Greetings to family and friends!

As many of us ponder recent economic events including record job losses, reduction of 401Ks to 201Ks, and bailout demands from various companies claiming to be “too big to fail,” it is easy to overlook the emerging crisis in the North Pole.

The Elves Employee Kollective (EEK) is not willing to concede previous agreements with management for lifetime pensions (a costly ongoing obligation considering that elves have an average life span of 800 years). Santa’s failure to move more quickly in modernizing the workshop and retooling for the 21st century as well as his persistent reliance on fossil fuel as his only reindeer supplement for sleigh power have resulted in a North Pole balance sheet at the end of the year that remains in the red – and that is not a festive red, my friends.

One solution is a huge NPB (North Pole Bailout) - but the bah humbug US Senate is digging its heels in on that one. Our only hope now is a visitation from three ghosts:

FDR, The Ghost of Christmas Past (with a “New Deal” and the assurance that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself…)

GWB, The Ghost of Christmas Present (when disaster strikes, “shop ‘til you drop for the USA”) and

BHO, The Ghost of Christmas Future (“hope that seems more and more audacious every day”)

Meanwhile, we are grateful for all we still have here in Boulder, Colorado. Caitlin is completing her junior year at CU, doing extremely well in organic chemistry and studying like mad for her Calculus final. She is hoping to shadow a doctor at the People’s Clinic over the break to see what that is like and is signed up for volunteer work at an AIDS clinic in San Francisco over spring break. Shannon is returning to CU after a year in the Real World working at the Boulder Café, and expects to complete his degree in Integrative Physiology in a couple of semesters. In his spare time he loves bouldering at a climbing gym called the Spot. Mark and I managed to finally replace the appalling and ancient green awning over our front porch with a new and better porch that wears the Christmas lights well I think.

We join Dr. Seuss and the Grinch in the sentiment that, despite any material disappointments this season: “Maybe Christmas doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more.” From all of us to all of you – a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Mark, Lynn, Shannon and Caitlin

Of Rocky Roads and Electric Sheep

Over Labor Day weekend awhile back Cait and I hiked up to Blue Lake. It felt great—even though the 6-mile round trip had me hobbling and begging for a hot tub the next day. The rocky, steep terrain reminded me of a novel I finished recently by one of the finest science fiction writers of all time, Philip K. Dick, called “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?"

It is the basis for the movie “Bladerunner,” but is quite different from the movie. In a world that has barely survived a multi-world war, most of Earth’s population has been bribed into migrating to other planets to survive. Only a few humans remain on Earth including the main character, a bounty hunter named Rick Deckard who tracks down and “kills” renegade androids. The androids are manufactured so skillfully that it is quite difficult to tell them from humans. The bounty hunter administers empathy tests to force androids to reveal themselves, since technology has not advanced to the point where they can be taught the most human of traits, empathy.

Meanwhile, there are so few animals left on earth that they are greatly prized as pets, and the less fortunate must settle for android animals. Our hero has a sheep and keeps it a secret from his neighbors that the sheep is not real, but an android. Throughout the novel we’re kept guessing about who and what is an android, and who is “real”—we even begin to suspect Deckard at times. Earth is bleak, polluted and radioactive, so humans derive some comfort from a device in every home that, when grasped by its handles, plunges them into a shared dream in which a man named Wilbur Mercer trudges endlessly up a rocky trail. (You were wondering how this would end up relating to a rocky trail, weren’t you?). In this way all share in Mercer’s feelings and travail as he endlessly climbs up the trail in his attempts to escape the “tomb world,” fending off the occasional rock thrown at him from above. Mercer is also said to have been able to heal animals at one time, a sacred ability given the high value placed on the few animals still remaining on Earth. As a result there is a religion of sorts called Mercerism. Eventually the androids discover and reveal a terrible truth about the genuineness of Mercerism, and those who believe are put to the test. But perhaps faith and empathy are stronger than we thought?

Walking up a rocky mountain trail not unlike the one I imagined Mercer to have climbed in the novel, I pondered all of this and tried to explain it to a perplexed Cait between short breaths as we climbed higher and higher. Is empathy a true test of what it means to be human, and if someone doesn’t feel empathy does that mean they are less human?

Check out the book if you haven’t read it—it’s fascinating. PKD wrote it in 1968 and it is amazing how relevant it still is today.

Golden Aspens on the Colorado Trail

Mark and I traveled 285 up to Kenosha Pass to hike the Colorado Trail last Saturday with the aspens at their peak. The trail gave us glorious vistas over a high mountain plain with patches of golden aspens, distant peaks, and storm clouds rolling over all so that the light on the plain was dappled dark and light.

The intermittent sunlight made the gold-green aspens glow in an almost otherworldly way—the groves looked magical with the trail winding through them almost as though we were on some kind quest to Middle Earth to visit the Elves in Valinor. As usual my camera didn’t really capture the true splendor of it all, but I try.

News Flash: I’m a woman who doesn’t wear lipstick – and I vote

I am utterly amazed at some women who were for Hillary who are now saying that with McCain’s nomination of Sarah Palin they will vote for that ticket. Palin’s positions on almost every issue you can name are diametrically opposed to Hillary Clinton’s positions. Sarah’s womanhood, in and of itself, does not sway me in the least. And I am very weary indeed of all the references to lipstick as some red badge of courage for womanhood. Lipstick is a choice for women like any other choice (and God knows we need our choices), but as a symbol it stinks. Please, please – can we get back to important issues like what the hell we are going to do about the economy and the war and health care? Just say no to lipstick politics.

It's All Right

After a weeklong business trip with the usual sense of isolation combined with strange moments of connectedness with airport strangers that business travel usually brings me, I woke up intensely grateful to be back in Boulder. This morning I listened to a Paul Simon song that’s been running through my head all week, the music based on a Bach chorale and the words so very relevant for the current time and for my return home from traveling: “American Tune.”

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken
And many times confused
Yes, and often felt forsaken
And certainly misused
But I’m all right, I’m all right,
I’m just weary to my bones
Still, you don’t expect to be
Bright and von vivant
So far away from home, so far away from home

This country continues the long struggle of picking up the pieces from the latest hurricane in Galveston and environs. I see pictures of the places we visited in March on the west coast of the island, now totally destroyed. Meanwhile Wall Street has had its own hurricane and the U.S. government, counter to the current administration’s usual philosophy of letting the free markets resolve these messes, is stepping in to bolster the “giants who cannot be allowed to fail” before they topple and destroy our economy. But it’s only money, right?

Do listen to "American Tune." Simon sang it for the Democratic Convention in 1980. He sang it again on the first Saturday Night Live after 9/11. Simon has said in interviews that he wrote it in 1973 after Nixon won reelection.

