so, well, I've made my peace with that.
I wonder if the desire to be grounded is a Midwestern phenomena. I wonder if small lives well lived are most appreciated where mountains and seashores are figments of one's imagination or exclamation points in once-in-a-lifetime vacations. If so, then I think the Midwest is onto something. Something rich and deep that requires a keen eye to fully appreciate it.
True, there is nothing sexy about being grounded. Then again, I can think of no better way to live a rich life, than with both feet on the ground.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
. . . Er, What was I talking about?
The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that selective memory loss may be the one thread that holds all of humanity together. After all, if it weren't for selective memory loss, most of us probably would be living in the proverbial dog house, our tails firmly between our legs.
What else but selective memory loss could explain how Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh have convinced so many women to marry them--including Newt's former high-school math teacher, for Pete's sake?! Although, to her credit, she didn't marry Rush, too.
It is selective memory loss that has allowed daughter Allison to still love Finn, the dog who ate and pooped and peed his way through both of her retainers and her bedroom.
I believe that selective memory loss counteracts virtually any birth-control method out there. The real reason we have more kids? Because we can't remember what our current kids did to us yesterday. Hardly a failure of birth control. . . So, give it up, President Obama. It's a wasted argument, as long as our collective memories fail to fire!
Selective memory loss is probably the primary reason millions of people haven't moved out of the Midwest, where, during a mild February, we are elated to see the first tendrils of a future daffodil poking through the soil.
It's quite possible that I'm still married because of selective memory loss. Maybe also why I'm still a teacher. Pretty sure, though, that selective memory loss hasn't done much for me in the area of fashion and culture, though.
Some truths simply are too ugly to ignore.
What else but selective memory loss could explain how Newt Gingrich and Rush Limbaugh have convinced so many women to marry them--including Newt's former high-school math teacher, for Pete's sake?! Although, to her credit, she didn't marry Rush, too.
It is selective memory loss that has allowed daughter Allison to still love Finn, the dog who ate and pooped and peed his way through both of her retainers and her bedroom.
I believe that selective memory loss counteracts virtually any birth-control method out there. The real reason we have more kids? Because we can't remember what our current kids did to us yesterday. Hardly a failure of birth control. . . So, give it up, President Obama. It's a wasted argument, as long as our collective memories fail to fire!
Selective memory loss is probably the primary reason millions of people haven't moved out of the Midwest, where, during a mild February, we are elated to see the first tendrils of a future daffodil poking through the soil.
It's quite possible that I'm still married because of selective memory loss. Maybe also why I'm still a teacher. Pretty sure, though, that selective memory loss hasn't done much for me in the area of fashion and culture, though.
Some truths simply are too ugly to ignore.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
We Should Be Zeroes
This past weekend, I attended the Reaching Zero student summit at Yale. There, over 300 of us--mostly college and high-school students--gathered to hear from the world’s leading authorities on the subject of nuclear weapons. Their goal is to eliminate all nuclear weapons by 2030. Heady stuff explained by an amazing collection of people--from the U.N.’s Hans Blix to the CIA’s Valeria Plame Wilson. I took notes like a banshee and made myself a goal--to process the experience in the form of an article. Below is my first attempt to make sense of an amazing weekend experience.
No offense, Vladmir Putin, but Moscow is, like, so yesterday. Which makes it all the more baffling to realize that we’ve still got nuclear weapons aimed at that city. Actually, the U.S. still has 200 tactical nuclear weapons in Europe, each aimed at a specific city. All leftovers from the Cold War . . .which ended in 1991.
So, when did leftovers become so popular?
Apparently, no one got the memo that, in today’s world, nuclear weapons make lousy deterrents. After all, how do you deter radical, non-state groups or individuals? Even a big, old nuclear weapon can’t help you do that.
And yet, there are over 20,000 nuclear warheads in the world today, about half of which are owned by the U.S. and Russia. And these things are not cheap to keep. Since the 1940s, the United States has spent about $7 trillion on its nuclear weapons, including $8 billion a year spent on Cold-War cleanup. That’s about $60 billion dollars a year. For weapons we have no intention of using.
I know some doves who would say we could have spent that $60 billion a year on education and the environment. And I’m pretty sure I could find some hawks who wouldn’t mind having $60 billion a year to upgrade our military’s conventional weapons and equipment.
If the U.S. reduced its nuclear stockpile by 80 percent, the U.S. would still have nearly 500 warheads, far more than the 300 the Military’s Air War College says we need to get by.
Despite a push from Congress to replace its fleet of Trident nuclear submarines, I bet some people in the Navy secretly hope we won’t. Why? Because replacing the Tridents would take decades and eat up 75 percent of the Navy’s budget. Seventy-five percent of their budget. For years and years and years and years.
