Suddenly Snow

Last weekend’s snow was…a surprise, among other things. 24 hours before I snapped the photos below, all you could see was brown grass and black pavement. Since these were taken, we’ve received another 6″ or so…and the city’s running out of places to pile the stuff!

The Fog of War

That well-known phrase referring to the confusion and uncertainty common during a battle seems like it is not unique to the battlefield. I grew up in a military family, and have memories of the occasional soldier or sailor going off the deep-end, usually injuring property and themselves more than anything or anyone else, but sometimes an unlucky few who happened to be close by never had the chance to regret it. But nothing like the mind boggling events that unfolded this last week at Ft. Hood.

There is no question that military service at the front is a dangerous business, and things happen that aren’t always explainable. I find it ironically that the Ft. Hood tragedy happened in the same town that decades ago had the horrible massacre at Luby’s, in a time before Texans freely carried handguns. I remember vividly the argument that had people been packing, someone might have stopped or reduced the carnage during that tragedy in a Texas cafeteria. Now we have this recent horrific event that defies us to make sense of the why, the how. Of all the places you’d think someone on a rampage would have little success, it would be on a military installation. Yet, amidst all that training and weaponry, no one was armed initially. One wonders if firearms as de rigueur will be the norm on bases in the future. I’m not pro-gun by any means, just sense the irony at work.

Bob Greene’s CNN column lays out the challenges brought on by the Fog of War, the likely progression of the days following, and the intense interest in learning who the slain were, their comrades, and a renewed appreciate of what these young men and women go through. But why, oh why, does it take the senseless loss of life to awaken the American psyche like this? Why are we systemically deaf to what we’re doing to our young (and not so young) citizens? How many Americans really understand the damage that’s going on by repeatedly sending our patriots back to the insanity with little regard (or a sense of intentional ignorance) to the mental damage?

Wars are sadly a fixture of our history, yet modern warfare seems to be pushing our mental capacities to cope far beyond what’s humanly possible to handle. Or is it just that such sensationalized media reporting make it seem unusually so? I believe many a Vietnam vet would argue that the mental damage from that senseless engagement is no different than the post-trauma stress syndrome that’s getting more and more publicity.

In conversations with my father about his wartime and military experiences before he passed on, he believed back then his generation served with a purpose, that everyone believed in the cause behind the war. Fast forward to 2009 and it seems not many of us consider the why of what we’re doing over in the Middle East as reason alone to go blindly into the Fog of War.

Enjoy the Last of the Color

My favorite time of the year is drawing to a close. Winter is about to replace fall’s multi-colored coat with a drab, grey blanket. This year was especially colorful in Northwest Ohio, yielding vibrant reds and yellows in every direction, and seemingly timed to turn at the same time. A good year for fall colors, which old timers are telling me means a snowy winter. Oh boy oh boy. Winter wonderlands are a close second in my book to autumn colors. Don’t mind the cold if there’s a white blanket everywhere.

The NaNoWriMo Cometh

October is all about pumpkins and pretty colors. Come November, our thoughts turn to…30 crazed-filled days scribbling nonsensical sentences in a quest for 50,000 words, a modicum of sanity at the end, and that elusive brag: “I wrote a novel.” Oh, and something involving a bird and cranberry sauce happens that month, but never mind that, focus on the writing!

This year will be my fourth voyage into the world of daily word counts, banning contractions, and breaking all the rules for crisp, succinct writing. For those unbapitized, NaNoWriMo is short-speak for National Novel Writing Month, and annual event held since 1999. My first dipping came in 2004, where I’m proud to report I cleared the bar with 51,700 words that will never-see-the-light-of-a-publishers-pressroom, but hey, a goal met is a goal celebrated. If you’re feeling voyeuristic and want a glimpse of the madness such an endeavor breeds, read my celebration post. And if that didn’t bring you to your senses and you still want to have a go, I wrote about my takeaways a week later after my fried brain cells were replenished.

I tried again in 2005, thinking I’d start with something more structured than the 18-word sentence I launched with the previous year (yes, one can create an entire plot in those few words…at least, if your target audience is the NaNo). Spending a week prepping a five-page outline, multiple character sketches, the usual stuff, I thought I’d really take NaNo seriously…and promptly bailed out after about 10 days. Too much structure for NaNo? Perhaps.

2006 brought a third attempt, this time a plot paragraph (yes, as in MULTIPLE sentences) of a book idea, but the fates intervened via the passing of my father that November. Few things can deter a determined writer during NaNo, but that excuse certainly qualifies.