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered
I don’t have a friend who feels at ease
I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered
Or driven to its knees
But it’s all right, it’s all right
We’ve lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road we’re traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can’t help it, I wonder what went wrong

In these times it’s important to remember how lucky we still are and how much we have to be grateful for as we seek the change we need in November. You can imagine Paul Simon waking up on a November morning to another four years of Nixon and writing this:

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower
We come on the ship that sailed the moon
We come in the age's most uncertain hour
And sing an American tune
But it’s all right, it’s all right
You can’t be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest
That’s all I’m trying to get some rest.

The song could leave you with a bleak feeling but I choose to take it as a hopeful call to find our way and make it all right before it is too late, to find our way again on this “long strange trip.” It’s time for a different approach. McCain represents safety and assurance to some, but there is no security because we are blazing a new trail on many fronts: financial, international and ecological. These lives we are all living—what radical changes may really be required to continue to live in this world and ensure that all the other inhabitants may also live? I believe Obama recognizes what we all must realize--much must change and greed must fall.

I intend to continue to recognize the abundance I have in the simple joy of living. To draw my happiness from the moment, not from all the “stuff” and money and accumulations. A key question: am I being generous enough to my fellow human beings? Am I practicing enough acts of random kindness? Eckhart Tolle says:

Many poets and sages throughout the ages have observed that true happiness is found in simple, seemingly unremarkable things...Why is it the "least thing" that makes up the best happiness?...The form of little things leaves room for inner space, and it is from inner space, the unconditioned consciousness itself, that true happiness, the joy of Being, emanates. To be aware of little, quiet things, however, you need to be quiet inside. A high degree of alertness is required. Be still. Look. Listen. Be present.

And…if you are having a cynical moment (or two or three) as you read this, please ask yourself how you like living with this cynicism every day and what you or anyone else is getting out of it. As John Lennon sang: "You may say I'm a dreamer...but I'm not the only one. I hope some day you'll join us, and the world will be as one."

2008 DNC in Denver – Pre-Convention Impressions

We drive into the Mile High City to see what we can see on Saturday before the Democratic National Convention. At 9:30 am in Lodo, Denver’s streets are pretty empty as they usually are on a Saturday morning—mainly tired people who’ve worked all night waiting for the bus to go home. As we walk among the tall buildings more people gradually emerge, some with convention passes already dangling from their necks and taking pictures. People stand on each street corner collecting money for the homeless.

Security on the 16th Street Mall is on high alert; quintets of cops biking the full length of the street, others on foot in cumbersome riot gear randomly searching inside flower pots and underneath tree grates. Cardboard boxes lined with trash bags have replaced the usual trashcans perhaps because they are much more easily checked and searched; the cops peer into them as they walk by. In front of the Paramount Theater at least 20 officers exit a bus and stand waiting for something. This is more cops than I have seen at one time since January 1973 in Washington, DC at the Nixon inaugural parade when Mark and I illegally marched too near the festivities and suddenly found ourselves fleeing a line of gendarmes waving billy clubs. The guys today seem a lot calmer, at least so far.

We stroll over to the Pepsi Center, now surrounded by rusty metal grid fence segments. At a security check that looks like a press entry point we see the white CNN logo on many dark blue t-shirts. A brick wall has huge stenciled lettering: CNN = POLITICS. A cop and K-9 unit wait to one side of this entryway eying all of those who wait in line to enter and a man takes his time searching a row of bags, backpacks and camera equipment one by one on the sidelines. Men with dark blue vests that say POLICE on the back and SECRET SERVICE on the front vet each person in line. (By the way, what is secret about people who wears clothing labeled “secret service?”)

Three serious people speak French as they stand to one side with bags and camera equipment labeled “French International Television.” Various security personnel inside the iron grid patrol the perimeter as the red, white and blue star decorations on outer walls of the Pepsi Center rise up behind them.

By 10:50 am we hear our first helicopter go over, and after lunch the crowds have increased significantly and all manner of street vendors are out selling food and convention paraphernalia. We buy two patriotic hats and three Obama buttons across the street from Larimer Square where every state flag in the union has been strung in colorful banners over the street. It is time to head home to Boulder.

As we reach the car we pass a woman unloading a stack of “Hillary” signs and I tell her I want a picture for “old time’s sake.” She says she is part of the Texas delegation, from Austin. I tell her to have a great convention and she wishes me the same, not knowing that the closest I will get is television each night next week. Yes, I was for Hillary – but now it is Barack Obama’s time with his newly chosen VP Joe Biden by his side, and we are all ready for a change in this country. Let’s do this.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

I’ve just finished rereading “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values” by Robert Pirsig circa 1974. I think I first read this book about 30 years ago, and I certainly understood it and got more out of it this time around. If you get it yourself, be sure to get the Perennial Classics Edition with extra insights and a new introduction by the author.

Three threads intertwine in the book: the story of a man and his son trying to connect with each other as they travel cross-country on a motorcycle, an examination of the indefinable concept of quality and the balance necessary between intuition and technology, and a man’s inner struggle to retain his sanity as he reconciles two essential parts of his being into one, for his son’s sake.

The narrator talks about a friend traveling with him who has no interest or patience for learning how to maintain the motorcycle he rides - foresaking technology to focus only art and intuition – and how this is a mistake. To have Quality (Oneness) in one’s life both art and knowledge are needed. He makes the point that this is true for any work or activity and uses motorcycle maintenance as the analogy. Although Quality cannot be defined, you know it when you see it. Quality in an activity is recognizable by the peace of mind a person feels during the activity. Without peace of mind there is no Quality.

These ideas seem very relevant in this election year. From p. 270:

To put it in more concrete terms: If you want to build a factory, or fix a motorcycle, or set a nation right without getting stuck, then classical, structured, dualistic subject-object knowledge, although necessary, isn’t enough. You have to have some feeling for the quality of the work. You have to have a sense of what’s good. That is what carries you forward. This sense isn’t just something you are born with, although you are born with it. It’s also something you can develop. It’s not just “intuition,” not just unexplainable “skill” or “talent.” It’s the direct result of contact with basic reality, Quality, which dualistic reason has in the past tended to conceal.

It all sounds so far out and esoteric when it’s put like that. It comes as a shock to discover that it is one of the most homespun, down-to-earth views of reality you can have. Harry Truman, of all people, comes to mind, when he said concerning his administration’s programs, “We’ll just try them…and if they don’t work…why then we’ll just try something else.” That may not be an exact quote, but that’s close…The reality of the American government isn’t static, he said, it’s dynamic. If we don’t like it we’ll get something better.

(Yes. In January, we will get something better. Don’t forget to vote in November.)

I recognize in these ideas the reason why I am unhappy at work when there is too much focus on numbers, metrics and people as interchangeable “components” and not enough focus on the essence of good work and good results which is represented by Quality.

Meanwhile, I think of my brother, who also read this book thirty years ago and related especially strongly to it. Paul was a mechanical genius – he could fix almost anything. He just knew how machines worked. He was highly interested in Philosophy and could hold his own in philosophical exchanges with my husband, which is no small feat. And Paul struggled to reconcile dueling parts of his personality at war with each other in a way that only a person who is bipolar can really understand.

