HI!!
Not that the world has waited with baited breath or anything, but I am back to blogging thoughts. I would love to say I have been so involved with terrifically important things that I just haven’t had the time, but other than winning 138 consecutive Spider Solitaire games – not so much.
I haven’t been sitting around fiddling, though I have done a lot of strumming. Summer creates it’s own rhythm and by the time the day was done, I was done. Fall was nearly as Garden busy as the Spring and then Christmas was on us. The need for volunteer help seemed greater this year than any year I remember.
I have been doing an inordinate amount of reading, even for me. Part of that has been the book club at church, part of it Franciscan study, a lot of it mindless escape.
A fun part has been rebuilding our hall way and building a few furniture pieces. General play filled many hours. That’s all good. So has the time spent reconnecting or continue connecting with people, something I often neglected in my previous life.
Father Richard Rohr speaks about spending the first part of our lives building the container, the rest finding the contents. ( I am definitely into my content period.) I have spent a lot of time thinking about how this, much of what Sister Bridget teaches and the Gospels, especially Mathew, all fit together. Our superintendent often talked about the nature of knowledge passing through three phases. At first, on the superficial level, a subject seems easy, then, upon deeper exploration the complexities revel themselves and finally, when mastery is near, it once again seems simple. Right now I am deep into how complex and interwoven all this is. Someday I may be able to coherently explain some of it.
Probably the real reason I have been “gone” for so long is old fashioned writer’s block. For no reason that I understand I would sit in front of blank paper and, remarkably, after several hours it would still be blank. Good thing I am not trying to make a living at this! Even the letters I write to my grandchildren for their journals have been challenging and I suspect the part they will skip over. When I read the writing I have done it is pedestrian and honestly, the creative switch never gets switched. Perhaps it is like faith, brief spurts, long dark dry spells. Or maybe I really cannot write. Oh Well! Stay tuned.

We were there!

Now under normal circumstances, if there are more than ten cars in the Mall parking lot, I drive by on the assumption the place is overcrowded. So when my darling life mate suggested driving five hours to deliberately be crowd fodder, I had some reservations. But, we have reached that wonderful place where we will do about anything to make the other one happy, and since the weather was going to be nice, why not??
So, Friday morning we threw a remarkably small suitcase in the back of the car, loaded up with bananas and nuts, and headed for Rockville, Maryland. Rockville won the destination award because the hotel is 100 yards from the Twinbrook Metro Station, with direct service to downtown Washington DC.
Saturday morning dawned with all my desires met. It was bright and sunny and breakfast was all you could eat. We headed for the Metro confident that we were ready to execute our plan, which was to visit a couple of museums, stick our heads out about a quarter to 12 and watch the rally from someplace outside the crowd and then walk up to our favorite Irish Pub, Fado’s, on 7th street.
Mental alarms started going off when the train pulled in to Twinbrook Station. It was full. By the time we went through 11 more stops, full took on a whole new meaning. But the day was still bright, the plan still intact. We started walking the ½ mile or so from Metro Center to the Mall. By Constitution Ave., it was clear “crowded” wasn’t going to define this event.
Time to reassess the plan. OK, we would stake out a place and see what happens.
We found a very inviting recliner tree, well away from the crowd. It was comfortable and the crowd was entertaining. Maybe we would catch the museum afterwards.
By 12, we were standing in the exact same place but we had been eaten by the crowd. As to how many, my somewhat informal calculations arrived at 211, 812 give or take 3. One of my tree companions was probably more accurate when he leaned over and said, “There are a hell of a lot of people here!”
The rally itself was a lot of good natured fun, with some underlying value. For me, the best part was the video clip of all the stupid things being said around the country about other people. Rush and Beck did not surprise me with their inanities, but there were just as many Democratic idiotic statements. To be honest, that made me a little ashamed.
The rally ended with a serious speech by John Stewart that would be worth anyone’s time to listen to. I am sure more computer literate people than me, can find it easily.
Rally over, time to head up to the Pub and celebrate, only no one was going anywhere. Mob scene. Yet no one that I saw was anything but polite and considerate – sort of. Police had closed 7th street up a couple of blocks. This allowed pedestrians to fill both sidewalks and the center of the street as well. Kay and I worked our way to the sidewalk because clearly, auto traffic would soon fill the roadway. Only that didn’t bother most people, they just walked around and between the moving vehicles.
Upon arriving at Fado’s, it was obvious dining plans were in jeopardy. Every place was filled. After a short wait we got into Fado’s, found a stand up ledge and ordered Guinness, wine and sandwiches. Several hours after the rally, we reached Metro Center only to find the crowd waiting for the red line towards Shady Groove was gigantic. We waited in a largely civil, patient crowd until allowed on the platform, and then with a push and a tug, we were on board. Finally, I had a grasp of what a full metro train in Washington actually is. Nothing I am in a hurry to experience again.
In the end we made it home to Rockville, then on Sunday, home to Binghamton in time to greet over a hundred incredibly cute kids on a candy quest. The cutest was a little Lady Bug that showed up right at the end.
Great time, great experience, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had a sudden outbreak of civility??