So now, a couple years removed from my three-year NaNo servitude, I’m ready again. Armed with a NEW idea, one not too deeply prepared, but one with serious intent, I’ll charge up the MacBook batteries, load up the iPod with tons of Hearts of Space recordings, and head off to the dozen or so coffee shops I’ve targeted to get me through the month. Nothing brings a smile to writer’s lips, hope in their heart, and that unbridled passion that writing with a purpose brings. Won’t you join in? It’s free, fun, and safe (don’t worry about the months of therapy that’s bound to follow…think of that as research for future NaNos).

It’s All About the “O”

Obama… Osama… Oprah… Overstock.com… Obsession… there’s lots of famous “Os” in the world to muse over.

But, of course, I’m talkin’ about ORGANICS! (And where was your mind, dear reader?)

In a world of plastic and pharmaceuticals, preservatives and pesticides, I am progressively going organic. Fortunately, organics are fashionable, therefore local markets carry a lot more than they used to stock. I’m old enough to have gone to college when and where the mighty Whole Foods Market had their meager beginnings. Back then it was mostly hirsute hippies and willing wannabes hanging out in the original Whole Foods Market, a modest bare-concrete-floor, rough-made-wooden-shelvies, foreshadow of what was to come. Organic wasn’t a buzzword back then, but the practice of nurturing whole Earth and eating clean was well underway.

Without going into the politics of organics and the open-ended argument that big-farm organic isn’t as healthy as localvore organics, I’m just happy there is more variety and reasonable prices than ever before. With terrific tools like this iPhone app and the uber cool companion wallet card), I can channel my inner hippie and decide when it’s all about the O and when it’s not.

random past musing: Heigh-Ho

As the little dwarfs are wont to sing, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go.” Except it’s just me…and I’m not singing nor whistling…but alas, I am off to work. Bummer.

Today I go back to the office, back to the salt mine, the grind, the 9-to-5, the whatever-passes-as-a-nickname term for one’s day job. After sitting out over a month, it will be nice to slip back into the old routine, but I have to admit my brief dance with retirement life was mighty tasty. Some benefits I’ve experienced in the last thirty days or so:

* No-alarm mornings – I’ve heard of people who live like this but never thought I could wake up without an alarm to nudge me into the world. Amazing.
* Slower days – Without the usual full day at the office bookended by a pair of weekend days partly spent doing the errands I couldn’t do during the week, the days progress more slowly. Nice.
* Drive-time commutes? Fuggetaboutit – How nice is it to be still in jammies and sipping coffee at the breakfast table while listening to bad traffic and weather reports? Oh yeah…
* No dry cleaning – No office time, no dry cleaning. Sweet.
* Stigmaless days – When you don’t work, there’s little difference between Tuesday and Sunday. Monday loses its dread, but Friday doesn’t have that feeling of release after a long work-week. Still, a good thing.
* Leveled happiness – For the last month I’ve been happy every day, instead of the usual up-and-down nature of a typical work-week. Very cool.

Of course there are a few negatives, but the only one of note is the obvious: at some point bills must be paid and the allure of being workless thus comes to a grinding halt. But overall, given the chance, I’d figure out how to survive days into weeks into months into years of doing what I’ve done over the last thirty days. In the meantime, however, I need to finish writing this, do my exercises, then get ready and go off to work, whistling optional. The only real challenge this morning is not getting up, but making sure I leave for the office a little early…just in case I have trouble finding it.

Picture taken at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art from their excellent display of late-medieval period (and beyond) armor.

random past musing: Woo Hoo

I’ve lived in Texas since ‘71 and have rooted for the Astros (as well as other teams) since shortly after arriving here as a Midwestern immigrant. And I’ve suffered through their repeated post-season almosts: I was glued to the television for the heartbreak final inning of the final game against the Phillies in ‘80, lamented the ‘86 Astros extra-inning loss to the Mets, as well as suffered through the relentless whuppings by the Braves in playoffs along the way. Seven times the ’stros tried to get an invite to the dance, and seven times they were turned away at the door, not quite good enough to rub elbows with baseball’s elite. But not this year.

Sometime during the late innings of last night’s demonstration of why this year’s Astros are different, a small simian was seen leaving the stands of Turner Field with bags packed, hoping to find some other, different uniforms to ride. And sometime after the cold champagne and joyous laughter died down in the Astros clubhouse, the fans are believing that the monkey is no more.