Just maybe, then, there is a silver lining to this global economic crisis we find ourselves in. While few of us Plain Janes have thought of nuclear weapons in a while, most every Joe Blow around has thought about his pocketbook. So maybe our countries’ shrinking pocketbooks offer the world the perfect chance to just say no to nuclear weapons. After all, they are expensive. They are ineffective.
And they are, like, so yesterday.
No offense, Vladmir Putin, but Moscow is, like, so yesterday. Which makes it all the more baffling to realize that we’ve still got nuclear weapons aimed at that city. Actually, the U.S. still has 200 tactical nuclear weapons in Europe, each aimed at a specific city. All leftovers from the Cold War . . .which ended in 1991.
So, when did leftovers become so popular?
Apparently, no one got the memo that, in today’s world, nuclear weapons make lousy deterrents. After all, how do you deter radical, non-state groups or individuals? Even a big, old nuclear weapon can’t help you do that.
And yet, there are over 20,000 nuclear warheads in the world today, about half of which are owned by the U.S. and Russia. And these things are not cheap to keep. Since the 1940s, the United States has spent about $7 trillion on its nuclear weapons, including $8 billion a year spent on Cold-War cleanup. That’s about $60 billion dollars a year. For weapons we have no intention of using.
I know some doves who would say we could have spent that $60 billion a year on education and the environment. And I’m pretty sure I could find some hawks who wouldn’t mind having $60 billion a year to upgrade our military’s conventional weapons and equipment.
If the U.S. reduced its nuclear stockpile by 80 percent, the U.S. would still have nearly 500 warheads, far more than the 300 the Military’s Air War College says we need to get by.
Despite a push from Congress to replace its fleet of Trident nuclear submarines, I bet some people in the Navy secretly hope we won’t. Why? Because replacing the Tridents would take decades and eat up 75 percent of the Navy’s budget. Seventy-five percent of their budget. For years and years and years and years.
Just maybe, then, there is a silver lining to this global economic crisis we find ourselves in. While few of us Plain Janes have thought of nuclear weapons in a while, most every Joe Blow around has thought about his pocketbook. So maybe our countries’ shrinking pocketbooks offer the world the perfect chance to just say no to nuclear weapons. After all, they are expensive. They are ineffective.
And they are, like, so yesterday.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Simply Finn-tastic
It's been about three weeks since Finn joined the illustrious ranks of the Holt household. Three weeks, six puddles of pee, a ruined pillow, some unfortunately placed poops, two mangled retainers, untold stray hairs, a now-frayed stray glove and a boxful of coughed-up Kleenex, to be exact.
To be fair, it's also been three weeks, two million adoring looks, 63 head-burrowing hugs, 40 joyful walks and two well-tolerated baths.
Yeah, he's fitting in nicely.
Having Finn the puppy in the house is like eating Indian food for the second time. We mistook the mellow undertones of Hobbes the adult Hobo Dog (read, chicken tikka) for the whole shebang, and thus have been surprised by the range of other, much more exotic flavors of doghood that are out there (read, vindaloo).
If ever we were threatening to become canine curmudgeons, content to have a dog that required next to nothing, aside from a short walk and some fresh food and water, Finn has changed all that.
Walking Finn has awakened me to my declining faculties. Apparently, there is a whole, Metallica-laced, screeching world out there that utterly escapes me. I simply can't hear the whispery movements of a neighborhood hare or the subtle shifts of the earth's plates the way that Finn can. I now see why his ears are so big. They're like military-grade secret weapons, always at the ready to intercept some subtle danger or adventure that teeters on the edge of our landscape.
About twice a day, Finn absolutely loses his mind, racing around the house like a meth addict in search of the last two Sudafeds. Actually, it's pretty hilarious. And kind of stunning, too. He seems unfazed by our mostly wood-floored abode, one in which stop-on-a-dime redirects are virtually impossible. And he seems pretty darned happy as he races about, some inaccessible storyline fueling his entertaining adventures.
We're pretty darned happy, ourselves, aside--perhaps--from Allison, whose room and things have taken the brunt of Finn's more basic and unfortunate functions. But even Allison is wearing down, no longer able to resist the cold, wet nudge of Finn's nose as he insists on loving her.
And so, the Holts enter a new phase of life--a noisier, more active, hairier, albeit still happy phase--one framed by the love and antics of a dog we just met last month. Such are the lessons in life, so often framed in surprising bursts of love that no one could have anticipated.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
My Nuclear Energy
Two months ago, I read Lou Zamparini's amazing WWII biography, "Unbroken." As is always the case for us haven't-been-around-the-world types, I was transported and transformed by what I read, stunned by what so many people endured and how so many people went on to live good lives, despite all that devastation.
