My Kindgom for a shoe....

Obviously, this is a weekend for me to have footwear on the mind, since I am still gloating about my new boots. Therefore, my thoughts have turned to other, somewhat less well shod folks in this world, who not only don't have new boots, but have been throwing around what footwear they do have in the interests of advancing their own personal agendas. Which seems pretty counter-productive to me. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Recently, our current President, George Bush, made a surprise visit to Baghdad, Iraq, and Afghanistan to visit the troops a final time before leaving office. The trip itself wasn't all that newsworthy - outgoing Presidents typically make these kinds of visits to the troops as they prepare to leave office.

Just for the record, I think it's the right thing to do. It's a way for the President to personally thank those people whom he has put into harm's way for making the sacrifice, a sort of rousing farewell so they know their efforts have been appreciated, and not taken for granted. It's a common action for leaders to visit and rally the troops that are fighting at their behest, and on their behalf, and it's a very effective motivator, as well as a nice personal gesture.

I am certain that seeing the President on their field of battle is a way to feel solidarity with the folks at home, who are largely unaware, even in the age of the 24/7 news cycle, of exactly what those sacrifices consist. So, in short, I'm for him making the trip, I think it was the right thing to do. And, in addition, I have respect for him that would be willing to go into one of the most dangerous places in the world, where there is without question a price on his head, in order to bring his message to the troops personally.

But this trip was a little different. I've often read that the journalism world is a jungle, but you don't expect it to be genuinely dangerous, a threat to someone's physical safety. At most, you occasionally wonder about the safety of the reporters themselves, as they cover the news from some of the most dangerous locations on earth. [The recent death rate of reporters in war zones is truly appalling, as they have become easy targets for whatever wacko fringe group want to make an easy hit.] But in a press conference, the only barbed objects that one should fear are the sharp comments being made by skeptical reporters who don't quite buy what is being sold at the podium.

Which brings us back to this brief surprise visit to the war zone, where we find George Bush standing at the podium at a news conference on a sunny Baghdad afternoon, answering questions about the war to an audience of mostly Middle Eastern reporters.

Now, let me just say, I am a firm believer that our President, whether I support him politically or not, is our international representative, sort of an everyman American, speaking and acting on our behalf when he is making state visits abroad. As such, we have a right to demand that the respect due his office be shown, wherever he may be in the world. Apparently, however, not everyone agrees with me. And I take umbrage.

On this occasion, a reporter, it's unclear to me where, exactly, he is from, although he works for an Egyptian news agency (ya, THAT Egypt, the one that is theoretically sort of our ally,) actually threw both his shoes and a series of verbal assaults at our president, a sign of intense disrespect in an area of the world not exactly known for reasonable behavior, anyway.

I have to give George credit, really. He showed an interesting ability to dodge the verbal (and footwear) bullet. I was impressed by his ability to see it coming and avoid being hit by the unexpected shoe assault. You have to wonder if he spent time on the field while he owned the Rangers, because he looked just like a kid taking batting practice eying up the ball.

I was also impressed at his ability to remain gracious and keep the situation light hearted and not take himself too seriously. It was, in my opinion, a presidential moment, in which he represented both himself, and our nation, in the best possible light. It could have been a critical international incident.

Instead, it was a humorous sound bite, because he was able to take himself out of it for a moment and see it for what it was - a moment of protest against a policy that someone disagreed with. I think part of the appeal of George Bush is exactly that, in fact - he never has appeared to take himself too seriously. That's an attractive quality in the most important leader on the face of the earth, I think.

But that is where the story goes seriously awry, in my opinion. The President himself was spot on in words and deeds, and I am proud of him for how he responded. But there is a dark side to this story, one that needs to be examined and dissected, so that it never happens again.

The errant reporter was quickly subdued, thanks not to the US Secret Service, a group of people paid very well by you and me, the taxpayers, to protect the President of the United States even at the cost of their own lives. In this case, the thanks goes to another reporter, who slammed this guy to the ground and waited for the Secret Service to pile on, acting like they had done something when, in fact, they did nothing at all.

I don't know about anyone else, but I have to say, I am not exactly impressed with the Secret Service in the situation. Things happen, and I suppose I can see how it's possible to get off one shoe and throw it without attracting attention beforehand. You can't really anticipate someone taking off their own footwear and throwing it, especially in the circumstance.

Objectively considered, from the reporter's perspective, he didn't really have much in the way of weapons at hand, so his shoes probably seemed like the best choice, despite the obvious reality that he was never going to get away from there unscathed. The fact that he wasn't wearing his shoe was going to come up on the way out, seeing as how a shoe got thrown, so it's assumed he knew he was going to be apprehended and beaten to a pulp. It's still Iraq, after all.

Although, come to think of it, I am forced to observe that Muslim adherents seem to have a fondness for footwear as weapons recently, an interesting trend that I find noteworthy, and apparently, so should the Secret Service. Perhaps footwear should always be as suspect in press conferences as it seems to be for the regular citizens at the airport. Still, all in all, I can't really blame anyone for not stopping the first shoe assault. But I am appalled that the reporter was able to throw both of them.

If this is an example of Secret Service protection, for which the American public is paying a premium price, it is inadequate, to say the least. If I were Laura, I wouldn't be letting George out of the White House again until he was out of office. And if I were Michelle, I'd be a nervous wreck. Four years of that kind of worry and you would have to pack me off to the rubber room for sure. (I will admit, I have one foot in the door at all times anyway. But that would put me right over the edge.) Given the lunatic fringes that exist right here in our own country, you would think the Secret Service would have been prepared for anything, and instead, it seems they were caught, dare I say it? flat footed.

I understand they were in a foreign country. I understand that you have to give latitude to that country and their own police force. But this is not just another tourist hitting the beach in Cancun. This is the President of the United States, and he was visiting the country whose cause you can fairly say he has championed non-stop since entering office. Say what you will about him, he has been consistent on Iraq, and his belief that this is a just war, and that we have freed them from tyranny.

So I think it's fair to ask, where were the Secret Service? Where were his police and military protection? What were they thinking in not keeping a sharp eye on every single person in that crowd? While they were all accredited journalists, and the weapon of choice was a shoe instead of a gun, for which we can all be eternally grateful, this is an incident which should never have occurred. We cannot screen for every eventuality, and it could have been a bomb hidden in his shoe instead of just a shoe. It is clear that in that part of the world, life has a different value, and the value of martyrdom is far higher than the value of remaining on this earth to many people.

Human aspects aside, I shudder to think what would have happened had something catastrophic occurred, and President Bush have been severely injured, or God forbid, assassinated over there. Our country is already in crisis. That would probably throw us over the edge. We do not need that interruption in the national process of transferring power from one president to the next. While I am, obviously, glad for his family and personal friends that he is okay, I am glad for us as a country as well, because I think we are too fragile, too strung out, too vulnerable, to risk something that damaging happening right now.

Benjamin Franklin told the cautionary tale from history about how for wont of a horseshoe nail the kingdom was lost. While the origins of that little proverb are likely found in the story of Richard the Third and Henry VII and The Battle of Bosworth, [a moment in time which literally changed the course of Western history, and paved the way for the Tudor dynasty and the English Reformation,] the meaning of the ditty is still crystal clear. If you don't pay attention to the small stuff, you will lose the bigger battles as well. We are at war with the zealots in this world, and we cannot afford to let down our guard, either at home or away, for even a moment.

So, to the Secret Service, SHAPE UP. Intensify your training. NEVER forget that the very future of our nation, and even the future course of the world, could be in your apparently incapable hands. You have one of the most serious jobs on earth. Perhaps you should put your walkie talkies down, and just open your eyes and look around you. The threat is not only from the great. Sometimes, it's the little stuff that brings you down.

And to everyone else, keep your shoes on. Unless you're at the airport, of course.

Booting up....

Into each life some snow [so I'm paraphrasing, give me a break,] must fall. And if it does, you should be wearing boots, I think. So, with that in mind, last week I went to buy myself some new boots.

I am, if you didn't realize, a very delicate hot-house flower of a girl. I need tender loving care, and I wilt easily. Well, my feet do, anyway. In short, I have the world's most sensitive feet. The Princess who got black and blue from the pea? She has nothing on me. If I have a speck of lint under my foot, I will be sore for weeks. Thus, the proper fit is paramount in my shoe shopping expeditions.

I bought myself a pair of Bear Paw boots some years back. They are amazing boots - lined in sheepskin, warm and cozy suede exterior, just the right amount of chic, but still practical. Unfortunately, they are so comfort filled and attractive that my even more attractive adolescent swiped them out from under me, and now I no longer have the booted options available to me that I once did.

Thus, I headed off to procure another pair for myself, in a size that would make it uncomfortable for any other resident of my household to permanently borrow them.

I spied the coveted item at the store called Wild Pair, a trendy little boutique in my local mall. They are not inexpensive boots, but I will spare no expense to be certain that my tender feet walk unmolested by faulty footwear.

I should just say that I have never been to Wild Pair before. That is not a name that really shouts out to me that I belong there, seeing as how I could never be confused for something that belongs in a zoo. However, they had, in a bold display, the very boots I desired right in front of the door, and they drew me in like a rebel Starship caught in a tractor beam.

I tried on the perfect pair, excited to contemplate my newly booted appendages, and with great haste wrote my check and high tailed it out of there. I sped home to waterproof the sueded surfaces, so that I would be able to don them in the snow soon to arrive. The spray requires a substantial dry time, so I was going to be prepared for the upcoming onslaught.