This year’s Astros are a dangerous team, and the only National League team to give the Cardinals (owners of the best record during regular play) fits all year. The best possible combination of National League teams that would yield the most exciting NLCS advanced, as did the two best-combination teams for the ALCS. It looks to be two amazing championship series ahead for all baseball fans. I of course am hoping to have the epitome of dilemmas during a World Series between two of my favorite teams: the Boston Red Sox and the Houston Astros, made all the more sweeter this year by the impeding elimination of those overpaid Bronx Bombers. While Boston’s monkey is more aged and holding on tighter than Houston’s, this is looks finally to be the Year of the Monkeyless teams.

The two league series are nearly complete opposites: The Sox/Yanks drama is an old-West-style showdown between two teams who hate no other team more than each other, while the rivalry between the Cardinals and Astros is one of mutual respect and adoration. A mug-fest versus a love-fest for the eyes and ears. And did you catch the classy move by the Dodgers when they joined the Cardinals on the field to congratulate them on their series victory, ala hockey rivals who spend the night gouging each other’s eyes out yet at the end shake hands and go home? Baseball needs this touch of class, this “after the last strike of the last out of the last inning” display of sportsmanship that is all too rare in pro sports. Nice touch, but can you see the Red Sox and Yankees pulling this off? Mebbe…if you frisk all the players first to make sure no one’s packing.

Whatever your preference, mark my words that this year’s League Championship Series pairings will result as one of the best playoff match ups in a long time. And if the magic continues and the Yankees go down (does anything else *really* matter?!) and the Astros remain dangerous, I’ll truly be conflicted come time for the Big Dance. That’s a dilemma I’ll delight in for it will mean that finally, one of my lovable losers will have their dance in the big spotlight. Woo hoo indeed.

random past musing: Bad Google

Apparently there’s a new Google game afoot: Google Giggles (my name, I haven’t heard it named elsewhere). Similar to the game where you try to come up with a two-term search that results in one and only one Google hit, in this game you try to force a bizarre GoogleAd based on common words. Google’s AdSense program, which I used to have here at inkmusings, generates small context- sensitive ads that many are using to make $$ on blogs, sites, etc. But as you can see by the samples at the right, they don’t always make sense!

The real challenge thus becomes one of trying to force a GoogleAd to show up that isn’t from eBay, since it’s obvious one can buy anything at eBay is seems (and New or Used!). And you may find that no matter how bizarre the term, there’s likely to be a rock band out there named that, such as in the case of an ad for a music store selling Toejam’s latest offering! So applying the eBay-doesn’t-count rule is not as easy as one might think.

Sometimes, though, the results are a bit scary. As the ad below shows, we tend to make things easy for terrorists these days in the good ol’ US of A. :huh:

random past musing: A Quiet Place

Walking around Boston one can’t help but notice the historical evidence of age here and there in the form of an old building, church, plaque erected to remind us that “something happened here…” and other reminders of our country’s meek beginnings. I don’t think, however, you can find a more concentrated source of history than an old burial ground or cemetery.

A Place of History

Boston has several such places that are a permanent reminder of those who lived before us. One of my favorites is the Granary Burial Ground next to the Park Street Church, a place of worship since 1809 located at the northeast corner of the Boston Commons. The Granary was established as a eternal lodging for the forefathers of our country way back in 1660 (yet is only the third-oldest burial site in Boston, the oldest being King’s Chapel Burying Ground – 1630), serving as a resting place for some of the early Bostonians. Records indicate about 5,000 residents were crowded into the small cemetery with confusion as to exactly who is buried and where, complicated by the existence of only approx. 2,345 gravestones and tombs. The confusion over who and where is compounded by the old habit of reusing graves when new residents were buried, and several rearrangements of the tombstones both for nineteenth-century aesthetics and to accommodate modern lawnmowers!

In spite of its dubious records, the Granary does boast some famous verified residents: the victims of the Boston Massacre of 1770, Ben Franklin’s parents (Ben, although born in Boston, was buried in Philadelphia), merchant Peter Faneuil, patriot James Otis who coined the phrase, “Taxation without representation is tyranny,” Paul Revere, three signers of the Declaration of Independence (John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and Robert Treat Paine) among other early Boston notables. And for a measure of whimsy, the Granary is also purported to be the eternal resting place for Mother Goose…or at least one Elizabeth (Ver)goose whom some believe was the prolific storyteller. Still others were initially buried at the Granary then later moved to family plots elsewhere, adding to the overall confusion. Regardless, a trip to the Granary Burial Ground is a walk through history.