Pirsig talks about the issue of “stuckness” – how seemingly insurmountable roadblocks and problems are actually opportunities to step back and open mindedly re-examine the facts and their relative importance. This also reminds me of my brother as well as myself and our experiences in the high tech world. P. 292:

Stuckness shouldn’t be avoided. It’s the psychic predecessor to all real understanding. An egoless acceptance of stuckness is a key to an understanding of all Quality, in mechanical work as in other endeavors. It’s the understanding of Quality as revealed by stuckness which so often makes self-taught mechanics so superior to institute-trained men, who have learned how to handle everything except a new situation.

In other words, you must set aside ego enough to admit you’re stuck (even if you’re supposed to be a pro) before you can start down the path toward a solution. At the time he wrote this book Pirsig, onetime professor of Rhetoric and Philosophy, was writing technical documentation for IBM computers. So, high tech folk, the question of Quality as peace of mind comes into play. P. 301:

Peace of mind isn’t at all superficial to technical work. It’s the whole thing. That which produces it is good work and that which destroys it is bad work. The specs, the measuring instruments, the quality control, the final check-out, these are all means toward the end of satisfying the peace of mind of those responsible for the work. What really counts in the end is their peace of mind, nothing else…The way to see what looks good and understand the reasons it looks good, and to be one with this goodness as the work proceeds, is to cultivate an inner quietness, a peace of mind so that goodness can shine through.

He says that this inner peace of mind, “involves unselfconciousness, which produces a complete identification with one’s circumstances…levels and levels of quietness quite as profound and difficult of attainment as the more familiar levels of activity.”

In other words - the profound quietness that can be found in the Now. I want to believe that somewhere, somehow, Paul has also finally found this peace of mind.

The year was 1965 and I was twelve years old. I wanted to learn to play the guitar, so my parents got me a golden-bodied acoustic and signed me up for lessons at Tom Pickett’s Guitar Gallery on East Kirkwood Avenue.

In the Hoosier town of Bloomington it was not a happening scene yet in 1965. A leather vest here, some long-haired guys there, but not so much love and peace and psychedelia. But Kirkwood was right down the street from the Indiana University campus and in the next few years as I was folksinging more and more, barefooted beings called hippies began to frequent the avenue in fringe, brightly colored clothes, and beaded headbands, smelling of incense and patchouli oil. Many of them also had guitars, slung over their backs like apparel.

My long-haired (and very exotic, I thought) teacher started me out with D and A7, and at first I had to work hard just to simply strum and smoothly change back and forth between these two chords. I was heartened to learn that a person could play hundreds of songs just with two chords. The first song I learned was “Good News”:

Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
Good news, chariot’s a’comin’
And I don't want it to leave a me behind.

I picked up other songs along the same lines like “Hush Little Baby.” Soon I had graduated to 3(!) chords, adding G. I learned how to read tablature, and then I learned the magic of minor chords with Dm and Am. With just these chords and another progression: G-Em-C-D, thousands of songs could be played. Eventually I learned bar chords, and then almost anything (theoretically) was possible.

I began to play and sing everywhere I got the chance – for my friends and family, in Dunn Meadow next to IU, in talent shows, even once on a local TV station at a very early hour one morning. My father loved to harmonize on some songs like “Tell Me Why” and “Kumbuya.” By then I had learned a lot of anti-war songs as the draft and the raging Vietnam War started to take more of my friends. “Strangest Dream” was one of these:

Last night I had the strangest dream
I'd ever dreamed before.
I dreamed that all the world had agreed
To put an end to war.

I also sang “Simple Song of Freedom.”

Come and sing a simple song of freedom.
Sing it like it’s never been sung before.
Let it fill the air, tell people everywhere
We the people here don’t want a war.

And of course, “We Shall Overcome.” Not to mention Dylan’s “The Times They Are a’ Changin.’” The guitar teacher mischievously taught me that one at a very young age, perhaps hoping to introduce a mild insurrection in my distinctly unrebellious young life – but my parents never seemed to object, perhaps because I was an incredibly well-behaved little thing until I diverged from their plan in my twenties and started living with Mark (shacking up, as my Dad called it). They were worried about our level of commitment to each other. Thirty-five years later Mark and I are still together, so there you have it.

I learned lots of folk songs, playing and singing for hours a day sitting on the edge of the bed in my room, probably driving my entire family crazy. Folk songs were a great form of expression for me and are to this day. I loved the lyrics and had a knack for memorizing them – learning whole sets of songs made famous by Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan. It was one of the most exciting and inspiring periods of learning and growth in my life and I’ll never forget it.

Of Lady Mondegreen

I have learned a new word (where has it been all my life?): mondegreen. It comes from a 17th century ballad about how they have slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen. Only the real words are “laid him on the green.”

The word “mondegreen” was coined by writer Sylvia Wright for misheard poetry or lyrics. In her original discussion of this in 1954 she defined the mondegreen as actually better than the original—but few samples I have seen meet this criterion. Some are better than the original, some are hilarious, and some are simply stupid.

Another example Sylvia Wright gave was “Surely good Mrs. Murphy will follow me all the days of my life,” which is really Psalm 23’s “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

One of my favorites is “’Scuse me while I kiss this guy,” for Jimi Hendrix’s “’Scuse me while I kiss the sky.”

Then there is “A gay pair of guys put up a parking lot” for Joni Mitchell’s “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” As well as “We’d like to know a little bit about your far-off isles,” for Paul Simon’s “Mrs. Robinson.” The real words: “We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files.”

And “the ants are my friends, they are blowing in the wind” for Dylan’s “the answer my friend is blowing in the wind.”

Since I am a great fan of lyrics and have memorized many songs, mondegreens are particularly amusing. I know I’ve been amazed at what I thought I was hearing in a song and what the actual words were when I looked them up. Sometimes when you look lyrics up on the Internet you find a bad version which is actually a series of mondegreens, so beware as always of anything you discover there.

The word mondegreen, after 54 years, has finally made it into the Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary, and is a welcome addition. Feel free to post your favorite ones in comments below.

Wild Basin Hike

On the Monday after July 4th we all drove up to the southern corner of Rocky Mountain National Park to hike Wild Basin. The trail leads past a rushing mountain stream and Copeland and Ouzel Falls are quite spectacular. The day was a little overcast but it seemed to make the white froth of the waterfalls glow even brighter, and the Indian paintbrush too.

I remembered again how fine it is to have kids who have grown up and still like hanging out with us once in awhile and found a moment to be grateful. We had some good conversation hiking up the trail. There were a lot of people of all ilks hiking along, including several youth groups, who we found a couple of times sitting on logs lining the trail having their own heartfelt conversations.

We saw a chipmunk, and later on the way back down a deer crossed the trail a few feet in front of us. The doe was skittish, but willing to be photographed from a distance.