I awaited the dawn with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Santa related holidays. [I am trying to be seasonal here, otherwise I would obviously have mentioned my birthday.] I rushed to the kitchen to slide my feet into the cushy cloud that I knew would envelope my feet, and sat back to admire.

But no. It can't be. A flaw in the ointment. Or the boot top, really. I looked closer, well, really my neck briefly resembled a trombone slide as I maneuvered my eyes into the perfect range to take in the outrage now presenting itself to me, and saw that indeed, the eyes were not deceiving me. There was a slice, as from an errant knife, right across the top of the new boot.

I was desolate.

I attempted to rally from the blow, arguing with myself that I could live with it, it wasn't really a big deal, it wouldn't be a problem, REALLY. Then I took a step. The whole thing suddenly separated, like an earthquake in miniature, and there was a now a gaping gash across the top of my new boot.

I immediately called the store, girded for battle, anticipating an argument, expecting to have to defend myself from accusations of inappropriate knife usage at the very least. But no. The manager kindly said, "Bring them right in, and we'll get you a new pair immediately." Well, that certainly did take the edge off the anger, I must say.

I headed on up to the mall again, not a small trek, but since gas is back down out of the stratosphere, I can just barely afford to drive around again. I parked, I walked in with my box, I entered the door of the store, and they were... gone. I stood there looking at the display boot, thinking that it was a size smaller, but that's my small foot, and maybe I could make it work - when suddenly, here was the clerk. She apologized for taking so much time. Her boss was on the phone, and in this economy, if I had to choose between my boss and my customer, I'd pick the boss, too. So I told her no problem, showed her the boot, and she was rather surprised.

But she said, let me get you a new pair. So we got the new pair out of the box, checked them over carefully, you can be sure, and I even got a 25% discount. Which I promptly spent on a new waterproofing spray which is so high tech it only needs 30 minutes to dry.

I raced home, sprayed and sprayed again, and I was all excited to pull on my new boots and break them in. Snow was still on the ground, it was still icy cold outside, I had not missed prime boot wearing weather after all, and all was well in my world.

Except, of course, it's me. So naturally, there was a problem. When I pulled on my new boots the next morning, and I stood admiring their pristine loveliness, I suddenly realized that my foot hurt. It was a soft hurt, sort of an annoyance more than actual pain, and I told myself that I was dreaming. I was just having sympathy pains for the poor boot that would now never have a foot to hold. It couldn't possibly be that I would get another defective boot.

I barrelled forth into my day, wearing my boots, but becoming increasingly tense with each step, as I gradually lost all ability to deny, even to myself, that there was a problem with my new boot. Finally, I broke down and pulled off the boot, to find a toe so raw it was aching, and the nerves were jangling all the way up my leg. I knew it was not going to be a joyful moment, but shoved my hand down to the bottom, where the toe meets the top, and sure enough, there was the problem.

The lining of the brand new boot was bunched up and folded over, creating a riffle in the bottom of my shoe that was roughly equivalent to the Great Wall of China. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I sighed. I said rats. I said uff da, the strongest epithet I can muster under stress. I got out the receipt and called the store, again, certain that this time they would have no more to do with me. I was going to be labeled a chronic whiner, and they would shut the gate and refuse me entrance.

But no. They said, bring it back in. Well, first the manager said, "Are you sure it isn't the toe box?" Well, ya, I'm pretty sure, since the lining is bunched up and folded over in one boot, creating a wall the size of the Great Wall.

So off I head to the mall once again, miserable that I will now have to emerge from the warm cocoon of my home into the cold, shod only in boots with holes in them. This is what I get for trying to be prepared, I was whining miserably to myself, as I drove my truck up to the mall once again, resentment etching a furrow into my brow. (Well, not really. I just wanted to use the word etch, and this seemed like a good time.) Mostly, I was just bummed to be making the drive for the third time in three days, which is more than I have been to the mall in the past three months. Or year. Or two.

I arrive at Wild Pair, expecting to at least have to explain myself, or to face a gauntlet of tough questions about what I did to their boot to make it defective, but no. Once again, they could not have been nicer to me. Honestly, its rather hard to be a curmudgeon when people are nice to you.

She felt the ridge, gave her opinion that it was certainly not going to be acceptable to have a boot with that kind of flaw, and went and got me a new box, apologizing for my inconvenience. In gratitude, I bought another item, this time boot cleaner for the long lost pair that seem to have shown up rather surprisingly often on the feet of one of my nearest and dearest, but a little worse for the wear.

Rest assured, I looked these boots over outside and IN, and just to be sure, I also wore them for about ten minutes in the store. When I had declared myself fully satisfied, I happily left with new boots in hand, a fully satisfied customer.

I recommend Wild Pair highly to anyone who wants to shop in a store that stands behind what they sell. I am impressed, to say the least, that they accepted my complaints without an excuse, simply exchanged them as requested, and even gave me a discount for my troubles. There are not many places where you can get that kind of customer service any more, and if it's important to you, then Wild Pair is your kind of place.

I brought my new boots home, sprayed them, waited overnight, and with slightly deflated expectations, pulled them onto my waiting extremities the following morning, wondering what might go wrong next. But no. I was once again surprised, this time to find that nothing at all was wrong. All is well in my booted world, and I am fully satisfied and walking on a cloud even now.

Leave it to me to find the two pair of defective boots that Bear Paw has ever made. Wild Pair has never had a pair returned before, they told me in amusement. I guess they just haven't dealt with a princess quite like me.

Decorating madness....

There is a time honored tradition amongst those who celebrate the holiday of Christmas, [as opposed to the "Winter Holiday" observed by popular culture these days.] The house is torn apart, and every single item on display is replaced with something red, green and festive, exhausting the women of the family before the holiday itself even arrives. This is an undertaking of hours and days and weeks duration, involving billions of dollars collectively, requiring ridiculous amounts of hard work, only to take it all apart again in just a few short weeks, reversing the work so recently accomplished.

I wonder if men have even a small idea of the exhaustion experienced by the women of the household as they prepare for the greatest show on earth. Apologies to Barnum and Bailey, but the circus has nothing on the three ring spectacular known as the Christmas holiday season, written and directed by women of the family, and merchants, everywhere.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it's a non-stop whirlwind of decorating, shopping, baking and twinkling lights, and the entire production is generally written, directed, produced and acted out by the legions of women running the family show the world over, with dads playing a minor supporting role. (Ah, those twinkling lights. Which, I am happy to report, are, in fact, still twinkling, at least in my case. I wish you luck with yours.)

I suppose that could be construed as a sexist remark, but in all honesty, who does the Christmas preparation in your household? When you think of your growing up years, who do you associate with all the sights and sounds of Christmas in your house? That's what I thought.

In my household, there is no "Father" figure any more. Actually, if you asked any of us, we would have to acknowledge that there never was, but that's another story. I do all the preparation work by default, just as I always have. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it has always been my arena, and now that I am broke and have no time, it is more challenging than ever. Santa Claus, where are you? I don't want my two front teeth for Christmas, I want more hours in the day. Or perhaps two extra hands. And if you wanted to pad my bank account, I wouldn't object to that, either.

Not to digress, but my lovely teen aged daughter has a fetish for outside lights on houses. And I do mean ON the houses. It is not enough for her to throw some strings of lights on the bushes and call it a [cold] day. She would prefer to have the Griswald's come to life in our own household, and to light up the neighborhood with the results of our hard effort. To make a long story short, that isn't going to happen. Ever.

I have patiently explained to her many times that while women can, indeed, do anything they set their minds to, putting up lights on the house is a "dad" job. I don't want to discourage her from thinking that she can do anything interesting that she wants to do in her own life, I just want her to understand that if you want lights on your house, you need to marry wisely. A lesson I really wish I had learned earlier rather than later, so hopefully she will benefit by my abysmal example.

I am not sexist, you understand, I am parentist. I believe there are certain roles for which one parent or the other is simply better suited by nature. Lights on a house falls under the father category, as does trimming the tree trunk before sticking it into the stand. (Since we are short one father, we simply use the circular saw, which is cheaper and more efficient than my ex, Mr. Handy, and the crow bar and hand saw routine he used to employ.)

One of the sweetest things my daughter has ever said to me is that she wishes for me that someday I would have a man in my life that would put lights on my house. It was a wistful statement, and held a lot more than the simple words on their surface, of course. I knew exactly what she meant, and it makes me melt even now, just to think about it.

You may well be wondering what falls under the mother category. In the case of Christmas, the answer would be pretty much everything else. Which brings me to yesterday.

I spent all day, when I would rather have been writing on my blog, [obviously, keeping in touch with the many fans family wide who read my meanderings assiduously,] redecorating my living room to bring the festive nature of the season to the heart of our little abode. I worked my fingers to the bone, went up and down the ladder, and up and down the stairs, approximately 5,000 times, in order to make the house seasonal and celebratory.

I decorated the family room first to make it fun for the onslaught of teens rapidly heading in my direction. I strung the garland, hung the paper snowflakes, cleared and dusted and redecorated the entire room, making it a veritable festivity central. Which must have been appreciated, since they were here until the wee hours, long after Santa would have gotten bored and gone home, leaving stockings unfilled, if it were Christmas Eve.