Reading the book also made me understand why the U.S. decided that using atomic weapons could help end the war. There is no question that what happened to Nagasaki and Hiroshima accelerated the ending of WWII, not to mention accelerating the end of over 300,000 Japanese citizens' lives, over time.
One month ago, I was contacted by a former student and current friend, Holly Davis, who works for Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ending the use of nuclear weapons.
She invited me to learn more about her organization and, ultimately, help establish a Global Zero club at East High.
And so, next Friday, one of my students and I leave for Yale, for a Global Zero conference that includes speakers such as Valerie Plame, the outed CIA agent, and United Nations' representative Hans Blix, who went to Iraq to look for nuclear weapons.
The irony does not escape me.
And yet, I have made my peace with such juxtapositions in my life. How else can I navigate this complicated world, except through ocassionally allowing complicated and contrary thoughts to reside inside my brain--at the very same time?
I refuse to feel unpatriotic or hypocritical or even guilty for cramming my head full of thoughts and beliefs that do not live in accord with each other. I will not apologize for posing questions to both sides of a coin, any more than I will feel bad for the sloppy evolution that is me.
I have yet to figure out any other way to live life than to wake up each morning and walk into it, contradictory warts and all.
It is this approach that'll take me to Yale, as well, where, I imagine, I will once again be transported and transformed by what I hear.
Reading the book also made me understand why the U.S. decided that using atomic weapons could help end the war. There is no question that what happened to Nagasaki and Hiroshima accelerated the ending of WWII, not to mention accelerating the end of over 300,000 Japanese citizens' lives, over time.
One month ago, I was contacted by a former student and current friend, Holly Davis, who works for Global Zero, an organization dedicated to ending the use of nuclear weapons.
She invited me to learn more about her organization and, ultimately, help establish a Global Zero club at East High.
And so, next Friday, one of my students and I leave for Yale, for a Global Zero conference that includes speakers such as Valerie Plame, the outed CIA agent, and United Nations' representative Hans Blix, who went to Iraq to look for nuclear weapons.
The irony does not escape me.
And yet, I have made my peace with such juxtapositions in my life. How else can I navigate this complicated world, except through ocassionally allowing complicated and contrary thoughts to reside inside my brain--at the very same time?
I refuse to feel unpatriotic or hypocritical or even guilty for cramming my head full of thoughts and beliefs that do not live in accord with each other. I will not apologize for posing questions to both sides of a coin, any more than I will feel bad for the sloppy evolution that is me.
I have yet to figure out any other way to live life than to wake up each morning and walk into it, contradictory warts and all.
It is this approach that'll take me to Yale, as well, where, I imagine, I will once again be transported and transformed by what I hear.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Getting Comfortable
I came home from school early today, bogged down by boogers and a blazing head, seeking the comfort of my couch.
My couch did not let me down.
Nor did Finn, my faithful hound who wedged himself between me and the couch cushions. Or the blanket I tossed over us, its weight oddly reassuring. Or the fire I revved up. Or the hot tea that soothed my throat.
We are, I believe, a species that needs comfort, wherever we find it. But I don't think we're alone in that need.
Take what happened this afternoon, when I tended to the birds, who were nosing the pathetic remains of the safflower-seed feast I'd left them the other day. As much as I love to feed the birds, I have grown to love lifting the lid of their seed container just as much.
Most days, I find a furry, grey friend tucked into the corner of the container, drunk on safflower, his movements slowed by too much of a good thing. I love finding a feasting mouse, even if I know I should think better about his presence.
Today, there were two mice, both quietly working their way through a pile of comfort food, mouse style. I tipped the container and gently shooed them on their ways, wondering if they realized that, had I skipped my visit to the seed container, they may very well have died there, my supply dwindling to near nothing.
I suppose we could all get so wrapped up in comfort that we overlook impending doom.
But it's just so darned...comforting.
When I took Finn out for his evening constitution tonight (a constitution this rebel spirit does not necessarily abide by), despite the lousy cold that was weighing me down, I was buoyed by the sound of clinking plates as Allison loaded the dishwasher, the warm kitchen light laying gently on the snow just outside.
Comfort comes in so many packages--the feel soft pajamas and warm water, the nudge of a loyal dog's nose, the scent of a candle as it first reaches your nose, the taste of savory soup as it first reaches our tongues. Perhaps comfort comes to all of our senses so that we, too, can come to our senses, grounded by the quiet steadiness of the small things in life.
My couch did not let me down.
Nor did Finn, my faithful hound who wedged himself between me and the couch cushions. Or the blanket I tossed over us, its weight oddly reassuring. Or the fire I revved up. Or the hot tea that soothed my throat.