A fire rushed through parts of Wild Basin a few years ago, so there are areas still rejuvenating from the burn in a way I find quite fascinating - it reminds me of hope. The brilliant green of the ferns in these areas always draws my attention as well as the green tips of the pine needles; who says it isn’t green in Colorado (ex-Hoosiers sometimes say this, but they are wrong).

Boulder has a special relationship with prairie dogs. One has only to peruse headlines from the Boulder Camera in recent months or do a search on prairie dogs at its website to get a clear sense of the place they hold in the hearts of the citizenry. Headlines like: “Prairie Dogs Tapping Toxins,” “Tests Show No Sign of Plague in Valmont Butte Prairie Dogs” and “Public Input on Prairie Dog Endangered Status Commenced,” not to mention “Activists Alarmed by Bulldozing of Prairie Dog Burrows.”

The Camera seems to be quite open to first-page placement for prairie dog stories and I have even seen two stories at once on the front page during particularly dire times. Even Boulder’s close neighbor Louisville gets into the act with a letter to the editor: "Louisville Should Act to Protect Prairie Dogs."

I have nothing against prairie dogs. I have walked on paths by their burrows, listening to their alert warning calls to each other. The sound has been likened to barking, which is why an animal that is clearly a rodent has the word “dog” in its name. I think it sounds more like a whiny little squeak.

When a field has become their habitat, it is riddled with these burrows, which alas make the field unusable by any other species and can produce a mean sprained ankle if one is not careful. Debates have been had on whether the prairie dog is really endangered in Colorado (conclusions varying depending on facts like whether the tail is black or white), and the place that the prairie dog should hold, relatively speaking, in the ecosystem. He’s a dear little creature as you can see here, and tasty for the raptors. We have many brilliant scientists in Boulder who surely can find ways for city parks and prairie dogs to coexist without cramping each other’s style.

In any case, I captured this picture of a prairie dog today on a walk in Valmont City Park, location of Colony #9. Against his better judgment, he let me come pretty close before ducking into his burrow, but sounded his alarm a couple of times to his compatriots nonetheless. I don’t blame him since at one point the city was thinking about killing him and his friends –clearly this plan was revisited.

An Update on Emily

Emily the cat got her feeding tube removed Wednesday morning, leaving behind a round wound that the vet recommended we allow to heal in the open air. She has been reveling in the outdoors, rumors of the lurking neighborhood fox be damned, and seems pretty much back to her old demanding self with many requests for treats, entrance or exit through front or back doors, petting, and laptime - all this punctuated by luxurious naps on various beds and couches throughout the house. She is none the worse for wear after her ordeal except for furless patches on the side of her neck, belly, and one front ankle which all suffered various indignities during her medical treatment. I am very grateful for her recovery, and attempting to finish out administration of the "healthy liver" pills the vet recommended, with little cooperation from Emily herself. "A cat will do what it wants when it wants, and there's not a thing you can do about it." - Frank Perkins.

Mallory, Myth and What I Like

I strongly recommend a book called “Find Me” in a series by one of my favorite authors, Carol O’Connell. The focus of the book and series is a character of mythical proportions named Mallory (although her first name is Kathy she prefers just Mallory). Mallory works for the NYPD but is certainly one of its most unconventional members. She is the adopted daughter of the otherwise childless famed NYPD detective Louis Markowitz and his wife Helen. Lou rescued her at age nine from the New York City subway tunnels where she had been leading a mysterious and feral existence on her own since approximately age six.

Mallory is beautiful, brilliant, and savage. She follows her own code in the battle of good against evil and remains fiercely loyal to family and friends in her own way. After the deaths of Lou and Helen, Mallory is watched over by her father’s three friends, Riker (another hardcore NYPD detective), Charles Butler (a brilliant, wealthy psychologist who has the misfortune of having fallen in love with Mallory), and Dr. Slope, the NYC coroner. Mallory is not undamaged from her years of survival on the streets, but is indomitable in beating her father's friends at poker, trapping murderers and bad guys and succeeding at any other activity she decides is important.

Since I liked this novel so much I decided to itemize what I liked best. One day perhaps I’ll write a novel of my own with all of these elements. This novel has:

• An admirably strong female character repeatedly outsmarting, outwitting and out manipulating the men surrounding her, several of whom continue to love her despite herself.
• A noble quest—in this case a road trip across America down legendary Route 66 in search of two holy grails: finding a serial killer and finding Mallory’s roots (“Find me.”)
• A complex plot that never unfairly deceives the reader. I read it again to make sure; the only misdirection that happens is when various supporting characters, and the reader, jump to conclusions unsupported by logic.
• Excellent characterization, not only of Mallory herself but of her surrounding friends and foes, and even of the killer whose motivation and peculiar behavior ultimately become clear.

One character in the book, a psychiatrist who seems to know more about a child killer than he is telling, has this reaction on tangling with Mallory:

“…here before him was the living illustration of someone larger than life; her sense of presence did not recognize the boundaries of her body. Her eyes were cold, and so was her stance, arms folded against him….face set with grim suspicion, and this was merely what she allowed him to see…he could sense the tight control that checked her desire for expedient mayhem; she dwelt forever in that moment before the taut string snaps. He knew how truly dangerous she was, and she gave him hope…In this new century he had regained his faith in gods and monsters—and she was both.”

Oh, that I could pen a novel this good! Read it. And tell me what makes a great novel in your mind. Comments welcome.

House Cat

Emily the Cat has recently starred in a feline version of “House,” which makes her a “House Cat.” For the uninitiated, “House” is a television medical drama that my daughter and are in the habit of watching on DVD each Sunday night. Dr. Gregory House, the star of the show, is an irascible, irreverent yet brilliant diagnostician, obnoxious to patients, manipulative with friends, addicted to pain pills, lacking in people skills and obsessed with solving complex diagnostic puzzles at nearly any price. He is surrounded by beautiful, intelligent women who are inexplicably attracted to him, of course.

Each House episode involves desperate diagnostic measures, treatments that are stabs in the dark, fairly gruesome and graphic scenes of medical mayhem, patients being resurrected from near death with those round things they put on your heart that make you jerk up into the air, and at least one MRI, spinal tap and/or brain biopsy through a tiny hole drilled in the head.

I plunged into the somewhat less complex world of veterinary medicine the other day after Emily stopped eating, becoming even tinier than she already is in only a few days, and seeming close to death. Blood tests revealed high bilirubin, a sign that the liver isn’t functioning right. The doctor (an affable fellow with no resemblance to House) recommended a liver biopsy, which he unceremoniously extracted through a small puncture in Emily’s abdomen and sent off for tests. Meanwhile Emily had to stay in the hospital with a feeding tube to keep from starving to death while we waited for the lab results.

The results were better than feared—no cancer or hepatitis. Pancreatitis, already subsiding and treatable. But the feeding tube has to stay in for the time being, and with Emily coming home, it would be my job to fill the syringe with soupy brown (but nutritious) cat food and meds four times a day and squirt it into the little feeding tube protruding from the side of Emily’s neck like a perverted periscope.