Then I moved on the living room. More hauling, more climbing, more decorating. You never really know how much stuff you have until you start pulling it all out to decorate for Christmas. I recall when I was little looking into the boxes that came down from the cold upstairs, filled with the treasures of Christmas. It was always so exciting to see them appear, you knew good things were in store sooner rather than later. But there would still be things in the bottom of the box, and I couldn't understand why my mother didn't put up every last thing she owned.

Now that I have grown up, I find that I, too, leave things in the bottom of the box. There are simply too many things to put them all out. I have lighting and other things that there is just no place for any more, but I can't bear to discard it, either. So instead, I hang on to it, just in case the day arrives when it will once again be appropriate in my home. I am learning from my mother, it seems, to the detriment of my basement space.

Thus I find myself this morning, sitting in my newly redecorated space, happily enjoying the beauty of the surroundings, and feeling more festive just to look around. I put another number on my advent calendar, bringing me one day closer to the magical day of Christmas. I am reminded, through the nativity sets that I have set up in the middle of my room, what the real reason for the season is, whose advent we are celebrating. I see a few small gifts under the tree, offerings of love to my family to let them know that I care about them, and cherish their joy more than anything.

And I realize, once again, that I am lucky to be the mom, the purveyor of the family dreams and traditions, the one around whom the outward, secular celebration of Christmas, at least in my household, swirls. My family's joy and fun and happiness in this season are augmented by the hours of work and effort that I put into it, and that is my reward. Parentist though it may be, my children will never be without the memories of my hard work and extra efforts, even when I am long gone. Sometimes it is good to be the mom.

Most times, really. Except at 2:30 in the morning when some goofy boy shows up unannounced to throw wood chips at the window of your teenaged daughter, like some love struck Cyrano de Bergerac on a hormone high. That is a dad thing to handle, and since we are one short, I have to fill in, and it's not my deal AT ALL. But anyway....

Like most women, when I sit back on Christmas Day and think about how everything went for us this year, I can feel the satisfaction of a holiday season well done. The cards got written and mailed, the baking will get done [thanks, Mom,] the decorations were put up, the tree was acquired, the stockings were filled, the gifts which betoken our love for one another were duly appreciated, pictures will have been snapped, and at the bottom of it all, the hard work will have been worth it, because the people I love most will have had one more Christmas to add to their storehouse of memories.

Ho! Ho! Cold!

Yesterday, when I left home at 8 a.m., the sky was overcast, but it wasn't that cold out, and I didn't give a second thought to what the day might bring. I worked inside all morning, and by the time I emerged from my igloo of jello boxes and Ramen noodles, my particular area that I was managing during my duties as a volunteer for the Johnson County Christmas Bureau, the snow had fallen, the ice had formed an unseen layer on the roadways, and I was at serious risk driving around the rest of the day.

Although this wasn't the first snow of the season, it was the first real snowfall of this winter. The first time it snowed was on a weekend, and no one was out, nor was it more than a thin layer atop the grass. There was no need to emerge from the safety of our warm and cozy homes, so the damage was limited and short term, since it melted almost immediately.

This time, the snow fell harder, longer, and colder, and it has not only stayed, it has accumulated, the real measure of whether it is officially winter, a least in my mind. I woke up this morning to blue sky, the sun is now shining, and the snow is glistening and shimmering like crystals tossed carelessly on a jeweler's countertop.

Having grown up in Minnesota, I lived there for the first 27 years of my life, I am very familiar with the white gift from the sky. I am aware that some people really love the snow, and consider it to be a real thrill to see it drifting to earth from on high. I have never been a fan. If I could, I would return it for sand and beach.

So it was a disconcerting moment for me to emerge from the cool safety of the Christmas distribution into the cold, snowy reality. First things first, cleaning off the truck. Problem there. No coat. No gloves. No brush. Ugh.

I swept aside my aggravation along with the snow, and opened my door. Naturally, the seat was inundated with a shower of snow, which stuck in the fibers of the seat, with the inevitable outcome that entails. [Meaning, if I had a tail, it would have been wet by the time I next emerged from the truck.]

But eventually, I was situated and on my way. Next problem. My rear wheel drive truck sliding into the street unbidden and undriven. Or at least not intentionally driven that way. That was how I learned about the ice under the snowy crust on the surface of the road.

Fortunately, no accident for me, no cars were coming at that moment, which is far more luck than skill, I can assure you. Eventually, I arrived back at my home, and I remained snuggled inside my warm and cozy abode for the remainder of the bleak and snowy day.

I was reminded, watching the flakes meandering lazily from the sky, that there was a time when snow signified a magical opportunity to run outside and mess up the pristine surface, to shuffle and run and make the snow fly up like my own personal blizzard.

There was a time when the falling flakes triggered a desire to pull out the sled or the cross country skis [stop snickering, I used to be pretty fair at it,] and shoosh and slide my way through the crisp winter wonderland that suddenly transformed the familiar boring landscape into something new and almost mysterious.

There is little of the mystery and thrill remaining for me any more. I am a sun worshipper, someone who sees the snow as the enemy to be defeated and overcome. Snow, these days, is an obstacle for the most part, to be hurdled and then disregarded.

But for a brief moment last night, as I glanced out the window while closing the blinds, and saw my twinkling lights shimmering and sparkling under the new white coats on each little bulb, [remarkably, they are still working, for now,] I felt that unbidden thrill of possibility that the first real snow of the year always incites in the child hidden within. For that second in time, I felt the cold on my nose, recalled the crisp air and the wet mittens and the snow pants and boots and the feel of the sled underneath me flying down the little hill behind my house, and tasted the tantalizing possiblities once again that makes childhood so magical.

I am suddenly inspired to finish my work day early, and get the house prepared for Santa to come calling. Ho, ho, ho! Some hot chocolate is in order, I think. Marshmallows, anyone?

No parties in prison

I simply could not be more gobsmacked tonight, considering the case of Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. In case you have been under a rock today, Blagojevich is the currently under indictment nitwit who was apparently caught on tape, no less, selling a senate seat to the highest bidder, which in the end, threatened to be himself.

I am not usually one to be surprised by anything a politician does. I have been known to opine that they are all corrupt, that they are all in it for themselves, and that I don't trust any of them. So you would think I would take this in stride as a matter of course, a confirmation that, in fact, my cynicsm is justified.

However, I have surprised myself this time. Apparently, hidden somewhere deep inside, I harbor some latent hope that the people who want to lead this country are better than I think they are. Who knew? But it must be so, because tonight I find myself struggling to wrap my mind around this episode and, quite simply, failing. Utterly.

One can only shake the head and ask, WHAT on EARTH could he have been thinking? The nature of the indictment against him is so sweeping, so devastating, one is left to wonder if the man was delusional, or just simply that arrogant? Quite possibly both.

The level of stupidity involved in this situation is simply dumbfounding. There is no way to make sense of someone who had such blatant disrespect for the law, who was so lacking in understanding of the rules of public and private conduct, and who so clearly believed, deep down inside himself, that the law did not apply to him, that he was willing to openly do something that was self-evidently, and explicitly illegal, and he thought it wouldn't matter a bit. He IS, after all, the governor. Surely the rules are different for him.

We have seen plenty of famous people tripped up by stupidity - actors (Ryan O'Neal,) politicians (Eliot Spitzer,) athletes, (OJ Simpson.) There are legions of stupid people out there doing stupid things, and getting caught. What IS it with powerful people that seems to make them think they are immune from the rules of civilized conduct that the rest of us must observe?

However, the stupidity of this particular situation is beyond my ability to make sense of it. It is so idiotic, it makes you think there has to be more to the story than meets the eye, just because it is so totally absurd, it couldn't possibly be what it seems. And yet, no other explanation for what I heard he said on tape comes to mind.

In our local daily paper, which allows online comments, the trolls are out in full force, commenting and painting all Liberals, their code word for enemy, as the scourge of the earth. It's not unexpected, but disheartening, none the less.

Because this is not a party crime. This was not something sanctioned by anyone, except the Governor himself, and it certainly isn't any more reflective of the party voters than any other criminal that was elected to any higher office is reflective of their party. There are enough examples on both sides of the aisle to fill the plate without expending energy on throwing poisoned arrows at your imaginary foes. Frankly, who needs enemies, when our own elected officials, the very people leading us, are so blatantly and brazenly against us.

I do not agree with George Bush often, as my nearest and dearest will certainly be happy to confirm. But his old line, "Either you are with us, or you are against us," could not be more true than in this case. If you are betraying the trust of your elected office by putting up for sale to the most advantageous bidder an elected office in our federal government, or any government, for that matter, in my opinion, that is treason, and should be treated accordingly.

In the case of corrupt politicians, they are stealing democracy from us all. I am an equal opportunity disdainer. Oh for dumb. That's all I have to say.

Disposable society

We live in what most people will acknowledge is a disposable society these days. We think nothing of throwing anything away, no matter what it is. A two year old computer is now obsolete, so out it goes to the landfill. Batteries don't work? Into the trash. All of our televisions will soon be unable to cope with HDTV signals coming in without help, and I am certain we will see an onslaught of them trucked into landfills across the country.

At this rate, we will soon have added another layer to the earth's crust. Geologists will call it Plasticus Fillitup, and future generations will no doubt marvel at how a layer of plastic could have formed just under the surface of the earth. It will probably be a whole new discipline of study.