Summer 2010

Is it ridiculous to do an end of summer review on October 22? Probably, but for this summer it seems perfectly normal. I have always felt that each summer of our lives defines itself with its own special memory. It was the summer we played softball every night, or the summer we went to Yellowstone, or the summer Freddy fell down the well and we had to fish him out.
This summer is unequivocally and unarguably the summer of Zoey. It started with her, ended with her, and probably a day did not pass without her in our thoughts. This was her first summer and her existence is all that mattered. Subsequent summers will be the summer Zoey ------- whatevered, but this summer was the summer of Zoey.
As to the rest of the summer was it pass or fail?? Really hard to judge.
I make a list every Spring that includes must do’s, should do’s and nice to do’s. By Labor day, I usually have completed everything on the list and can relax until the Fall/Winter list is completed. This year’s list had four big must do’s. Finish the Hall entrance upstairs and down, reorganize the garage, rebuild the back porch steps and paint the front porch. Since we have only one car in a two car garage, it seemed silly not to redo the second stall for better storage. Also, if Sweet Z was spending time here, let’s move the horrible smelling stains and finishes outdoors. Completed this is June and it has been a great help.
As to the hall. Here is the wonderful fun. If you look around your house at your furniture, you will realize that almost everything is a box. Sure it is dressed up to look pretty and it has cute little attributes, but basically it is a box. It is even called case work. (fancy name for a ---box) Almost everything I have built in the last few years has been a box. The hall was not a box. It was all new and fresh and fun. It also took forever. There were a zillion small little cuts that were all interdependent and ( given our home) odd. But, as of October 22, it is done and I must say it looks, very nice. Except for the parts not done yet, but we are not going to mention any of them.
Everything else on my to do list, will head next years to do list. And here is the funny thing. As hard as it is to believe, I did not put a check mark next to every single thing on my list, and the sun still came up, the squirrels are still storing nuts and the cat has not cared in the least. Imagine, it really didn’t matter.

Some moments are larger than words. If we lead a blessed life we may experience a handful of these moments in our entire lifetime. The birth of our children, the day we realize we married our best friend, the day God touches your life.
I had two such moments in the space of four days.
On Saturday, 25 people gathered in God’s greatest Cathedral to Bless a child. For just a few moments, all stood in the presence of the Creator and for once, the joining of hands really felt like the joining of spirits. While not “traditional” in most senses, I could not help but think of two things – “whenever two or more of you are gathered in my name.” and St. Francis’s Canticle of the Sun. Somewhere in that circle of joined hands, perhaps between Nick and Kate, God inserted himself and blessed not only the Sweet Z of his creation, but everyone in that “joining” And in his presence, all were validated, all were valued.
The second moment was much simpler, much more personal. Tuesday morning, Kate arrived with a sleeping Z in her carrier. The two Ks disappeared into the kitchen to arrange something, and I was left in the hall with sleeping Sunshine. Only it was easy to predict that when she woke up in a strange place without the comfort of mommy, Sunshine, might quickly turn to Rainstorm. I was plotting all sorts of reassuring noises, when one eye, then the other fluttered open. There was a moment of’” Where the heck am I???” and then she saw me --- and smiled. A truly happy to see you, I missed you smile. Within that moment was the truly sacred that is so often talked about and rarely recognized. There are simply no words for the healing, the valuing, the “you are worth something” contained in that simple act.
“OK kid – you get the pony, the car, the live in doll house, the Safari to Africa, the Harvard Education.”

End Times ???

The end of time is supposedly marked by the great expansion of knowledge, earthly disasters and the arrival of false prophets. In addition, a world religion must arise.
Well, when the pony express was quickly replaced by the telegraph and that fell to the transcontinental railroad, pulpits were filled with preachers certain the end was, “just around the corner.” Each advance since, has yielded similar warnings.
Now comes the internet and instant information. Since nothing in the prophecies mentions accurate information being required, this may be it. In truth, I never took it too seriously. Sure there are enough earthly disasters to go around, and we achieved a world religion, the worship of money, long ago, but in general I wasn’t too concerned.
Then on Sunday, there was Glen Beck’s rally. At first it was just a good old political movement with a mean streak, but suddenly, God was invoked. That is always, and I emphasis with big bold black letters always, bad. ( see Oliver Cromwell, Puritans, Crusaders, Al Quida, etc.)
The instant I heard Beck plead to take back the country for God, I thought of false prophets arising. Rush, Ann Coulter, Glen Beck, Fox News – all with the power of the pulpit.
So the next question is , “How do I know they are wrong and I’m right?” “How do I know the Holy Spirit is at work here, and not there?”
Well, here is what I have learned in the last four years.
If it is the Holy Spirit at work it:
1. Includes people, welcomes people, raises people up.
2. Heals people, never diminishes or destroys them.
3. Is about peace and acceptance, never rejection, never “them against us”
4. 1, 2 and 3 are present, even when dealing with horrible behavior or things you are completely and morally opposed to. That’s why the prophet business is not for the weak hearted.
In short, if the “Prophet” does not bring together, does not heal, does not speak with great love, look out. I would respectfully add one more indicator. If someone’s bank account increases in direct proportion to how angry and scared he can keep his audience, he might not be speaking directly from God.