Emily is understandably irritated by this invasion and periodically hides under a bed at feeding time. But so far we are getting along okay and I am hoping she will start eating on her own soon because I would be sadder than I can describe here to see her go. Stay tuned.

Loops, Part II

So, you say the problem is not that you have your own loop, but that Someone Else is in a loop? And it’s a continuous, repetitive, unproductive loop? And you’ve been listening to it for hour weeks months years? And it’s driving you absolutely batty? And you have no idea how to change the channel? Is that what’s bothering you, Bunky? If so, here’s another list.

Top 10 Ways to Get Somebody Else Out of a Continuous Loop

10. Smile (I can hear your face creaking), and write it down. Really look at what you’ve been hearing. Riff on it, dwell in the possibilities of it, evolve it, write a screenplay about it on which some editor will scribble “this could never happen in real life.” Laugh out loud at it, a deep belly laugh.
9. Utter the Serenity Prayer (oh wait, if you don’t pray, leave the “Lord” part out, but remember that drawing strength from somewhere outside of yourself is sometimes all you’ve got): Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
8. If you are both in the loop--on a “why-why-why-cycle built for two--” sometimes you can lead the way out by using the same techniques that work for your own individual loops – identification of the loop to begin with, distractions, inquiry into the validity of your thinking.
7. See the Serenity Prayer again, and consider the serenity part. Slow down and listen very carefully. What can you hear that you haven’t heard in this loop before? How can you hear it in a new way? In my father’s last days, I visited him in the hospital and slowly, slowly peeled an orange and handed him one segment at a time. In those brief moments I was there, in the now, no loops, only acceptance.
6. Hum along, and eventually learn the words. My son works in a restaurant that plays a sound track over and over again featuring Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison.” He can quit his job, or he can learn the words. Sometimes it makes sense to sing along.
5. Walk away from the loop. If a loop runs continuously in the forest where nobody hears, is it still a loop?
4. Change the subject—repeatedly--since a really good loopster knows a hundred ways to get back on the loop.
3. Shine a light on the loop. Be careful though; if you do this with judgment or anger you end up in your own loop. But I know that when my ever-patient partner finally, finally calls me on a loop of mine, I am probably in the mother of all loops and I try hard to take a detour.
2. Consider what it will be like in the absence of the loop and the person in it, and be grateful as hell that you are still hearing that voice which someday you may never hear again. Gratitude heals. Make a list of everything you are grateful for.
1. And the number one way to escape somebody else’s loop: stop focusing on somebody else’s loop and focus on breaking out of your own. Help yourself.

Comments welcome--any other ideas for breaking out of loops?

Loops

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about loops—defined particularly as circular repetitive thoughts in my head that cause anguish and prevent joy. In my case it is a loop-the-loop, really. The two loops are: 1) how can I keep the people I love happy and 2) how can I keep the people I love safe (read: alive). Yes, these are both noble thoughts in moderation, but the loop-the-loop comes in when I obsess on them. These people I love—they are all grownups now, so it is primarily (or solely) their job to keep themselves happy and safe. By the ways, sometimes the happy/safe goals are in conflict; just ask my 21-year-old rock-climbing devil-may-care son if you don’t understand this.

And so, I spend a lot of time in the loop-the-loop coming up with new schemes for keeping the people I love happy and safe. And many of these schemes are irrelevant, impractical, invasive, inconvenient, impossible, idiotic, irrational, ill-advised, or some other word beginning with “i.” So…here are the top ten ways to get out of an unproductive mental loop, or for the really unfortunate, a loop-the-loop:

Top 10 Ways to Escape a Loop

10. Switch to another line of thinking or get a new perspective. Change the subject. This is the basic principle behind “The Work” and “Feeling Good” or CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy) – see previous blogs on this. However, make sure the new line of thinking is not another loop.
9. Argue with the loop. Counter the loop. Find the flaws. Another principle behind “The Work” and “CBT” – but be sure the argument does not itself become a new, even more obsessive loop.
8. Do something physically demanding that requires effort and concentration to stop the loop. Clean out the fridge. Dig up the dandelions.
7. Write the loop down, and keep writing about it until the pain of writer’s cramp distracts you from the loop and you start to see beyond it.
6. Do something mentally demanding that requires enough concentration to stop the loop. A timed game of Scrabble is one example – have I mentioned Scrabulous lately?
5. Have a conversation with someone else (but not about your loop!). Really listen to them, even if it is about their loop, for a while. But don’t try to fix them or their loop, especially if that tendency is part of your loop.
4. Read a really good book (for example, murder mysteries and the Harry Potter books work well for me).
3. See a really good movie, preferably one in which people are not dwelling unproductively on their loops (perhaps the latest Indiana Jones movie – Roger Ebert loved it).
2. Perform a random act of kindness for a stranger. Pay it forward.
1. And the number one way you can get out of your loop – be aware that you are in a loop to begin with (this is the hardest part). Hint: if people are telling you that you are in a loop or mentioning concepts like broken records when in conversation with you, this is a strong indication that you are in a loop.

Comments? What is your loop? What is your last act of random kindness? (If you can’t remember, it’s been too long.)

The Voice in the Head

I have been thinking a lot about a concept covered in Eckhart Tolle’s “A New Earth” – the voice in the head. He tells the story of being on the subway on his way to work and observing a woman having a loud and angry conversation with a voice in her head. The woman is very agitated and upset, and looks down and off to the side into empty space as she continues a conversation along the lines of: “And then she said to me…so I said to her you are a liar how dare you accuse me of…when you are the one who has always taken advantage of me I trusted you and you betrayed my trust…”

Tolle mentions that later, as he is standing in the men’s room at work washing his hands, he thinks to himself, “I hope I don’t end up like her.” A man standing next to him looks briefly in his direction, and he realizes he has said these words out loud, he is already like her, that his mind is just as “incessantly active as hers,” and that really if she is mad, so are we all to some degree. Tolle says:

For a moment, I was able to stand back from my own mind and see it from a deeper perspective, as it were. There was a brief shift from thinking to awareness…at that moment of detachment from my mind, I laughed out loud. It may have sounded insane, but it was the laughter of sanity, the laughter of the big-bellied Buddha. ‘Life isn’t as serious as my mind makes it out to be.’ That’s what the laughter seemed to be saying. But it was only a glimpse, very quickly to be forgotten. I would spend the next three years in anxiety and depression, completely identified with my mind. I had to get close to suicide before awareness returned, and then it was much more than a glimpse. I became free of compulsive thinking and of the false, mind-made I. … Thinking is only a tiny aspect of the consciousness that we are.

This might have been part of what Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows is talking about in the song, “Perfect Blue Buildings,” repeating the phrase,

How am I gonna keep myself away from me
Keep myself away
How am I gonna keep myself away from me
Keep myself away...