Our culture has engaged in this disposable embrace for some time, of course. Ask about having any electronic item you own repaired, and you will find out pretty quickly just how little opportunity there is to reuse nowadays. Even pets are considered just a temporary commitment by too many people - here today, inconvenient tomorrow, so out they go to fend for themselves, or off to a shelter and good luck and goodbye.

We have now seen extremes of this throwaway attitude with the recent dropping off of teenagers in Nebraska, where parents at wit's end came from all over the country to dump their children on the state to deal with, because they simply don't know what else to do, as if the kid is an unwanted pet or an old refrigerator. What does that say about us as a society, if we place so little value on anything, that everything is on the throwaway list, including our children?

You are no doubt wondering what got me started on this jag. Well, it is the annual ritual of putting up the Christmas lighting display outdoors, which sets me off every year. This year was no different. What IS it with twinkle light manufacturers that makes them think you should be willing to buy 15 sets of new lights every single year? Because that is the quality with which they appear to be made.

It is infuriating to spend money every single year replacing light strings that you bought just 12 short months ago, and which do not make it through even one season, it seems, without half or more of the strand simply dying on the vine, literally. I realize they have a fiduciary duty to their stockholders to make money, but isn't there at least some responsibility to their customers, too, to produce a product that lives longer than an average house fly?

I was armed for battle this year, ready to revolt the poor quality lighting situation by boycotting the entire exercise, when I was stopped in my tracks by a daughter bent on having cheerful lights to greet her at the door when she arrives home from work. There is only so much pressure a person can take, and that just wasn't worth it.

So off I went to the nether regions of my house to find the recalcitrant lights, and see what could be done. Which was, in brief, not much. Shortly thereafter, my annual pilgrimage to Walmart commenced, following the star, or at least the twinkle lights, to once again festivize the exterior of my home for other people to enjoy.

Thus it was that AS I was putting up yet another new string of lights, pulled from the packaging moments beforehand, the blues and greens went out on me. I was not a happy consumer, standing out there in the cold, throwing the string around like a lariat come to life, trying to show that recalcitrant strand who was boss. I eventually got them going again, [for now, anyway,] but I have no illusions about their longevity, after the initial outage incident.

There is a larger issue here for me. I believe that we are stewards of the earth, and that God has left us to our own devices with rather strict instructions that we were to have dominion over the whole of the globe. [Although I notice there is no mention of dominating the universe, something which gives me pause.] With dominion comes responsibility, and I think we have fallen down on the job rather spectacularly.

I recently viewed a program about archaeologists excitedly excavating an ancient site. My own personal reservations about disrupting the eternal resting places of the dearly departed aside, it is pretty interesting stuff, because you can find out a lot about people from excavating their living spaces a few centuries into the future. Not surprisingly, the thing they were most excited about was the finding of the ancient equivalent of a landfill, because it held a mine of information about the culture that threw those objects away.

I wonder what a 31 century archaeologist would think about our culture, based on what is in our landfills. They will give a wealth of information, I have no doubt, because they are full of the plastic and metal articles that will be the gifts that keep on giving for hundreds or even thousands of years. But what will that information say about us as people? As stewards of the earth? Or even of our own civilization?

I shudder to imagine their reaction on finding what we have casually thrown away, still there a thousand years from now. I wonder how many CD's there will be, how many CRT monitors, stoves, refrigerators, televisions.... The list is long, and growing daily.

And while we think that we have fully documented our lives and our civilization, and everything will always be known about us and our culture, it is illusion. The reality is that it can all be wiped out in one catastrophic incident, and the archaeologists of the future may know only what they find. I don't know about you, but I don't think some broken appliances and millions of strings of twinkle lights are going to say much that is worth knowing about us.

The whole throwaway attitude rather ironically reminds me of my mom, who, having been raised as a depression child, has the motto, "Never throw anything away. You just never know when you will need it." She saves everything, and her house is a treasure trove of stuff that you might need some day. My mother was a green thinker long before it was the trendy thing to do. She has reused, and reworked, and redone things as a way of life, her entire life, and she knows how to make things last.

She has fixed things that other people wouldn't even think about saving, like her bread maker, which has gone on years longer than it's expected, or projected, life span. She doesn't believe in buying something new when you can make do with the old. She puts function ahead of form on a regular basis. [Except for me. I am totally form, completely dysfunctional most of the time, and she puts up with me anyway.]

I am genuinely wondering if the current recession will change the long held habits of the buying public, which has never seen a sale it can't exploit. The roots of this recession run deep through the fabric of our society, I believe, and go to the heart of how American companies have done business over the last 25 years or so.

The short term benefits have consistently trumped the long term viability of almost every company in business today. That is a way of thinking that consumers seem to have embraced with enthusiasm, since there is no demand for products that last, but rather, a rush to the stores to buy new with such zeal that we will literally trample the person in front of us to get the latest gadget or trinket. Even if it costs someone else their life for us to do so.

This is a method of doing business that cannot, in the long haul, be sustained. Companies today are bought and sold on the basis of what you did for me today, rather than what the long term prospects may be. Even profitable is not good enough any more for the rampant investment from overseas, and American companies are consistently dismantled for under-performing, even as they post positive profits.

So, in getting back to the tale of the twinkle lights that set off this little rant, I had two strings of lights on which I simply refused to give up, mom-style. [She probably has strings of lights she is using that are older than I am, and if she can persevere, so can I. She is my role model, after all. I would say she is my idol, but she is a Minnesota Lutheran, and wouldn't be comfortable with that kind of fuss.] Both strings were new last year, and are the expensive kind with the controls that will allow you to have them do a variety different lighting schemes. In my view, there is no excuse for strings of lights that won't work for two consecutive years, and I was going to make them work, whatever it took. Thus, I spent all day Sunday pulling the little lights out, replacing, testing, until in the end, partial success.

One string of those lights is currently on my bushes outside, twinkling merrily on high, at least for today. The other string has been relocated to an undisclosed location, the details of which are a deeply guarded secret. We won't talk about those right now. Suffice it to say, they have not seen the last of me. I have my moral victory, and justice will be served.

I'm out of my tree

I had this Thanksgiving weekend fully planned out, strategically designed to maximize the time to get everything done that needed to be completed before my Wildcat son returned to the land of purple gloom.

Unfortunately, my highly coordinated plans derailed early in the week, and have never gotten back on track since. The weekend is nearly over, the Thanksgiving holiday is almost gone, and I have yet to do anything that I most wanted to accomplish, other than baking a turkey, which wasn't without a hitch in and of itself.

I did get out to the stores, where the holiday season is now underway in full force. Retailers are pulling out all the stops, in a crescendo of buying enticements designed to pull in even the most reluctant of spenders. Each year I feel increasingly disconnected from the buying frenzy - with no small children, there is no hot toy to be had, no item without which Christmas will be less magical.

Instead, I can now take time and be more thoughtful, giving gifts that are unique and designed to be appealing to the gifted for their sentimental value, more than any monetary value that they might have attached to them. Some of the happiest gifts I've ever been given would not require an insurance rider for their value, but they are irreplaceable for me, and priceless.

The one thing I most wanted to do with both of my kids present seems slightly out of reach at this moment. Without the centerpiece of the celebration, the rest of it doesn't really seem to inspire the holiday spirit in me, even if I did finally get the cards in the mail, and the decorating spirit is now moving within.

Yesterday, when I got up, it was with the full intention of getting our Christmas tree, that sublimely scented symbol of Christian renewal that fills home and nostrils with the eminence of the holiday. Unfortunately, Mother Nature was not on the same page.

First it was raining, then it was snowing, then it was raining again. If you do not know my family, we are not the hardy pioneer stock that settled this prairie land so many years ago. At the first sign of precipitation, I would hear a chorus of complaints about the cold, not wanting to get shoes wet, and the urgency of doing something, anything, other than experiencing the great outdoors in all it's wet glory.

Naturally, knowing this about my family, I immediately revised my original plan, putting off the tree expedition for today, before Adam leaves. I used my time wisely, getting out my Christmas cards which I traditionally mail on Thanksgiving Day, but which had crept up and surprised me undone this year. I thought surely it would be a more fortuitous day for the celebration of green today, since it rarely snows this early, and when it does, it generally melts immediately.

When I got up this morning, however, it was not to sunshine and dry ground. On the contrary, there is actual SNOW out there, and it seems to be making a home on my lawn. Which does not bode well for the procurement process, I must say. I rather fear that this annual Thanksgiving weekend event is going to be waylaid by the weather. I fear we will not find ourselves in possession of our Tannenbaum at the end of the day, and all that glitters in our household will not be ornaments and twinkle lights on a tree.

I am eager to hustle out and get this tree, so I will have the opportunity to get full enjoyment of it, and will be able to see it and experience it as long as possible. Thus, this morning, my disappointment, as I realize that the tree will probably have to wait for another day.

My tree means a lot to me, more now than it used to, in fact. It is disappointing to me to have to put off this annual exercise in family unity, as we come to negotiated agreement on which evergreen will best represent the holiday spirit for each one of us. It is the usual culminating experience of Thanksgiving for me, and it is a moment that I treasure each year, at least in part because it is something the three of us have always had fun doing together.

One of the best things about being divorced, I've found, is the ability to make any decision I want without regard to another person's wishes. [Well, except for my children, who pretty much dictate everything all the time.] When I was married, we had a "pretty" tree, with lovely crystal, glass, and porcelain ornaments for the main floor living room. It was a formal tree, to match the formal room in which it was situated, a room that was rarely used, uncomfortable, a pass through place with little value to me.