Weekend Fun
Probably it’s the weather. As soon as the humidity and temperatures dropped back into humane levels, I got a burst of energy and felt like doing something besides sleeping and eating. I had begun to wonder if old age had finally caught up to me.
Anyway, heat or no heat, yesterday was busy. We started by packing lunches at trinity Memorial Church, then shadowed a birthday party at the zoo. This was a delightful group of four or five year olds that were excited to see the fox, interested in the snake, curious about the bird and happy with the rabbit. If you notice a steady decline in the level of excitement, good, I was accurate. Seems no matter what is going on, four and five year olds have about 13: 45 minutes of attention in them. Beyond that, we could have had a working dragon and it wasn’t going to work.
We got back home, hung out in the air-conditioned room upstairs until 5, then headed back to the zoo for Ice Cream Safari. Great fun. A really large crowd, enough help to not be run frantic, support showing up with ice cream at the right time and just a generally well run event.
Today, after Mass we started painting the Hall.
For those unaware, we have been redoing our entry hall for , well a really long time. Several years ago, I started redoing the door trim. I built a really fancy head piece for each of the three doors and redid the upright pieces with a neat inlay of carved wood. That used up all my skill for two years. Then we designated this summer as the summer we would finally finish the hall and rebuild the outside back stairs.
We started by installing a ceiling. The old one was determined to become part of the floor at any moment. By working really carefully, we kept the old ceiling up, and secured it with the new one. Then all the trim under the stairway, including the closet door was removed and some put back. (The closet door and the side trim is waiting for wallpaper to be applied) I rebuilt the upper Newell post and wrapped it in oak. Finally, phase one required 11 oak treads, 12 risers, four side pieces to be cut and finished and ready for installation and the walls prepared for painting,.
Then the fatal, hated, although absolutely correct words ---
“ While we’re at it, we should paint the ceiling over the stairs.”
I painted this ceiling twenty years ago, and I am certain the plan was for it to last at least 60 years., because I clearly remember saying, “I am not painting that again until I am 105!!”
I do not mind painting walls, the paint can only splatter on the floor in front of me, which it will do. Ceilings open up whole new dimensions of splatter. It can go behind me, on me, over me and somehow transmute itself into blob like spectacles in the middle of the room. You scoff, but I have witnessed each and every possibility, while holding a wet paintbrush and sporting a stupid expression.
Anyway, we covered, stapled, masked everything in sight, and this morning primed the walls and painted the ceiling. We’ll be done cleaning up the splatters Tuesday.

Dentists
A few weeks ago, a filling fell out of my head. Not unusual. Simple wear and tear. Anyway, I made an appointment and Tuesday was the day. I arrived at 8:10, was stuck with Novocain at 8:12, shot the breeze with Dr. Bain until I started to slur words and had developed a serious lip leak. A few whirrs, a few twirls and I was out the door by 8:30 and eating breakfast by 9:30. No fuss, no muss, no pain.
WHAT A DIFFERENCE!!
My first experience with a dentist was in a Dr’s office who shall remain nameless. ( because I forgot his name and have not been able to resurrect it not matter how hard I try) His office was right across the street from the old Johnson City High School and I still wince when I drive by. In his defense, he was about 65 when I first went there at the age of seven or eight, so he probably started his practice around 1914. He apparently never replaced any of his equipment. He used a treadle drill, that he pumped furiously with one foot, occasionally switching to the other foot when he moved to get a better angle on the “problem” --ME! It is not the pain I remember. Whether what he did was not terribly painful, or he was really good at what he did I don’t know. I have no horrible memories of Novocain shots or gas or anything. What I remember was the smell of burning tooth. Yuck. Double yuck when you realize the smell is coming from your tooth. Once or twice he hit a spot that made blood shoot up into my line of vision. That was a highlight of my visits.
A few years later we graduated to another dentist who again I don’t remember. ( I’m sensing a pattern here) All I remember about him was sitting in his office, much improved over the first dentist’s, and hearing him tell my Dad that since I had buck teeth I was generating 18 gazillion tons of pressure on my teeth and if I did not get braces, they would all fall out by the time I was thirty. “ Do you want that to happen to him??”
My Dad inquired into the price and when he heard it he allowed as how if he paid that much for braces, I wouldn’t need them because I wouldn’t have anything to eat. End of braces. (Dad always felt guilty about that, which is another reason I don’t have fond memories of this dentist.} Anyway, I decided if they were falling out by thirty, to heck with it. Unless there was a gigantic hole, I never paid much attention to my teeth until a remarkable incident when we were living in Sydney, New York. I was chewing on a Mary Jane, alias “filling remover” and not surprisingly, it removed my filling. This one hurt, so I went to a local dentist who was pretty upset with me about not taking better care of my teeth. I explained they were all falling out pretty soon anyway because of the gazillion pounds of pressure and he quite literally hit the roof. Seems that was never the case and he explained quite clearly that if I took care of them, there was no sane reason I would not die at the age of 105 with all my teeth.
From that day forward I have never had a new cavity. Don’t really need any new ones given all the old ones I had. Periodically, a filling shoots out, or a tooth breaks, but so far it has been easily and painlessly fixable. So the next time you hear about the good old days, I vote that where Dentistry comes in, I’ll take these old days anytime.

it doesn’t always seem fair that other people are so much better at writing things than i am. but what is below is just perfect and what could i add?