It's an idea that many of the books I’ve been reading express in one way or another; the AA groups refer to it as “stinking thinking.” The meditation books describe techniques for cessation of thinking, for emptying the mind. My skill is slowly increasing at stepping outside of myself, noticing my thinking, and more importantly countering it when it is causing anxiety, grief, or my personal favorite: guilt.

A Passage to India

I had a surreal computing experience a few mornings ago. My Norton Internet Security software was having the same trouble it had once before where the “Live Update” feature automatically downloads all the appropriate updates including the latest virus definitions, but then can’t seem to recognize that it's done this, and insists on starting the process over and over again - while annoyingly warning me that I am “unprotected.”

Oh, yes, those of you have Macs are laughing smugly right now since you didn’t spent your Saturday morning trying to fix this problem (or another one I still have and am too lazy to fix where Micro$oft’s Auto Update keeps trying over and over again to update .Net on my PC each time I shut it down (all the more enfuriating when, as far as I can tell, I have no earthly need for .Net anyway).

I laugh out loud at Apples “Mac and PC” commercials on TV, where the Bill Gates look-alike is repeatedly embarrassed in front of the young and perplexed Mac character. A recent one has Bill in the cobra position on a yoga mat, working off his “stressful year with Vista” aided by a young and lovely yoga instructor who is gently banging a gong at each salient point, while “Mac” observes bemusedly on the sidelines. “Breathe out and expel all that Vista bad energy…”

Eventually the once serene yoga instructor becomes distraught over Vista’s negative impact on her Yoga studio billing software and bangs the gong so hard that it falls over in a loud clatter. Then she rises gracefully, as yoga instructors are able to do, and stomps off while Mac looks on, shaking his head. The PC bashing is well deserved – but I have a PC at work and I don’t really want to switch back and forth between two different operating systems each day. Anyway, I digress.

To solve the more pressing anti-virus software problem I went to Symantic’s website seeking help, and decided to try the real-time 7x24 tech support chat and PC Rescue feature. It wasn’t long before I was in chat mode with “Saravanan,” who I am 99% sure was working from India at what would have been about 10:00 pm local time there. After downloading some “PC Rescue” software, Saravanan took control of my PC with my queasily extended permission, and soon the mouse pointer was moving by itself in ghostly fashion on my screen, working to fix the problem. A reboot was required and then some registry magic, the running of an auto fix program and the restarting of a certain Windows service that had mysteriously been stopped – at which point the problem seemed to be fixed (and has not returned since). Saravanan said that if the problem recurred I should contact them and get an upgrade to the 2008 version.

This was the global economy in action for sure – somebody on the other side of the world fixed my PC. And somebody on the other side of the world is earning a good living doing that. There are many ways in which the Internet is a bane and a curse – but there are also many ways in which the Internet brings miracles into people’s lives. It’s a love-hate thing.

Digging Up Dead Thyme

Mark mentioned a conversation he had with our next door neighbor Jim while Mark was in the front yard “digging up dead thyme.” We both laughed at the irony of this phrase and agreed it should go in at least one of our journals; he told me that it was a gift to me and I should record it in mine. Why is the phrase so amusing? I suppose because I do spend a good deal of my time (hah!) thinking thinking thinking about past events, losses, things that could have gone better, mistakes and mysteries.

On the other hand, sometimes yard work has to be done to clear out dying vegetation and then it is quite necessary to “dig up dead thyme;” to finally understand what happened long ago and how it is influencing the present dream.

I just finished a book called “Loving What Is,” by Byron Katie, another book about accepting and living in the present. In this book, Katie (as she calls herself) talks about emerging from a deep depression with a sudden understanding of how to do “The Work” to look at the problems of life in a new way. She sums up the work as follows: “Make a judgment, write it down, ask four questions, turn it around.”

I make it sound a little simplistic or a little crazy, but what it does is make you look at a problem that is causing you great unhappiness and see it in a new light. This follows the same path as other approaches such as cognitive behavioral therapy and the Power of Now—the idea is to be mindful of the thinking that is causing suffering and to dispute or counter that thinking. When it works (and I have found that it can work), it can alleviate some of the suffering. It is a focus on the pure reality of now.

Telling someone else about it, however, in the hopes that you might help them alleviate their own suffering, is alas a very different matter and quite difficult to do. A person is not ready for this until they’re ready, and until they’re ready, it sounds off the wall, boring or both. (Hello? Still there?)

What are your experiences with techniques for changing your moods for the better? Feel free to post here. For my other blogs on this topic, see Sanity.

Sunrise in Galveston

We made our way to Galveston Island for a short vacation over Easter. Our balcony looked right out on the gulf and the steady sounds of the surf were soothing to my stressed out ears. We watched the moon rise over the water on the first night, a beautiful sight difficult to capture with a camera, and we saw a sunrise the next morning that was just as beautiful, with the great orange sun lifting liquidly off the surface of the water before rising in a shimmer to light the new day. We soaked luxuriously in the condo hot tub several times, and declared that this might be something we’d enjoy having in our own home.

Galveston Island is an interesting place – culturally diverse with a history. There was a Battle of Galveston during the Civil War because of the importance of port access, and indeed we were able to wander across the island and see the port and the two cruise ships docked there on Sunday – a reminder of a previous trip we’d taken when we cruised down the Mississippi from New Orleans the very last year before Hurricane Katrina nearly destroyed it.

There are nuances of New Orleans in Galveston as well; old mansions, palms and elaborately branched live oak trees, an exotic feel that whispers of Bourbon Street but only the faintest of whispers. In March, the streets were relatively empty and seemed deserted – there was a chill off the ocean and it was not yet time for the crowds and the sunbathers. We walked along the famous Seawall, built after a terrible hurricane in 1900 took the lives of at least 6,000 island people who had no warning and in any case no quick way to escape the big waves—the worst natural disaster in the history of the United States. Three quarters of the buildings in Galveston were destroyed in this hurricane, and the town began building the seawall that now stretches for more than 17 miles along the Galveston coast. One edge of the seawall was a short walk from our condo. In inimitable Texas style, there were no guardrails to protect a heedless tourist from walking or biking right off the edge of the wall with quite a drop to the rocks below. No nanny state here in Texas; just keep your eyes peeled. I pondered the glaring contrasts of a state that could have produced both George W. Bush and Molly Ivins (who had the wit to first call GWB “Shrub” and “Dubya” and who I miss dearly during this election year).

We drove across a causeway to Pelican Island and talked to fishermen on the pier who showed us several whiting they had already caught that morning (too early for speckled trout, they said). Along the road on Pelican Island we encountered a strange sight – a huge burst of flame, emanating significant heat as it shot from its tower, and burning endlessly orange against the blue sky. Quite beautiful in its own way, but also alarming, some kind of burn off of natural gas from an oil derrick we were guessing. A telltale sign across the road proclaimed: Halliburton Corporation. Galveston is unapologetic about the “oil bidness;” a helicopter flew across the ocean and over our condo each day at about the same time, a courier for the offshore oil operations just barely visible by the red lights across the ocean.