When I got divorced, one of the things I needed to do was to eliminate that formal room, and replace it with one that was welcoming and pleasant, one in which people who entered our front door would wish to sit and visit awhile. I sold off the furniture, which was very serviceable still, since it was rarely used, and bought some contemporary items that are fun and comfortable.

Another thing I did, to go along with that new casual comfort, was to move the family tree, the one with all the fun kid's ornaments that we have collected over the years, upstairs to the space where we spend all our time. It is, in some ways, a metaphor for my divorced life, that the family tree which was once relegated to the unseen level, where it was rarely enjoyed, is now front and center, and in full view of everyone who comes to the door.

I still have my fancy tree, of course. I think this year it will be in the family room downstairs, which is enjoyed by teens on a fairly regular basis, and they may enjoy having that space decorated for them, too.

But the one I most look forward to is the one that will occupy center stage, the focal point of our holiday decorations. I look forward to unpacking the clothespin Rudolph that my son made for me when he was little. I love the Gingerbread Man with the missing Red Hot buttons that my daughter made for me when she was in preschool.

When my son was born, I began a tradition of giving him an ornament every year, thinking that by the time he was grown and had a tree of his own, he would have a lovely starter set of ornaments that would be meaningful and important to him. He is now 23, and his ornaments fill that tree with warm memories of happy occasions, and my daughter's ornaments do the same. I have a few that I have been given as well, not the beautiful crystal and glass decorations of the formal tree, but warm and happy informal decorations, like the informality that rules in my post-married life.

I will have my tree sooner or later, and it will be beautiful as always. I will decorate it with twinkling lights and our precious ornaments of years already gone, and the memories that we each hold as the ornaments move from box to tree will warm our hearts and brighten our spirits.

Each time I look at the tree, I will be reminded that although my life has changed over the years, and things look very different now, change isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes, a transformation is what you need to make your life full and complete.

Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas Tree, your branches green delight us. I can't wait to bring you home, and enjoy the glory that is the Christmas season once again!

Santa Claus is coming to town

When I was a little girl, Christmas was the most magical time of the year. Anything was possible, every dream could come true. My nights were filled with visions of new dolls and new toy ovens and new gadgets and gewgaws that would somehow transform my dreary little life into something spectacular.

I was startled recently by seeing a commercial that brought me right back to my childhood. It showed several children "playing" plastic instruments, looking like they were having the time of their lives. Britney Spears on stage doesn't have any more fun than this cabal of little tykes playing their plastic for all they were worth. I saw those toys through adult eyes, and the cynic in me snickered as I contemplated what those toys probably really look like, to say nothing of how they probably sound. But I know for the children that may have been watching, those little pieces of colorful plastic represented unlimited dreams, opportunity, the future.

It is good to have dreams. Without them, children would have no goals to shoot for, no reason to advance, to learn, to grow up. They would never move out, and their parents would be stuck with them forever. Since I have two of those people in residence myself, no one is more motivated than I am to incentivize them to pursue the possibilities that present themselves.

But I have to wonder just how much of an incentive it is when we present our kids with toys that do everything for them? If they already play the music, why learn to play the piano? If they already spin, or toss, or fill in their own blanks, why bother to learn and grow and change and pursue a dream?

When I was a little girl, toys were rudimentary, at best, by comparison with today's technological wonders. It was a Big Deal when Baby First Step came out, and she could walk all by herself [batteries not included.] Dolls would wet themselves, because they had a hole in their mouth that the water went in, and a hole slightly lower where the water came out. It was a learning process, [although I will be honest, it did not prepare me for the real thing. Real babies are so wet and so loud. Who knew?]

I think it is possible to do too much for your children - to give them too much, to allow them too little room to expand their own minds. Our children are so regimented, so busy, so structured, that I often wonder when they have time to think, to dream things up, to invent, to just simply Be.

I grew up on a farm in the middle of rural Minnesota. We were poor, I will admit, and my mother was a born money manager. She is capable of great things, where a little money is concerned, and she can make a little go a very, very long ways. Of course, she didn't have much choice, so that was a helpful imperative, I'm sure. I knew that I didn't have as much as some of the kids around me, but I was never deprived, and in many ways, I had a wealth that cannot be bought.

I had the luxury of time. I played every day, and our play, when I had neighbors around to play with, or my play, when I didn't, was creative and full of imagination. I had to invent most of what I did, because there weren't any interactive games to tell me what to do, and I wasn't hampered by plastic toys that could only be used for one thing. We made do with our imaginations, and thus, I didn't realize that I was doing without. I had the entire world at my fingertips at any moment, and whatever I didn't have, I dreamed up.

Among my favorite games was FBI, where I was the intrepid agent tracking down the bad guys and hauling them off to jail in my playhouse. We had a couple of old cars sitting around that we would sit in and pretend to drive, and we watched our imaginary quarry from our hidden vantage point with every bit as much attentiveness as any real agent ever has.

The most interesting part, in looking back, is that even when there were several of us, we all seemed to imagine the same elements in our games, even though none of it was real. Do children today ever have that opportunity to have a meeting of the minds, a childish detente with an imaginary foe, that always ended with the good guys [that would be us] winning the day?

When I had to clean my room, I would play retail store, to try to make the task less odious. I have never been too big on cleaning, it's not the fun part of life for me. So to make it a little more interesting, I would make up games while cleaning my room, something my mother forced upon me only rarely, but always in great exasperation when it happened. Thus, when she was pushed to the limit, I would be under pressure to make the room somewhat less of a hazardous waste zone, leading to the amusing activity of retail clerk. [A game my own daughter now plays for real, and she will be happy to share with you that it is not as much fun as you might think.]

I would pick up piles of clothes, with no clue if they were clean or dirty, of course, and would then start to sort them. I would pretend that I was working in a retail store, which at the time seemed like a dream job - sort of like getting paid to shop, right? [Erin is now snickering at me, just at the thought of it.]

I would fold and hang and sort, all the while pretending that I was working instead of being punished for my sloth-like behavior. Eventually, I would forget the point, and would start to get interested in the clothes themselves, and would try them on and start to model them and dream up other outfits that would go together in a new and stylish look, rarely, if ever, actually making headway without some intervention on the part of my increasingly annoyed parent. Sounds silly to the kids of today, I'm sure, but it was entertaining for me, and it helped me to make an unexciting task go more quickly.

I was never bored as a child. This sort of admission was sure to result in work being assigned instantly, since idle hands are the devil's playground, and my mother is way too sincere a Christian to allow the devil any loitering time in her space. I learned early never to admit that I didn't have something going on that needed tending to, because the work she assigned was never a discouragement to boredom. Much better to pick your evil, I always say.

If I had nothing else to do, and there was no imaginary game enticing me, I read a book. It seems that children barely read any more, they are always hooked into their i-Pod or their video game or their portable DVD or the computer. But there is something about a book that cannot be replaced - it is concrete and tangible, and it allows us to experience the story in a whole different way.

I have never seen the Chronicles of Narnia, nor have I seen the Tolkien rings series. I read the books, several times over, and studied them in college. I do not want to ruin the picture in my mind of each character, each location, each facet of the story, by having it sullied by someone else's vision. A good book conjures up pictures in the mind, and the story plays out for real in your own imagination. There is no real picture that can compare to my vision of Middle Earth. When I was reading, I was living it, and it is the only reality I need. You cannot get that visceral experience from Cliff's Notes, nor can you experience it from a DVD.

Sometimes I walk down the toy aisle of Target or WalMart, and I breathe deeply and smell the plastic baby dolls, the Barbie dolls, the crayons, and I am transported instantly back to childhood, when each of those things presented me with endless opportunities, vistas to conquer, whole scenarios to create in my mind. It takes only a whiff of the new plastic, or the waxy crayon box, to remind me of days gone by, and dreams left off in mid-story.

I wonder, when Santa unloads his sleigh under the tree in the houses of today, what dreams will those children remember when they are middle aged? Will a crayon still smell as sweet? Or will they be middle aged rock band gurus, still waiting for their music to play? I say, save the children - buy a coloring book, and let them dream.

Gobble, gobble

Today is Thanksgiving Day in the United States. Thanksgiving Day is a tradition that Abraham Lincoln established for his own reasons more than a century ago, reasons that have little, or perhaps nothing, to do with the reasons we continue to celebrate this feasting day today.

While one might think there would be little to argue over, after all, what could possibly be more American than a day dedicated to food and the eating of it, there have been the little controversies over the years that make the history of the day interesting. But for most people, Thanksgiving Day is a holiday thoughtlessly entered into, a day for sanctioned gluttony, of both food and football, and a day for family.

My family, both growing up and now, are not the kind of families that make Thanksgiving Day interesting. While some families have fights and arguments and there is a lot of drama, excitement is not something that my own family does all that well.

We are more the low key type, where an argument usually takes about three words, and the strongest epithet we can come up with is, "Whatever." [You would be surprised how much emotion you can pack into that one little word.] We aren't Norman Rockwell, but we aren't the Osbornes, either. The only argument that will probably be heard around here today is which movie we will watch this evening while we consume tasty leftovers, and even that will be half hearted.