LOVE
Wednesday, July 14
Kateri Tekakwitha,
Mohawk Holy Woman


Question of the Day:
Why does God love us?
God cares, for some wonderful reason, despite all of our smallness and silliness. Divine love does not depend on our doing nice or right things. Divine love is not determined by the worthiness of the object of love but by the Subject, who is always and only Love. God does not love us if we change, as we almost all think; but God loves us so that we can change.
No matter what we do, God, in great love and humility, says, “That’s what I work with. That’s all I work with!” It’s the mustard seed with which God does great things. Our life experiences, “good and bad alike,” are invited to the great wedding feast (Matthew 22:10). They are the raw material that God uses to prepare the banquet.

~Richard Rohr
June 2010

JOY and happiness
We often mistake happiness for joy and joy for happiness. They are no more related than weather and climate. Certainly there is a connection and some dependence on each other, but not to the point of interchangeability.
From birth we are taught to seek happiness. “Do what makes you happy!” “Go for it!” (it being somewhat elusive!) We pursue happiness in purchased form, in escape form, in thrill form, in unimaginable forms. And we find it. Short term.
I remember as a child wanting a radio in the worst way. I am just old enough to have experienced a time when radio was fun. We listened to story after story. Space Cadets, Johnnie Dollar, Our Miss Brooks, Fiber McGee and Molly, or The Great Gildersleeve. Who could forget lying in bed in the dark listening to Gangbusters, or Inner Sanctum or Suspense? But, we had only one radio and it was in the other room, so I never had control of what was listened to, and worst of all, when the powers that be determined it went off for the night, silence. I wanted my own. So one Christmas morning, I woke up and was presented with my very own radio. A clock radio no less. That radio and I enjoyed many great years together, even after it developed a nasty habit of shocking you whenever you tried to change the alarm setting. I found I would rather wake up at 6 AM on Sunday than get shocked blind Saturday night. That radio made me happy. It did not bring me joy.
Later in life I decided I wanted a telescope. I saved my money until I had the princely sum of $34.98 and I mailed a money order to Edmonds Scientific Corporation, and several weeks later my beautiful 3 inch reflecting telescope arrived. Despite the fact it no longer reflects anything, I still have it because it seems disloyal to throw it away. Plus I still want my $34. 98 worth. That telescope made me happy. It did not bring me joy.
I could go on. We bought an umbrella for the pool deck when the kids were little. I have no idea why, but I loved the bright colors. Looking at it made me happy, but guess what? It did not bring me joy.
I know we say, “You can’t buy happiness.” Poppycock. Money can buy you lots of happiness. It will be short term, it will not last and it will not be joy- but it will be happy.
Joy, on the other hand, is inside out. The feelings of Joy come from satisfaction, from peace, from love. When I look at Kay rocking Z, I am filled with pure Joy. To see someone else so happy and so devoted is special. When I rock Z, I feel the same Joy I felt when I rocked Jeremy and Nick and later Lydia. Nothing can steal that joy from me. And no money could buy it.
When I walk out on a perfect 63 degree, bright blue morning, I feel Joy. That is a gift from God and must be appreciated. I am astounded when I am passed by joggers plugged in to I Pods, and missing the moment that never comes again. And yet how many years did I walk around with a mental I Pod blocking out the special moments?
Good food brings happiness, but sharing it with good friends brings Joy. I still remember a dinner at the Treadway Inn with Nick, Kate, Jeremy, Denise and the two of us. It was one of the most joyous moments of life.
How many great meals did we share in Baltimore? And how much pure Joy has come in the Adirondacks with all of the friends from college?
In the end, I think Joy comes from being at peace with yourself. It is no secret that I spent many years convinced I was not good enough, not smart enough, not funny enough, not skilled enough. Then I learned that I was good enough. That not only was I good enough, God actually liked me, thought I was just the way I was supposed to be. With that one cosmic hug, came a great inner peace that has allowed me to see and enjoy the world around me. All the anxiety and fear and worry, has been replaced with peace and Joy.