We walked both ways along our beach several times during our stay and got a sense for the western, and less crowded, end of the island in an area called Jamaica Beach. We also explored the east end and the town, having Easter breakfast in the elegant Hotel Galvez. Restaurants were scarce on the west end of the island, but on the last night we visited a place called Woody’s with a weatherworn balcony that looked out over wetlands, water birds and the ocean. Woody’s served liquor only, no food, and was probably one of the grungiest dives I have visited in recent memory with a strong biker theme, a quarter pool table with decent cues, and smoking allowed anywhere you damn please. But the people were friendly and the young woman tending bar assured us that we could get food across the street in one of three restaurants, all good. One of these was closed altogether but we managed to make our way to The Captain’s Table where we indulged in fried seafood that neither of our waistlines needed, but why not? We were on vacation.

On our last day we visited Moody Gardens with its pyramids housing an aquarium and a rainforest with parrots. We turned pure tourist at that point and I took several pictures of fauna and flora including quite beautiful tropical birds and orchids. We lunched in the Moody Hotel and Resort where posters proclaimed that, should one wish, one could attend a program called Gospel by the Sea.

We were ready to come home after a few days, appreciative of the change of scene but glad to be back in our little house that now seemed spacious after the condo, and able to dine on food we cook ourselves which, we do say so ourselves, is 99% of the time far superior to anything we find in any restaurant regardless of how much we are willing to pay.

Bitches Get Stuff Done

Are you wondering what exactly Tina Fey said on Saturday Night Live the other night that made so many women shout, "right on!"? She was doing a commentary on the "News Update" segment and she said this:

Maybe what bothers me most if that people say that Hillary is a bitch...yeah, she is. So am I...You know what, bitches get stuff done...bitch is the new black!

So many times at work and elsewhere I've observed a core group of people working on various projects who communicate proactively, retain a sense of humor, collaborate on fresh approaches to long-standing problems, include other people and keep them informed, help each other accomplish things, find common ground, facilitate and resolve conflict, and think ahead, warning each other of upcoming potholes in the road. And the members of this core group, with very few exceptions, are women.

Many of these women are not shy about being assertive and striving to persuade others to their viewpoints. They sometimes even raise their voices a tad; they have high standards, and sometimes they interrupt to get a word in edgewise.

Some people call them (us) bitches. If that's what a bitch is I'm fine with being one, and voting for one as well.

Bitches get stuff done.

Avalanche

I heard a song on the radio the other day by Shawn Colvin called “Shotgun Down the Avalanche” from her album “Steady On,” Columbia Records 1989. And now it is a bit of an earworm for me so I am writing about it to see if it cures the earworm. It starts out:

I’m riding shotgun down the avalanche,
Tumbling and falling down the avalanche.
So be quiet tonight, the stars shine bright
On this mountain of new fallen snow.
But I will raise up my voice into the void
You have left me nowhere to go.

This seems like a song about inevitability, in ability to control events. As far as I know, an avalanche can’t usually be controlled, other than perhaps the practice in Colorado and other states of using a shotgun to trigger one at safer and more alert moments. The song goes on:

Sometimes you make me lose my will to live
And just become a beacon for your soul.
The past is stronger than my will to forgive,
Forgive you or myself, I don’t know.

I’m riding shotgun down the avalanche,
Tumblin’ and fallin’ down the avalanche….

Words to songs have always been meaningful to me, and I probably have the lyrics to hundreds of songs lodged in my brain. Somehow this song reminds me of certain lessons that life keeps trying to teach me with mixed success:

• I only have control over my own reactions.
• Sometimes helping is robbery.
• You can’t fix everything, no matter how good you are, and sometimes inaction is the best choice. But sometimes not. How do you know? Reach down into your heart and do what it tells you.

The avalanche is an apt metaphor. Stevie Nicks wrote a much-loved and much-covered song in her early twenties called “Landslide.” She wrote the song in Aspen, Colorado on the night before her dad's operation at the Mayo Clinic, at a time that for many reasons was a turning point for her career and her life. She had a lot going on--and it all converged at once in this song that questioned whether she could really make it to the next stage in the career and the future she had envisioned. She ended up deciding to stay with her music – and three months later on New Year’s Eve Fleetwood Mac called her.

She says about the song: “I realized then that everything could tumble, and when you’re in Colorado…you think avalanche. It means the whole world could tumble around us, and the landslide would bring you down…when you’re in that kind of snow-covered surrounding place, you don’t just go out and yell, because the whole mountain could come down on you.”

Landslide

by Stevie Nicks

I took my love, I took it down.
Climbed a mountain and I turned around.
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
‘Til the landslide brought me down.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons in my life?

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you.
But times make you bolder, even children get older,
And I’m getting older too.

Oh, take my love, take it down.
Aha, climb a mountain and turn around.
And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down.

And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down.

The Supper Table

One of the best memories I have from growing up and well into my college years was the family suppers—conversations and connections after a full day that we all had around the dining room table.

My Mom managed to put a home-cooked, balanced meal on the table every single night despite the fact that she worked full-time. At dinner we were all (including any visiting guests) expected to have and contribute interesting conversation (a lost skill), stories from our day, amusing jokes we had heard, and clever guesses when playing word games. There was frequent laughter and, sometimes, intense debate about current events. After dinner we would often linger talking and joking for quite awhile. The television, that monster of the modern age, was never on during or after dinner.

It was always the kids’ job to clear the table, do the dishes, wipe down the counters and put everything away after supper. It was my special job to boil the water and make the instant coffee for Mom and Dad. They both took milk; Mom took a quarter teaspoonful of sugar and Dad took a teaspoon and a half. Disgusted protests would occur if I got them mixed up. I would bring it to them as they were still sitting at the table conversing, or often they would be doing what they called “stooping”—sitting and having further quiet conversation about their day on the back steps (in the old house in Ellettsville) or on the deck looking out over the woods (in the newer house in Sugar Lane).

After coffee often my father would pronounce, “I am the greatest!”—a claim borrowed from the great fighter Mohammed Ali. The proper response to this (if you had any guts at all) was to confidently proclaim, “No, I am the greatest!” And then the Scrabble board would be hauled out, and all who were willing would play.

My Dad’s Scrabble strength was 7-letter words, which he often took many long minutes to produce. Patience was a virtue during these games. My Mom’s strength was diabolical, tightly interlaced plays leveraging triple-word or triple-letter scores, never leaving openings. House rules were that you could not play a word unless you could clearly define it from memory.