Thanksgiving is a time to enjoy seeing my college aged son for the first time since he left in August, and inevitably, his oldest friends, as well. Although I must say, I simply cannot, for the life of me, comprehend why his homecoming has to be accompanied by the creation of hundreds of egg rolls in my kitchen the night before Thanksgiving, half of which are still occupying space in my fridge where the leftovers should be going later today. I mean, really? Whatever. [See how well that works?]

Of course, I should probably be happy that he is at home, spending time with us, since a lot of college students come home and aren't really seen again until they are asking for gas money to return to school. You have to wonder where they are getting their food and shower, but I digress.

Thanksgiving Day is also the day of the big Christmas push. I am not talking about the push in the stores to make sure all Christmas decorations are up, and the shilling of Santa is off and running. Frankly, if there really were a Santa, I think he would be appalled at what he has become - the spokesperson for every product under the sun for a month of the year, all in the name of making a buck. Wasn't the whole point that Santa brought you something unexpected as a gift? No cost?

I also experience that push in my own home, as my lovely daughter gears up for the holiday gifting season by getting her list of desired items in order. Indeed, this year she has created a beautiful Excel spread sheet, complete with clickable links, so I can see and experience her list live and in color. She is always a thoughtful girl, so she has even included pricing and location, just to make it really easy for me.

Her main item of desire this year is yet another pet, this time a bunny rabbit, which she believes she needs to keep as a companion in her room, which is apparently lonely with only a Betta fish named Taffy to keep her company. Somehow, I do not see a bunny and a Jack Russell Terrier in the same household ending well, but I suppose it's barely possible it could work.

It seems my daughter has, in fact, inherited a few traits from me, first and foremost, a love of animals that surpasses the reasonable, which causes her to want every animal in her own personal zoo. You'll have to stay tuned for the final decision on that one, since she isn't going to live at home forever, and that bunny has a rather long life span. Somehow, I do not see this ending well for me, either.

We have Thanksgiving traditions at our house, just like everyone else. Among other things, I enjoy decorating for Christmas on Thanksgiving Day, swinging into the holiday spirit, so to speak. We put up the pretty decorations, and transform the house from the ordinary into something much more than itself, and suddenly, you start to feel the magic that is the Christmas season.

I have recently read a couple of articles on the fast forwarding of Christmas, and whether this might not be a bad idea, overall. I noticed even Nordstrom's, that ultimate in trendy spending, has put its well shod shoe down on the Christmas push. I learned they have refused to decorate their stores or start celebrating Christmas before Thanksgiving has been appropriately recognized, apparently a consumerism bastion of sanity in the midst of mall world. Who knew? I laud that impulse, though, and if I could afford to do so, I would spend all my clothing dollars in their store, just to reward them for their sanity stance.

I would have to postulate that we are not better off for having a longer Christmas season. One of the things that makes Christmas so special is the very limited time offer that it is. It is the ultimate in short term thinking, the holiday that rushes past before we can even catch our breath. We barely have time to get used to the decorations and the colors and the fantasy that is being weaved before we suddenly, out of nowhere it seems, find ourselves walking into church to sing the age old carols that welcome the real Christ into our celebration.

Thanksgiving Day is too often overlooked, shoved aside by a retail world which seems to sell the idea that if there isn't buying and giving involved, it's not a real holiday. I think, on the contrary, that Thanksgiving Day, much like the Fourth of July, is a real festival day, the old fashioned kind that celebrates family and our good fortune to have been born in this wonderful country.

Whether you are financially wealthy or indigent, if you were born in the United States of America, or if you live here honestly and with the sanction of the government, anything is possible for you. I have seen people move from homeless shelter to home ownership in just a few years. You can come from nothing and become President. You can start a small business, although the IRS will surely be looking right over your shoulder on that one, and can go from no one to someone. I don't believe it was an accident that Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were Americans, because I think that creative, pioneering spirit that led our ancestors to these shores, and kept them pushing into the unknown, is somehow instilled into every citizen.

We are a country with so much wealth, we are able to argue about whether, and how much of it, should be redistributed to those who are less fortunate. We are a country with so much goodness, we try to feed the world and solve its problems, even when there are no answers. We have marvelous resources, both natural and human, and we consistently put them to use to make our world a better place, even if we disagree on what that means in detail.

Although there is certainly poverty in this country, we are also a people of great compassion, and donate in amounts that are simply breathtaking. When I do my voluneteering for Community LINC, rehabbing an apartment for a homeless family trying to escape their circumstances, I am always overwhelmed by the generosity of people who want to give. The last time we did that work, we received so much bounty that we have shelves of goods left over, which we are saving for another family, because it was too generous, and we need to spread the wealth around.

Even the homeless will have a feast today, I hope, because in this country of ridiculous bounty, no one should be without on this day of food and family. I am thankful, and grateful, to be living in a country where the poor are looked upon with compassion, and we do to the least of them what we would wish for ourselves.

There are many times that I find myself complaining about the misfortunes in my own life. But today, Thanksgiving Day, I find my mind wandering across the globe to a place where there would be gratitude for the ability to simply put enough food on the table, and there would be no need to choose which child will eat today. I can go to the bank, and as long as I have put money in, I can take it out, while in other places, they have to stand in line each day to receive pennies back for the dollars deposited.

There is a place in this world where inflation is so extreme, it is measured in the millions of percent, while we complain about single digit inflation that makes the luxuries a little more costly for us. We complain about the price of gas, while people in other parts of the world do not even have bicycles.

Today, on Thanksgiving Day 2008, I look in the paper and realize how very, very blessed I have been. I reflect on the reality that I could have been born across the world, on the continent that is rightly called The Dark Continent, not because of skin color, but because of the lack of development and the lack of law and order and the lack of basic needs being met.

While they have a wealth of natural resources that should have made the continent a world leader, instead it is a world shame - a constant reminder that anarchy is the road to ruin, and that self-interest will destroy all opportunity. I am thankful today that I have been given the birth right of being a United States citizen, a passport into a club so exclusive that people the world over die for the opportunity to join.

On a more personal scale, I am also thankful for the things that everyone in this country will also give thanks for today - my wonderful family, the roof over my head, my lovely warm bed to sleep in every night. I have a decent opportunity to make a living doing an honest day's work, [if I can ever figure out what I want to be when I grow up, anyway,] I have food on the table, and clothes on our backs, and a future to look forward to in which good things may happen. In the end, if you have those things, you have everything you need. And for that, I am thankful.

Most important of all, I'm thankful I wasn't born a turkey (although I have been called that a time or two, I must admit.) I am thankful I will be the one eating, and not the one being eaten today.

Happy Thanksgiving Day to you and yours, from me and mine!

Seasons....

There is a lovely passage in Ecclesiastes that talks about the changes time induces in the pageant of a human life.

To every thing there is a season,
And a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Simon and Garfunkel aside, there is a lot of truth in those words, a truth that I see more clearly as time passes, and I approach that season of life known as middle age. [Yes, I am approaching mid-life, I am most emphatically not already there. I refuse to admit that at 48, I am already on the downhill slope. All right, I will acknowledge that I may be teetering awkwardly on the precipice, but I will not go down without a fight.]

If the 20's are a time to accumulate, the 40's seem to be a time to disperse. Over the last few years, I have begun economizing on everything. I have cut back on snacks. I don't really buy bottled water any more. I try to purchase only what we absolutely need. Lack of financial where-with-all has certainly been an imperative to that tighter spending, of course, but I think I was heading there, anyway, because it has come pretty easily to me.

I realized, like a light bulb going on in my head a few years ago, that there is a limit to the amount of "stuff" a person needs in a lifetime. I think I may be reaching the saturation point in my own life, because where it used to be fun to acquire, right now, more stuff is starting to sound like more work. The more you have, the more you have to put away, or find a space for, or do something with. I'm too tired, too packed, too overwhelmed, to find space for more stuff that I don't really need.

It used to be kind of fun to receive an invitation to a home party where something will be sold. There was entertainment value in the challenge of finding something for myself that I could justify on the basis of need. These days, I view those party invitations with skepticism and dismay. I have enough tupperware to throw three parties. I have pampered my inner chef until it's well done. I have bejeweled myself and my daughter like royalty. The candles flaming around my home are the remnants of a poorly made decision more years ago than I care to admit. [I will just say that when you pay that much for a candle, you want to get your money's worth out of it, so you don't want to just burn it up. Ah, the irony of it all.]

I am just no longer in acquiring mode, it seems. I have reached belonging saturation, and there is simply no more need, to say nothing of room in my house, for additional stuff. In fact, I have aggressively gone through my possessions recently to winnow out the unneeded items, ruthlessly whittling down the wants from the needs and passing them to a charitable organization that may have more use for them.

I hasten to say that this does not mean that I no longer have anything that is important to me, that everything is on the block and up for grabs. I have some precious items that are priceless to me, and couldn't be replaced for any amount of money, even if they don't look all that valuable to someone else's eyes. And there are certainly things I would like to have that are not currently under my ownership, too.

But for the most part, the things I want now are not the flashy little things that you want in your 20's, the things that you work so hard to acquire so that you can show the world how successful you are. When you are 20, it's all about quantity, it seems, whether you are talking about friends or possessions. It's a race to see who can get the most, and the winner is the one with the most of everything.

My true wish list consists of boring fare these days. At 40, I am not looking for flashy clothes or the latest hairstyle. Instead, I desperately need new carpeting for my living room and I would love to install hardwood floors in my dining room. Of course, there is obviously no point, with a cat and two dogs who feel free to vomit on any piece of carpeting not covered by a piece of furniture. In fact, they seem to prefer the areas that are right out in the middle of the floor, if you want to know the truth.