Ice Cream
I have often imagined being in a Doctor’s office and having him say, “Sorry, you can never eat candy or cake or pie or pudding or cookies again in your life!!”
The reply would be, “OK! I’ll miss them but what are you going to do?”
If on the other hand he says, “Sorry, you can never eat ice cream again!” the reply would be far less civilized.
My first encounter with ice cream, or the first I remember, was sitting in a cigar store on Main street in Johnson City sharing an ice cream cone with a Beagle. Why we were lingering in that store I have no idea. Since the dog and I were sharing licks, I’m pretty sure my mother was not around.
After that, I can remember going to a tiny store on the upper end of Grand Avenue, only one house from the end. Paul and Marjorie something ran it. Dad knew them from down home or he worked with them in the factory or something. Anyway, we would stop on Sunday nights and get hand packed quarts to take home. I must have still been cute or something because they would always slip me a little free taste.
Then, I remember a summer that must have been especially hot. Dad was working the 3 to 11 shift and when he got home we would all pile in the car and drive to a Carvelle’s on Riverside Drive. That is still there, but I don’t think it is a Carvelle’s anymore.
One glorious year an ice cream store opened on the corner of Hudson and Grand. Goodrich’s Ice Cream. We stopped there nearly every night after baseball in Floral Park. Not long after they went out of business, and another shop opened farther down Grand Avenue, right across from Philadelphia Sales. Today it is a hair dresser, but once upon a time it was a haven for summer joy.
It seems ice cream was supplanted in my hierarchy of recreational nourishment for several years between 1964 and 1971, but then it reclaimed the top spot. By then we were living in our brand new house and ice cream was purchased at the very end of Chenango Street in an old Dairy run by a man I had worked with in the Grand Union. That store lasted for many years, right through Jeremy and Nick growing up. The construction of route 88 put an end to it.
We were in a dessert for awhile with no decent ice cream places anywhere around us. One tried to make a go of it in a little plaza just down the street from us, right across from the Police Station, but it didn’t last. But good things come to those that wait.
About 6 years ago, a retired CV teacher and his wife opened Susy Q’s in the shopping plaza where Chenango and Nolan Road meet. Without a doubt it is the best ice cream I have ever eaten. We frequent it often, deluding ourselves into thinking the mile walk to and from Susy’s will make up for the extra calories. Then, just before it shuts down for the winter, I make a final run and fill our freezer with 14 quarts. These stay pretty much untouched until Fat Tuesday, the Tuesday just before Ash Wednesday each year. Then we host an ice cream party and our friends show up and get the season of Lent started with the spirit the early church envisioned. With good timing, Lent ends just about the time the “Open for Business” sign goes up on Susy Q’s door. All is good again.

Blessed White Space
When we used to go to Disney with the kids, we would stay at the Polynesian Hotel. One of snack bars there, Captain Jack’s, had an offer that anyone who could eat their fifteen scoop, extra topping Sundae would not have to pay for it. Now of course I was living with a sane person who required I be a good example to the children in tow, but a part of me wanted to give it a try. What could be better than two scoops? Fifteen! Anyway I am sure that half way through I would have caved and been out $32.98
The point is that too much of anything is not good. We need some sort of balance in life. Now I want to stress that this is not a woe is me story in any way. I would not have missed teaching the plant classes or planting with the kids at Port Dick for a second. And I loved the time we spent at the zoo for special events and tours. Likewise our own gardens bring me an immense sense of peace. Sister Bridget’s class and the Book club have been wonderful. The time spent reading and meeting with the Franciscan group has been cherished. The social engagements that have filled our evenings were blessed events, and the Port Dick Park, the Angel of Hope, the tree planting around the village were inspirational. The time spent preparing for guitar lessons has been joyful.
And I can not thank God enough for the Zoey time! What a precious, wonderful gift to be any part of her life.
I have to confess that thrown into the mix was the decision to take advantage of a good deal, $300 worth of oak, so I would have it on hand for the summer project of rebuilding the hall staircase, only to discover that if I left it in the cellar until I had time to use it, it would turn into $1.50 in value because it would be warped beyond use. Therefore, In between other activities, I needed to do a major building project. I really enjoyed it, but it was stupid to get in that position to begin with. Now the blessed white space news!
Every Saturday morning I plan the following week. (Too many years in a classroom to let go of the habit!) This morning, I did a double take when I saw white space. Is it possible? We have all the gardens planted and mulched, well almost. Book Club is taking the summer off. We are back to a sensible, interesting, joyful stretch with lots of time to enjoy the gardens, enjoy Zoey, go to Hudson and Amsterdam and Oneonta to visit people we have not seen enough of in the last few months. We can get out to the cottage and celebrate the Fourth without needing to be anyplace else. And best of all, I can finish the hallway and start on the outside repairs, all in a slow, relaxed pace. I can get back to stretching and Pilates and exercise. I will have time for the bike riding and finally some horse time. I may get the books that have been piling up read and best of all, I may write down some of the stuff that has been flowing through my head for two months. Balance, balance, balance.
And maybe someone is offering a fifteen scoop sundae contest????