A Place of Eeriness

Cemeteries have always held a fascination for me, largely from the obvious tangible connection to man’s past, which explains why I enjoy the historical cemeteries but avoid the newer ones. There is certainly a measure of creepiness to any burial ground, but when the gravestones and above-ground crypts reach a certain age, the historical aspects override the eeriness, at least for me. My trips to nearby Galveston cemeteries never include the newer ones but instead focus on those whose monuments show a definite age. I’ve yet to visit the infamous New Orleans cemeteries where all are buried aboveground because of potential flooding, but look forward to doing some historical grave lurking when I go there next.

In the case of the Granary Burial Grounds in Boston though, an extra aspect of the creepies pervades the place. As you can see in these photos, the burial ground is closed in on three sides by a variety of modernish buildings housing offices, retail, and even residences. I can’t truly appreciate the challenges of working in an office a few feet away from so many graves, or sitting in an easy chair reading the Boston Globe yet being able to glance out the window and see the curving rows of tombstones for the long-dead residents of an older Boston. I would hope the historical overtones of the grounds would provide some comfort at least, but at much as I enjoy old burial sites I’d hate to live next to one.

When I visited the Granary 13 years ago the sun was shining and the day a nice August one, yet walking in the Granary I felt a cooler air and the stillness that comes with any burial ground. Since the site is closely overshadowed on three sides by tall buildings, it’s usually shaded, adding to the other-wordly sense already strongly in place. Back then I was the only trespasser on the grounds for a brief time. This time there were a lot of tourists roaming and reading the headstones as well as a few furry residents who didn’t seem to mind scampering over what lies underneath or sitting atop a slate slab or two grabbing a bite to eat.

A long time ago I would occasionally take a few rubbings of particularly interesting funerary art whenever I’d visit a graveyard, but I stopped out of respect for the dearly depart and because rubbings are now considered destructive. I walk the worn paths between headstones I consider myself a guest and one who wishes to tread lightly while taking only photos and memories. At some point one might argue that aged tombstones become historical artifacts and thus become more public, but regardless of the age, the markers still represent our fascination with recording our time on Earth, especially in the context of history that is Boston’s.

Whenever I visit Boston I recognize that my attraction lies in the sense of America’s deeper roots and places of significant history that forever reside in the memory of the city’s streets and alleys. Back home in Houston a place two hundred years old is considered a relic; in Boston I trod over graves three hundred years old and more. I walk into buildings nearly as old as the graves, structures in use when our young country stood up and denied King George another colonial outpost. And I walk among a people who may very well be direct descendants of those who made our country free. All these connections to history intoxicate me and are what draws me to New England and Boston in particular. Although I do not know whether my own ancestors walked the dirt roads of Boston proper or not, I feel as though they must have for I sense I’m home whenever Boston is under my feet.

random past musing: A New Excuse

Over the many years that I’ve rooted for baseball teams who inevitably fell on their collective butts as the shadow of the postseason approached, I’ve held to the belief that they “didn’t have enough pitching” or “failed to make timely hits” or even “even good players can’t win with a bad manager.” It was comforting to know these human failings were the suspected root cause of a given team’s perennial habit of almost-but-not-quite-there outcomes, for humans can always overcome their failures and prevail next year. Baseball fans count on getting a seat on the “we’ll get ‘em next year” bus.

But this year I can throw all that dogma out the window, for there’s a “new” excuse in town that’s even better: they’re cursed! Hey, it’s working for the Cubs and Red Sox, so why not the Astros? Why bother with delving into stats or analyzing critical plays in critical series, when with a flip of the wit one can invoke “it’s the curse!” and all is well. While the Astros don’t have a goat or the Babe to identify with their curse, they aren’t short of reasons why their curse is just as persistent, even if not historically rooted. They’re cursed with running out of steam in postseason play…cursed with trading away players who become stars on other teams while the ones they get in return rarely achieve…cursed with beating good teams reliably and looking like minor leaguers against the lowly Brewers…and most of all, cursed with tight-fisted owners who create just enough interest to generate fans but never enough to successfully challenge for a pennant.

While hanging onto a “curse” as an excuse is somewhat comforting because it removes human failings as a cause and replaces that with something that’s beyond mere mortal control, hence supporting the whine “hey, it’s a higher power thing…what can we do,” fans rarely confess “hey, we were CRAP this year and the other team beat our butts off.” No, other than using poor soul sitting down the Cubs foul line in game 6 as a goat (there’s another damn goat reference), the typical fan would prefer to blame the curse and move on to another curse-potential year. And Red Sox fans? More poignant were the Yankee players celebrating after game 7 by toasting then dousing the plaque of the Babe and exclaiming “…the curse lives!” When the competition starts believing in your curse, you’re toast…might as well ask “pass the butter, please” and enjoy.