I would love to replace the doors and windows in my house, because the ones I have leak air like a sieve, and rot out more often than I can keep up with them. I would replace them with vinyl exterior windows, so that I would never again have to deal with a rotted sill or a rotted frame, thus saving me hours of grief and a lot of money in the long run.

I would like to replace my roof, which is 13 years old and probably not going to last forever, or even much longer. I would like to have the house repainted, because I hate the color, and want to make a change. I would like to buy a new fridge, one that is more functional, and which would actually hold enough food for the three of us.

Those are not the exciting things we put on our wish list to Santa. The season of childhood is magical, and Santa is the biggest purveyor of the glittering fairy dust thrown into the eyes of children. When I was growing up, I didn't really believe in Santa, because that was not the way my parents presented him to me. I have no regrets about that, I raised my own children the same way. There is a reason for that particular season, and it is not to have an overweight stranger bringing presents through the chimney. I probably don't really get, at a gut level, what Santa means to children, because he never meant that to me. But Christmas is still magical to me, even with too much to do, and the magic mostly shoved onto the back burner along with everything else.

When I make out my Christmas list, those things won't be on it. They are my heart of heart wishes, the things I wish I had the money to buy, the things that I would spend my lottery win on, if I participated. But it's not the season of my life to make those changes, it seems, so instead, I will focus on the smaller objectives, and ask the Santa's in my life for things that are reasonable and attainable, and hopefully frivolous and fun as well.

My daughter asked me the other day what I wanted for Christmas, and before I could respond, she said, "Don't say nothing, because you know we are all going to get you something, so it might as well be something you want." How to explain to a 16 year old that I already have everything I want? Anything more is almost too much, so bountiful has God been to me in the seasons I have experienced so far.

But this changing of the seasons goes deeper than just the material belongings we can see and touch, the tangibles that we treasure and insure and lose sleep over. There are seasons in our relationships as well, and as we pass through the various stages in our life journey, we pick up and drop off a wide variety of people for different reasons at different times.

In talking with several close friends recently, I have realized that I am not the only one who is aware of this change. Many of them agreed that this seems to be the time of life in which we look at the relationships in our lives, and make decisions about their importance to us, and for the first time, we let some go because we are just not in the same place in our lives any more.

That is not a statement about the people themselves. They are, for the most part, wonderful people, who were once very close to our hearts, but who, for a variety of reasons, are now in a different place in our circle, and we in theirs. Sometimes you move, and realize the affinity was one of proximity more than actual affection, so you allow that relationship to fade as naturally as the sun will set in the Western sky. Sometimes you have a sharp disagreement about something so dear to your heart that you simply cannot overlook the breach. Sometimes there is an overstepping of boundaries so profound that it cannot be overcome. And sometimes, the relationship is simply no longer reflective of who you are or what is important to you, and it fades like the pictures in an old album - cherished, valued, important, but real in memory only.

I have learned that the 40's are a busy time of life. For most women that age, their children are in high school and college, so they find themselves in the work force and trying to catch up with the time, and co-workers, that have rushed past them. They do the difficult double duty of being full time mothers while still being productive full time workers who climb the ladder of employment success. You have endless rounds of activities, which require enormous amounts of time and effort, squeezed in when you aren't busy doing everything you normally do for everyone else. Your sense of yourself gets lost, at least temporarily, because you are simply too busy living everyone else's lives at that moment.

During the hustle and bustle, it seems that it is all too easy to lose track of old friends, and even near ones, sometimes. You don't usually mean for it to happen, but one day, you realize, when you make out your Christmas card list or you look through a photo album, that you haven't seen someone in a very long time, maybe years, and you aren't even sure where they are in their lives any more.

A week or so ago, my Bible study group discussed this very issue, in the context of the Bible study for this month. It is a sensation that was familiar to every woman in the room, each of us, I think, recalling a relationship from the past that had faded away for one reason or another.

We are, our intrepid little group, a mixed bunch. At 48, I am the youngest, and am fortunate enough to learn what is in store for me first hand from the varied wisdom of everyone else. We are in the various seasons of life, like everyone, with some being grandmothers with grandchildren not much younger than the youngest child we have amongst us. Yet we have more commonalities than differences, and although we have a wide array of personalities, no two of us are anything alike, we do benefit from and vicariously enjoy life through each other's eyes. And we have the opportunity to learn from each other, as well.

And so it was, when we talked about the seasons of friendship, that one of those women told a tale from her own life that reminded us all of the one thing about the seasons that is most important. She told how she and her husband had best friends, with whom they did many things and spent a lot of time.

The friends moved to another city, and they slowly drifted apart, until one day, she spotted her friend in town on a visit, and the friend hadn't even called to tell her they were there. How hurtful, how evident, that the friendship had lost it's way, and the demise had already occurred unannounced.

But there was a happy ending after all, because the couple moved back to town, they slowly reconnected, and found that they did, indeed, have as much in common as they always had, and they are, once again, the closest of friends. The storyteller made it clear that the loss went both ways, and that the reunion did as well, but the real lesson is that in the hustle and bustle of life, sometimes we do drop a ball or two, and it can roll away.

But as long as you know where the wall is, as long as the ball eventually stops rolling, you don't have to chase it to find it again. Sometimes, you just have to wait for it to stop rolling, and then you can walk over and pick it up.

If there is someone you have lost - a friendship gone wrong, a relationship that has taken a wrong turn - remember that in the course of life, the seasons change. You never know, one day you may find yourselves in each other's paths once again, exploring the new season together.

Living democracy

Over the last few days, I have had a rare and unique opportunity to see democracy in its purest form at work. I have watched an ill considered, and ultimately ill fated, decision get redrawn in the face of an unprecedented outpouring of support for the side of justice and righteousness. I believe the cause is won, for today, at least, and the people have prevailed. But it was too close, and a heart-rending sign of the dog-eat-dog times in which we live.

The action was set in a little burg by the name of Manhattan, Kansas, a lovely rural city in central Kansas which is the home of Kansas State University, my son's alma mater. Or it will be, if he can ever bring himself to graduate. Personally, I stopped holding my breath on that one when I realized I was beginning to look like Violet Beauregarde. (Roald Dahl. Library time. Seriously. Lay the computer down and step away from the keyboard. Wikipedia does NOT know all.)

Everyone believes their university or college is the best. It's human of us to believe that the college selection which we made so thoughtlessly at 17 or 18 was the best, nay, the only, decision we could possibly have made. But in the case of KSU, I will share with you that I am proud to be a KSU parent, and I feel that the money I have shoveled in that direction for the past five years is money very well spent.

But over the last few days, I have been disheartened, disturbed, disconcerted, disbelieving, and finally, relieved, by the threatened loss of funding to the KSU marching band, and by extension, the entire music, program. The band, with currently the lowest funded budget in the Big XII, has historically been paid for with funds by the student activities fees. These fees are generated at tuition time, and are set aside to fund the various activities around campus which are for the benefit of the students at the university. Whether or not this is the right way to fund the university marching band is a point for another discussion. They have been funded this way for many years, and that is how KSU had handled it, so that is what the band was forced to work with.

And, in my opinion, there is plenty of justification for the idea that the students should help to pay for the marching band's funding. They are the face of KSU in our area, and frequently are the featured activity in recruitment videos and brochures and on the school calendar and other promotional items. In addition, not only do they pump up the crowds at the football and basketball home games, providing school spirit and sometimes the largest part of the fan base as well, they also draw the national camera on KSU by their antics and performance when the action on the field or the court is temporarily halted.

Finally, and in my opinion, most importantly, the KSU music department hosts a variety of marching festivals, band and strings clinics, orchestras and wind ensembles from around the state of Kansas every year. These events are not only valuable to the students who come and learn from our advanced college performers, but are an enormous recruitment boon to the university itself.

Tens of thousands of students have selected KSU over the years because they attended a music event in high school or even middle school, and found the environs of the small town university to be irresistible. No other department on campus makes this kind of large scale opportunity available to middle and high school students around the state, and the importance of these events to the KSU community simply cannot be quantified.

Last Tuesday night, the student run senate committee in charge of the allocation of student fees, paid by every student who attends KSU, including the students in the KSUMB and the music department as a whole, and which amount to millions of dollars of funding per year, made the decision, 15-0, to eliminate band funding from their budget over the next two years. (They keep referring to it as three years, but the reality is they were making a small cut for next year, cutting it in half for the year after, and then, nothing. To me, that's two years, and far too short of a time to come up with reasonable alternatives to save the program.)

Adam called me, naturally very distressed about the situation. While we were on the phone over the succeeding hours, we watched a grass-roots democratic movement be born.

It was a fascinating, frustrating, and ultimately gratifying effort on the part of the passionate band students, who not only lost their funding, but lost it in a slap in the face way which dismissed their value to the university itself. They were told they weren't important enough to merit the funding, that the band should throw a fundraiser to get it's money and support itself, that KSU students don't benefit from the KSU Marching Band, and that they were on their own.

Major university marching bands cannot hold a bake sale to fund their programs. They have some limited fundraisers, of course, but like other students, they cannot devote their time to fundraising full time. They are students, in one of the most costly and time consuming programs on campus, and by and large, like most of the students at KSU, come from lower middle class income families who cannot afford to support the band on their own. In addition, they must keep up with their academic rigors elsewhere, as well, to maintain their GPA and keep their outside scholarships and majors on track. Most of them work, in addition to their school and band commitments, leaving time a precious, and slim, commodity.