At some point in your life, you begin to know the endings. Early on, you only know the beginnings. Lives are built with certainty and absolutes. We search for defining images and reflections. We encourage and support each other in our delusions. Everything is so clear, so black or white.
“I am a teacher, a Catholic, an Irishman. I love chocolate, dogs and pizza. I don’t like succotash, cats or people that make me uncomfortable.”“ I believe --- and so on for ever.” And we are so certain we are right.
Then one day you wind up with a cat and you learn they are just as loveable as dogs. Then you meet someone who makes you terribly uncomfortable, but also makes you think and grow and you come to value them immensely.
One day being Catholic seems less important than being Christian. You learn the real history of Ireland and you see that they are just as screwed up as the rest of humanity. You retire and you are no longer a teacher, yet it is important to be something, so you recreate yourself into what you always wanted to be. If you are especially blessed, it is what you were always supposed to be.
In the arrogance of youth, you are certain you will never do “That” (Whatever that is) only to find that under the right stress you will indeed do “that”.
Immaturity allows you to hate, to reject, to throw away people who do not meet your standards. And then you see that the only one hurt was yourself. That far from “protecting” yourself, you cheated yourself out of the joy of diversity, of shared companionship.
Finally you start to attend funerals. And now you know the endings. All the contention and hurtfulness and revenge and pettiness seem just sad. What real harm would have come from forgiveness, from appreciating someone’s unique qualities? What great joy and good might have come from those acts?
And so I start each morning with a prayer asking for the Holy Spirit to work within my heart this day to remove any hate, any hurt any anger and to work to make me accepting and forgiving. It is a long, long struggle, but I am making some progress. Tomorrow I may try succotash again.

Historic Event (Effort)
OK, let’s do this together. Anyone reading this that knows me, knows I have the technological skills of a Neanderthal. It took me seven years to suck up the courage to buy a cell phone. Give me another seven years and I may turn it on. So for me to put “video” in anything other than the garbage can is reason to believe a certain geographical location known for its summery conditions has indeed frozen over. But I am going to try and add video to this blog. If Kate can do it, so can I! (Maybe)
I have had the great fortune to sit and relax in some of the most gorgeous places on the North American Continent. I have sat on the banks of the Yellowstone and watched big horn sheep dance near Lydia’s Rock. I have sat beneath the redwoods in California, sipped Guinness while watching Mt. McKinley and reclined in Adirondack darkness watching a meteoroid shower. But I can’t always spend a zillion dollars to relax. So we set out to build our own “spot”.
Our first attempt at a waterfall was a learning experience. I say that because the result looked about as real as Boscov’s basement fountains. And it did not involve a stream, or a real pond. So back to the drawing boards.
We designed together, we dug together and we cemented together, but when it came time to move the heavy stones into place, I got a recliner, a beer and watched Kay struggle with them. I expected to be called at any moment to lend a hand, but she wrestled everyone of the suckers into exactly the spot she wanted them. So the overall aesthetics are completely her doing. So far that has not diminished my ability to sit here with early morning coffee or late afternoon wine and relax. Now I could lie and say I meditate here. That does happen sometimes in the morning, but afternoons are strictly for blessed blankness. The complete cessation of thought, action or anything but this moment.
If all went well, here is the video, or maybe up there is the video or over there Look it if I get this in here I’m not worrying about where.

“To Kate Miller – Corcoran and Nick Corcoran, a girl, Zoey, born May 10”
Such a short little notice for such a miracle. It seems the English Language is limited. Lacking from the lexicon of sounds is anything capable of conveying the feeling of holding a granddaughter in your arms for the first time. Or holding any newborn of your life blood for the first time.
I have had the immeasurable joy of doing this four times. Two sons, two granddaughters. I have never been able to capture a fraction of what it felt like. So much promise, so many possibilities, so much love.
And then the great quandary. I would like to provide them with every thing under the sun, but that would not be good for them. I would like to run in front of them and remove every obstacle. But that would not be good for them. I would like to shower them with God, flowers, horses, music, books, pets, and hot fudge. But of course too much of anything will spoil them. So you hold your breath and hope you are up to the task.
Then there is the life of statistics vs your child.
When each of my kids were under the lights for jaundice, all the statistics in the world did not matter. Those were my kids locked up in that silly cubical with the ridiculous eye patches getting a way to early suntan. Wait until they are 18 on their way to Cancun for Spring Break. ( Well, maybe not so good either)
My creative style is pretty simple. I get an idea about what I want to do, and then I forget it. Sometime during a walk, or more annoyingly at two AM fresh from a sound sleep, the idea will just appear. Then it is simply a matter of capturing it on paper. So 10 days ago, I decided to write the perfect story about Sweet Z. Nothing came, because no words will describe the indescribable. How silly to try.
So, in common words, I make the same pledge I made Lydia.
I will never take a moment of our time together for granted. I will never be too busy, too distracted or too impatient to be 100% present for you. You can cry, laugh, throw up on me, invite me to invisible tea parties, play dress up, dress down, play castles or football, I will be there as much as allowed for as long as allowed.