We are, I believe, a species that needs comfort, wherever we find it. But I don't think we're alone in that need.
Take what happened this afternoon, when I tended to the birds, who were nosing the pathetic remains of the safflower-seed feast I'd left them the other day. As much as I love to feed the birds, I have grown to love lifting the lid of their seed container just as much.
Most days, I find a furry, grey friend tucked into the corner of the container, drunk on safflower, his movements slowed by too much of a good thing. I love finding a feasting mouse, even if I know I should think better about his presence.
Today, there were two mice, both quietly working their way through a pile of comfort food, mouse style. I tipped the container and gently shooed them on their ways, wondering if they realized that, had I skipped my visit to the seed container, they may very well have died there, my supply dwindling to near nothing.
I suppose we could all get so wrapped up in comfort that we overlook impending doom.
But it's just so darned...comforting.
When I took Finn out for his evening constitution tonight (a constitution this rebel spirit does not necessarily abide by), despite the lousy cold that was weighing me down, I was buoyed by the sound of clinking plates as Allison loaded the dishwasher, the warm kitchen light laying gently on the snow just outside.
Comfort comes in so many packages--the feel soft pajamas and warm water, the nudge of a loyal dog's nose, the scent of a candle as it first reaches your nose, the taste of savory soup as it first reaches our tongues. Perhaps comfort comes to all of our senses so that we, too, can come to our senses, grounded by the quiet steadiness of the small things in life.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Snow Kidding!
On most days, I think I could have made quite a living as a copywriter for Hallmark cards. (Then again, I've got genetics on my side, since my mom had a stint as a card artist for the company back in her Kansas City days). Give me a challenge or a setback, a computer crash or a tough crossword and my typical response is "No problem!"
Give me a bleak meteorological scenario, though, and I become both Brothers Grimm all rolled up into one. Albeit, a really happy brother.
Like Lee Atwater on steroids, I can take a weather forecast and spin it into a bleak, post-apocalyptic scenario with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back. And I'll do it downright giddily, too. Although, unlike Atwater, I won't blame the Democrats for the impending doom. . . .
That's why waking up this morning was such a glorious thing for me.
Lifting a dusty slat from our bathroom blinds, I was greeted by a scene straight out of an Ansel Adams calendar, the limbs of trees donning newly-purchased goose-down winter coats as they waved to one another in the windy climes of my backyard.
And I am no seasonal Grimm. Whatever the month, given even the slimmest of chances for interesting weather, I will always make the most extreme prediction available. Lunchtime thunderheads in Grand Island? I'll predict lusty, post-storm mammatus clouds in Lincoln by dinner time.
Already this morning, while talking to my friend Jill (who, God bless her, also wakes long before any proverbial rooster even ponders a throaty crow), eyes peeled on the outdoors during the entire phone conversation, I gasped briefly, certain I'd witness a flash of lightning.
...like I said, a lighter, happier version of the Brothers Grimm.
So, while Jill takes the more mature angle on this wintry day, worrying about future downed limbs or interruptions in power, I see no reason whatsoever to fret these things, the slightly inconvenient prices paid for a really great--and long overdue--storm.
...one might even describe it as a hallmark storm of an otherwise blase' winter season. Downright cardworthy, I'd say.
Give me a bleak meteorological scenario, though, and I become both Brothers Grimm all rolled up into one. Albeit, a really happy brother.
Like Lee Atwater on steroids, I can take a weather forecast and spin it into a bleak, post-apocalyptic scenario with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back. And I'll do it downright giddily, too. Although, unlike Atwater, I won't blame the Democrats for the impending doom. . . .
That's why waking up this morning was such a glorious thing for me.
Lifting a dusty slat from our bathroom blinds, I was greeted by a scene straight out of an Ansel Adams calendar, the limbs of trees donning newly-purchased goose-down winter coats as they waved to one another in the windy climes of my backyard.
And I am no seasonal Grimm. Whatever the month, given even the slimmest of chances for interesting weather, I will always make the most extreme prediction available. Lunchtime thunderheads in Grand Island? I'll predict lusty, post-storm mammatus clouds in Lincoln by dinner time.
Already this morning, while talking to my friend Jill (who, God bless her, also wakes long before any proverbial rooster even ponders a throaty crow), eyes peeled on the outdoors during the entire phone conversation, I gasped briefly, certain I'd witness a flash of lightning.
...like I said, a lighter, happier version of the Brothers Grimm.
So, while Jill takes the more mature angle on this wintry day, worrying about future downed limbs or interruptions in power, I see no reason whatsoever to fret these things, the slightly inconvenient prices paid for a really great--and long overdue--storm.
...one might even describe it as a hallmark storm of an otherwise blase' winter season. Downright cardworthy, I'd say.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)