Close to the dining room table in the Sugar Lane house was a hutch, and on the hutch were some nice pieces of glassware, various fishing memorabilia of my Dad’s, an old German mug brought home from Europe after the war. Our gray cat Shadow would sit on the hutch gazing alertly at the Scrabble board as if he were formulating his own play, and would occasionally reach out his paw and quietly lay it on the shoulder of the person sitting with his back to the hutch, as though to offer some form of support during difficult moments. Also on the hutch was a collection of windup toys from past Christmas stockings, ranging from pink plastic pigs to green spotted frogs to little shuffling red sneakers. To liven things up, especially if Dad was taking forever with a 7-letter word, we would wind up the toys and get them going all at once, hopping and shuffling and lurching across the table, and then laugh uproariously when my Dad looked at us askance over his glasses.

When my sister got married at the house one year and her wedding cake was sitting on the supper table, a windup frog ended up decorating the cake and I remember laughing about this so hard I got tears in my eyes. I’m not sure what the groom’s family made of this.

I have tried to encourage the supper table tradition with my own family, and am thrilled and happy when it ends up working out. It brings back some good memories.

Summer of Love

In the full, humid heat of an Indiana July in 1967, my parents packed the family into our light blue station wagon for a road trip headed west. I was thirteen years old. In those days, smoking was acceptable everywhere, even on long-distance car trips, but there was no air conditioning, so the windows were open to make up for it and all we had to do was dodge the burning ashes as they flew out the front windows and back into the rear ones.

Since there were no DVD/CD players, video games, or even reliable radio reception for miles at a time, we took along story books, comic books, crossword puzzles, and notebooks for journaling. We sang songs like “Tell Me Why,” and “Ezekiel Cried Dem Dry Bones.”

We played word games: Twenty Questions and a game called Hink Pink. In Hink Pink, you think of a noun and a modifier that rhyme, provide a definition as the hint, and players guess what the hink pink is. If the rhyming words have multiple syllables (and certainly all the syllables must rhyme), then you provide this hint when you describe your hink pink at the beginning of the game. You might say: “I have a hink pink that is an “obese rodent.” And the solution would be: fat rat. If you, perchance, had a multi-syllabic puzzle you might say, “I have a hinky pinky that means “crazy horse,” and the answer would be “silly filly.” Or a hinkety pinkety that is a “complimentary sparse distribution,” the answer being: flattering smattering. Or a hinketity pinketity that…but I leave this last one as an exercise for the reader. (If you have a really good hink pink that must be shared, leave it in a comment below.)

Thus we somehow managed to amuse ourselves for entire days of travel and restrain from driving each other insane to some degree, although this is easier for me to say because I squirreled myself as far away as possible in the rearmost compartment of the light blue station wagon, and the three siblings including my manic brother and two younger sisters were confined together in the middle seat. (In another example of how we did things differently back then, we never wore seatbelts; if we had been rear-ended I would have been mooshed like a little sardine.) But we managed to avoid for the most part the dreaded moment when my father would slow down and yell, “Don’t make me stop this car!”

Toward evening the kids would start begging for the ultimate treat, a motel with a Swimming Pool. No reservations were made ahead of time so often our exhausted father, faced with motels that had orange neon “no vacancy” signs or were so exceedingly seedy that we couldn’t stomach them, or did not have swimming pools, would drive much farther than planned to get us to the tiny motel room next to the big pool. After checking in, the next move was always cannonballs into the pool to work off all the unexpended energy from a long day of travel.

We passed through Reno on our way to the West Coast, with its exotically dressed ladies and noisy casinos that did not allow minors inside. My father was skilled at winning motel money in poker games. As another example of “things you wouldn’t do nowadays,” Dad handed me a twenty and told me to take the kids and find something to eat while he and Mom gambled for awhile. So I did that, and then the kids and I got distracted by a more accessible area with nickel slots, and not knowing that this was off limits for minors, I pumped a nickel into the nearest one. Suddenly, lights were flashing, bells were ringing and an alarmed woman was hustling the four of us out of the area. My chastened mother came to claim my winnings of about $40 in nickels, which to me back then seemed like quite a bit of dough.

We finally made it all the way to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Franciso, where people that some called hippies were thronging in large numbers, wearing colorful tie-died clothing, peace symbols and headbands, burning lots of incense and other stuff. Guys had hair as long, if not longer, than mine, which was down to my waist back then. People were handing out subversive literature, with ideas I had never, ever heard before and shocking pictures of sexual activity that caused my Mom to blush and pull the papers out of my hand, discarding them with amused horror. There were colorful posters with imagery that was said to be psychedelic, and something called flower power. We had arrived just in time for the Summer of Love. On Fisherman’s Wharf I put my nickels to good use and bought myself a dark brown leather hat with a floppy brim, which my father immediately dubbed my “Go to Hell Hat” for reasons I didn’t fully understand. I wore this hat constantly for the rest of the trip.

As we drove down The Big Sur, Highway 1 was lined with hundreds of hippies, all hitchhiking. In yet another example of things you would never do nowadays, my Dad picked up one of these hitchhikers and peppered him with friendly questions about how he had come to be on the road, where he was headed, what he believes. There was discussion of the need for peace and love, there was concern for something called the draft, and about a war that was raging in a place called Vietnam. The fellow was very good-natured and forthcoming with these questions, and thanked us politely as we dropped him off near the campground that was his destination.

That trip West was quite an adventure, and as we were passing through Terre Haute on the final stretch of our travels back home to our little conservative God-fearing rural Indiana hometown of Ellettsville, I had an epiphany, inspired by pondering the many strange hypocrisies and contradictions of a small town where most folks go to church every Sunday but full blown vandalism in the form of soaped windows, TP’ed trees and corn thrown against picture windows occurs every October 31st.

As a result of the ephiphany I actually made up a song, lyrics and music, wholly out of thin air, with guitar accompaniement. That autumn I won second prize singing this song at the annual Fall Festival. It was quite a hit because it was about sports, based on a cheer we used to do at ballgames. It is one of three songs I ever composed, and its lyrics are now immortalized in this blog as follows:

Ellettsville

I come from E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
A riot every Halloween and a church on every street.
I said E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
Our high school ain’t got long-haired kids
And we don’t take LSD.

Well I was born in Hoosier town
I lived there many a year.
I went to their schools and their basketball games
And I learned all their cheers.
But just one cheer stands out so clear
It’ll always be with me.
It’s E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.

Well it’s football in the early fall
And winter brings basketball.
In summer there is baseball
For the guys who ain’t heavy or tall.
But through it all I can hear that call,
It’ll always be with me.
It’s E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.

I said, E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
A riot every Halloween and a church on every street.
I said E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
Our high school ain’t got long-haired kids
And we don’t take LSD.

There is a game played overseas
Without a ball or goal.
And guys who go to play that game
Are playin’ with their souls.
I’ve often wondered how the hometown boys
Will bring home victory
Without that cheer to pull them through
Without their parents tried and true
To yell E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.

I said, E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
A riot every Halloween and a church on every street.
I said E-double-L-E-double-T-S-V-I-double-L-E.
Our high school ain’t got long-haired kids
And we never faced defeat.
Ellettsville...Ellettsville.