A Dear Friend
Sometime in the near future we will betray a dear friend. No amount of nonsense about a final kindness will change the fact that we will determine that the life of a cat will come to an end.
She first entered our life on Halloween night of 2001. As I passed candy out the door, this pathetic little waif raced in, clearly using her last bit of energy to chase the scent of cooking salmon. Had she not come through that door, I doubt she would have lived the night out, she was that starved.
We adopted her, made her an indoor cat, and I don’t think she ever considered leaving again. The house rules soon became clear. I was to meet her at the food dish first thing every morning. Once I fed her I would be allowed to make coffee and collect the morning paper, but I would not be given permission to read it until I had spent the correct amount of time petting her.
The final disease seems to be a tumor on or near her spine. She has lost the use of one leg and is rapidly losing the other leg. She has reached the point where she can no longer jump up on the bed or the couch. She needs one of us to lift her to her favorite spots. This must be a special indignity for her, for she was an incredible jumper.
A year after Bob Cat came in through that Halloween Door, we adopted a second cat, Frankie. We worried a little about how they would get along, but Bob thought Frankie was her kitten. They played together for hours. The favorite game was “Chase Me.” We live in a cavernous old house with four floors. I would sit in the living room and hear them start in the attic, dash down the upstairs hall, careen down the stairs, bang through the French doors into the living room and cascade down the cellar stairs into the back room. Several minutes later, the entire route would be reversed. Sometime around the second trip Big Cat would be in the lead with Frankie in hot pursuit. As they ran past the kitchen table, Big Cat, with no discernible effort, would leap onto the table while Frankie dashed by below. Now in the rear of the chase, Big Cat would give a gigantic leap and land on top of Frankie and the two would engage in the second great game, Bite My Neck.
Because their idea of a peaceful night meant rising at four in the morning and terrorizing each other, we quickly learned to lock them in the downstairs at night. This meant that when I came down in the morning, there would be two cats greeting me at the door demanding instant sustenance. Then one morning, I was greeted by only one cat, Frankie. Bob was missing. By the time I got to the kitchen, miracle of miracles, Bob had appeared. This happened the next morning as well. The third morning I was determined to see where Bob had been hiding. I looked under couches, tables, behind curtains and then I looked up on top of our entertainment center. Two large eyes were looking back. Now let me describe this set up to you. The entertainment center is seven and a half feet tall, leaving about 16 inches between it and the ceiling. Next to it is a triangular fish tank sitting on a pedestal. The closed top of the fish tank is 58 inches off the floor. Several days later I watched in amazement as Bob, again with no sign of effort, leaped to the top of the fish tank, and then to the top of the entertainment center. Effortlessly. Now she cannot lift herself 14 inches to a couch.
What I remember most, was when I had cancer and lost my mind at the same time. Two life forces expended all their energy to keep me from total surrender. One, my wife Kathryn deserves every credit and prize that can be offered.
But Bob was there also. She kneaded, licked, and rubbed me as if I were her sick child and her sheer will would save me. I was groomed, cuddled and comforted with every bit of her strength.
So now I will spend a little too much, and work a little too hard to keep her with us as long as she is comfortable. And in the end , well, if heaven exists, I will be greeted by several dogs and cats, and one of them will be making great effortless leaps.

Everything I Learned in Kindergarten Was a Big, Fat Lie!

I remember Kindergarten. The big lessons were about being safe on the street. These lessons did not involve the proper position to hold mace when attacked, or how to kick your kidnapper in the shins and scream, “NO!” as loud as a cat in a screen door.
They dealt with crossing a street safely. Mostly it meant, stop, look and if a car was moving anywhere, stay stopped. In child talk, don’t take your 64 pound body and play chicken with a 2000 pound car.
When I first started teaching, MS. Stiles would take all the Kindergarten classes out on the playground and divide them up. Some were pedestrians and some were “drivers” Instead of cars they had three wheel bikes, but they had real streets with names and stop signs and red lights and rules. You did not get extra credit for running down a classmate as they crossed the street. Nor, despite all my bribes, could you get one of these kids to jump in front of a moving trike.
Fast forward to downtown Binghamton. Pedestrians have been told they have the right of way. This apparently means don’t look and don’t hasten. The number of times someone has wandered in front of my car, totally oblivious of my existence, placing all their trust in my reactions is countless. If they knew the guy behind the wheel had the reflexes of a glacier, I wonder if they would be as quick to step into the “red zone”.
My pedestrian life is nearly as annoying. Here I am walking down Chenango Street, approaching a corner. I stop and look both ways and a car with complete right of way screeches to a halt and stares at me. I am very happy to wait and let them go, but nope, they are stopping and waiting and if there is a six car pileup because of it, they are still waving me across the street. Note - I do not have a white stick tapping the ground, nor do I have a dog in a fancy harness walking beside me. I do have a white beard and thick glasses but I can walk a mile in 13 minutes, which I bet the driver of the car can’t.
Then there is my all time favorite. Last week I came up to a corner just as a car arrived at the intersection trying to turn left onto Chenango Street. Now this can be difficult early in the morning because Chenango Street is busy. I can see he has a break in traffic, but if he waits for me he’ll be stuck for awhile, so I turn down the side street a few feet and cross behind him, freeing him to get on with his life. Far from the expected smile and thank you wave, he shoots me a dirty look accompanied by the universal sign of derision and whirls out into Chenango Street. I wonder what my Kindergarten teacher, Ms. Jennings, would say?