The marching band is the face and the spirit of every university on game day when the players are not on the field or the court, providing entertainment and enthusiasm to keep the crowd and the team spirits high. Which, especially lately, is a rather large job at KSU, I would add.

One of the more amusing anecdotes I have heard during this conflagration has been about the previous, and much loved KSU, football coach, Bill Snyder. Upon his arrival in Manhattan, he evidently felt the band was too noisy, perhaps a distraction to the crowd. He insisted they be moved from the center of the student section to the end zone, to get them out of the way.

At the next game, he realized that the crowd was not in the game, there was little cheering or enthusiasm being displayed, and the band, although they gamely played on, were not able to inspire and incite the expected school spirit for which they are so well known. I imagine it is obvious where they have been proudly located since that day.

It was a strong indication of just how important that marching band is to the overall event. He realized immediately that you don't mess with success, and restored them to their rightful place in the crowd. Where, I might add, you will find them each and every game, regardless of whether the team does well or poorly, and no matter if the student section is full or empty.

There are many unrecognized expenses associated with their role. The uniforms are expensive and in constant need of repair. They are there before the football team finishes their steak dinner and even gets to the stadium, and they are still there when everyone else has gone home to party and celebrate or commiserate. There are instruments that must be purchased, which give the marching band their full range, but which also enable students throughout the music department to experience instrumentation to which they would otherwise never have exposure, and which are as vital to their education as a Bunsen burner is to the chemist.

The music program at KSU has drawn in thousands of future teachers over the years, and they must be exposed to a full variety of instrumentation in order to go out and teach kids not only in Kansas, but throughout the country. The KSU music education program is one of the fastest growing programs in the U.S., and is rapidly gaining a reputation for national excellence, something of which the student run senate was apparently either unaware, or about which they simply did not care.

The KSUMB travels to one away game every two years, the game at the University of Kansas, their in-state rival, for which they pay their own way. When they travel else wise, for example, the symphony band tours they take each year, they pay their own way, either through fundraising or in cash straight out of their family's pockets. They are representing the university every bit as much as the football or basketball teams as they travel around the world, but they must do it on their own and their family's dime, not for the money, or even the glory, but to bring the arts to people around the world who otherwise would never have the opportunity to see a symphony or marching band in person and have that experience.

The band festivals and clinics and other events held throughout the year aren't free, either. The cost to bring high school students into the university is high, but the exposure for KSU is invaluable, and the resulting student tuition which is being paid out by students who make their college decision at those events cannot be bought for any price.

In response to this shocking public de-funding of their program, the marching band students, all 380 of them, were immediately galvanized into action. They began a facebook group, and it is now, on Saturday morning, over 8600 members and still growing. They have exhorted their family and friends and other students and alumni to help save the band, and they have contacted everyone and anyone who they believe will help their cause. There is an online petition they are hoping will ultimately reach 15,000 signatures, and they are also attending student senate meetings and the committee hearings to present their case, and their cause.

The result, within a tumultuous 48 hours, was that the KSU administration, athletic director, band director, head of the music department, and the head of alumni relations, not to mention the Dean of Students who is, at this moment, at the height of his recruiting season, (and you thought YOU had a bad week,) called a meeting with the student senate leaders to hammer out a new funding agreement that will take the band into the future, hopefully with more secure funding that will not be at the mercy of a student group that doesn't understand the value of their marching band to the university at large.

The administration was cyber assaulted with thousands of calls and e-mails from unhappy alumni, parents, and potential students, as well as their current students, which made the matter one of essential urgency. The alumni, in particular, made clear it was too important to take the chance on a student run group that doesn't have it's eye on the main ball. The marching band, and the music program at large, which has been the least funded band in the Big XII, (the nearest funded band has more than twice the amount of funding per year, in fact, and does less with it in terms of educational outreach,) will now be funded by a combination of sources which will ensure that this will never again be an issue to distract from the KSU image in the public eye.

I was fascinated to watch the facebook group develop and take shape, to read the hundreds and hundreds of comments from students, parents, and alums alike, and to see how the marching band used this technology to make their case, and to win the day. It was a true sign of how very, very different the world is now from when I was building Heath-kit computers back in my college days.

Back then, the cost of long distance, and the cost of postage to spread the word, would have been almost more than an already underfunded student organization could have overcome. But today, with the internet, unlimited long distance, facebook, and, I think, the love of students for the university they once attended, (and the support of the alums was absolutely invaluable, I believe, perhaps even the crucial element, in fact,) getting 8500 people in a group is, while still quite an achievement, a much less complicated process than it would have been 25 years ago.

I was most gratified, I think, by the number of student athletes who recognized the value of the band support at their events, and who have stepped up to say that the band must march on. It is rare that the athletes are given the opportunity to come to the aid of the students who are integral, yet often seen as peripheral, to their contests of skill and strength.

But there is a larger, and I believe, even more fundamental point at issue here, which is something that I sincerely hope will not be overlooked amidst the celebrations and the planning and the jubilation over the saving of the KSUMB. I think no one should miss the point that when funding cuts are made, it is always, every time, the arts which suffer first.

Kansas State University is a liberal arts university, yet the first cut that was made was to the arts. How can this be? How can we, as a nation, show so little respect for the life pursuits that produced a da Vinci, a Beethoven, a Mozart, or a Nureyev, and still consider ourselves people of culture and discernment? Educated? Civilized?

But that is exactly what happens, time and time again. When the cut was made, they did not cut their funding to the athletic department, which they give over $400,000 a year for a cost buy down of season tickets for the students, to ensure that the athletic events are well attended. In fact, the athletic department receives, in one way or another, over $1.5 million a year in student fees, the single largest expenditure in the budget, higher even than the student union. There was no suggestion of cuts to them, despite the fact that far less than half of the students purchase season tickets, and less than that ever set foot in the re center, for which student fees are paying for renovations currently under way.

Student Publications, at that same meeting, asked for an additional 7% in funding for the coming year, and didn't get turned down cold, despite the calls of the legislature to cut all spending by 7% this upcoming year. While I am personally beholden to SP for providing my opinionated son an opportunity to vent about whatever is annoying him on a weekly basis in a column that is published in the KSU daily paper, The Collegian, I am reasonably sure that every student on campus is probably not benefiting personally from the experience of having that paper available to them. (And let me say again, I AM grateful that he is given an outlet for his cynicism besides a phone call to me.)

The list of items which are funded by student fees is vast, amounting to millions of dollars a year. This is not to imply, in any way, that the funding of any group is not justified. On the contrary, all are worthy of our support. The entire point of a liberal arts education is to be exposed, whether or not you choose to partake, in the widest possible variety of experiences, to broaden and expand your perspective, to enable you to see more than one side of an issue, to ensure that you are a well rounded human being when you emerge at the end of your four, or five, or six years of university life.

But unfortunately, the reality is, when funding cuts come, the first item on the chopping block in most educational environments, be it elementary, secondary, or post-secondary, will be the music program, one of the premiere arts in that very same liberal arts education we hold up as the ultimate in academic experience. I think we, as a society, have not only underfunded, but undervalued, the contribution of the arts to our lives. We have dismissed them as ephemeral, inconsequential, trivialities, when in fact, the exact opposite is the case.

It is well documented that the various arts provide far more than a simple diversion in our busy lives. To give one example, there is a very strong correlation between music and post-secondary graduation rates. Across the board, the highest graduation rate for any group on campus is typically the marching band, which boasts almost a 100% rate of graduation within five years for its student members. Those students hail from every college and department in the university; not even half of them are actually music majors.

Music students have some of the highest achieving majors on campus, including physics, pre-med, chemistry, math, and engineering, affecting and leading students in every single department. Their experiences in marching band help prepare them to be leaders of companies, creative entrepreneurs, inventors of new technology, and solid citizens. When you read the list of super achievers in the history of our nation, many of them were once members of their alma mater's marching band, and it is not by accident. The lessons you learn in group participation and leadership and solidarity are life lessons as well, and serve them effectively in their future pursuits.

In addition, by grade point average, you will find the music students in any school at any level to be the top students in the school. The orchestra, the symphony band, the marching band, and other musical ensembles are smart and successful. This is not a coincidence, I believe, since studies have clearly shown that kids who participate in music have higher IQ's and are more successful overall than the general student population. I do not know whether music makes kids smarter, or whether smart kids are drawn to music and the arts, but the correlation is irrefutable, and the link is direct.

I believe that the same would be true for other artistic pursuits, as the dedication and talents that lead to being a dancer or an actor or a writer are not limited to the learning environment, but a life lesson in success. The arts are not just about eye or ear candy - they teach strategies for life accomplishment. We all want our children to be successful, we tell them money doesn't buy happiness, but then we also remind them it doesn't hurt. But money does not buy life satisfaction, and the beauty given to our world by those who pursue the arts cannot be replaced with nickels and dimes.

We, as a society, have failed ourselves and our future generations when we shirk our responsibility to fund the arts. Even in dire times, when money is tight and budgets need crunching, the arts must remain a vital part of our educational system. The world is a far more beautiful place because of the creative artists among us. Let us not fail our future citizens by depriving them of the best that our generations have to offer.

Fund the arts, and let the band play on.