We went to 8 o’clock Mass this morning and Sister Karen did the Homily. It was short and as always makes one think. She talked a lot about how we are all in such a rush we feel frazzled and how we often lose sight of God in the middle of all that. Boy, after the last two weeks, that certainly hits home with me. Then at the end she read a paraphrasing one of her sisters in Japan had written. I copy it below:

The Lord is my Pace Setter,
I shall not rush.
He makes me stop and rest for quiet intervals.
He provides for me with images of stillness
Which restore my serenity
He leads me in ways of efficiency
Through calmness of mind,
And His guidance is Peace.
Even though I have a great many things
To accomplish each day
I will not fret
For His presence is here.
His timelessness,
His all-importance,
Will keep me in balance.
He prepares refreshment and renewal
In the midst of my activity
By anointing my head
With his oils of tranquility.
My cup of joyous energy overflows.
Surely harmony and effectiveness
Shall be the fruits of my hours
For I shall walk
In the place of my Lord
And dwell in His house
For ever.

COMPASSION
Last Lent, I spent the time reading and meditating on Forgiveness. This year, I decided to follow up with Compassion, at least partly because the book club we belong to at St. Francis, had done several books on compassion, so I had a good start even before Lent. On the surface, it seemed like it would be pretty clear cut. Compassion is about empathy, the ability to feel “sorry” for someone. We all can work up compassion for an injured animal, a suffering mother, even if that mother belongs to an “enemy” group.
Well, surprise, surprise!! Compassion is about power. More specifically, how we use power. As we tread through this life we leave our footprints everywhere, wanted and unwanted. The careless word, the impatient moment all affect others. Often, we are so involved in our own needs and wants, we don’t even notice.
Compassion is about the conscious decision to tread softly, with awareness. We will guard our words, our actions so as to lift and complete those around us. We will subvert our own pressing needs to spend an extra second listening. Being heard is less important than hearing.
And the best news is that Compassion is not something you have or don’t have. It is developed. C. S. Lewis writes about putting on the cloak of Christ. He says (paraphrased badly) that on a bright, glorious morning the cloak slips on easily and you are ready to embrace the world. The struggle comes on those mornings when you are tired, your knees hurt and the last thing you want to do is greet anyone. But you make a decision to put the cloak on and greet the world with faked joy and a forced smile. You do that morning after morning, until one morning you can’t put the cloak of Christ on, because it never came off. It is now a part of you, and the faked joy has become real joy and the forced smile is genuine. And in the process you have become a compassionate human being.

Dr. Hall
It certainly is no secret that I spent several years in a condition frequently and lovingly referred to as “Nuts”. Now, I don’t feel badly about that because in true Christian Philosophy we are all nuts and salvation comes with the realization of how insane we are and then admitting we can’t fix it ourselves. We need a higher power. Once we are ready to search for that power, God will provide all the guidance we need, in spite of the fact we are usually too blind to see or too deaf to hear.
In my case, the day I snapped for good, I was smart enough to call a person I had been told about by dear friends who saw how badly I needed help. In our first phone conversation, Dr. Hall told me he was not taking any new patients but he could spare a few moments to talk on the phone. After five minutes he told me to show up that Friday at 9 AM. Since then we have had some great “disagreements”. At our very first session, he told me I would come to see Cancer as a blessing from God. I now agree with that completely, but at the time I thought he was crazier than I was. I have to say that after four years, I am healthier than I ever have been in my entire life. I never felt that I was smart enough, funny enough, kind enough. I spent most of my life thinking I was responsible for all the problems around me, that if I just planned harder, or worked harder or somehow was better, everything would be fine. When something inevitably went wrong, I took all the blame. I was terrified of not being good enough. Well, for better or worse, that is all gone. I knew I was truly cured last year when Kay and I went on vacation and I got blessedly lost because I had not obsessively planned the route with three alternative ways of getting there. And it didn’t bother me a bit. I knew it would work out, and in the end we had a great time.

Below is an address to Dr. Hall's Web sight. I tried to embed it in this writing, but if it can be done, I don't know how to do it.

www.awakentotruth.com

Perfect Spring Day
Last Tuesday was nearly a perfect day. Now the truth is I played hooky from the job I was supposed to be doing. I promised to finish Zoey’s changing table by Saturday. I finished it Saturday on time, but Tuesday that was not a sure thing. And still it was just to perfect outside to stay in the shop and cut wood.
So, we went to work opening the pond and stream. Last Spring, a dear friend gave me five little gold fish that were destined for sad endings if I didn’t take them. I figured we would throw them in the pond and they would have a good last summer. Despite assurances they would make it through the winter, last fall I gave the three surviving fish a ceremonial kiss good by (metaphorically speaking) and closed the pond. Winter was winter, so the pond froze, yuck blew in and I expected to find fish bones on opening day. To my vast surprise, I was greeted with three little fishy smiles.
We pumped about 30 gallons of pond water into a gigantic container, netted the fish and added them to the container, then pumped the remaining 700 gallons onto the lawn, pulled the plants from the pond and cleaned them. Then - the dredging of dead leaves, pine needles, enough algae to power the car for a year and a lot of unidentifiable yuck. While I slaved over the pump, Kay scrubbed and cleaned the stream. Within an hour, we were able to install the pumps, reinstate the plants, refill the pond with clean water, add organic yuck remover and chuck the fish back in. Once the statuary and lights were back in place, we added chairs to the patio, wine to our stomachs and joy to our hearts. April 6th seems pretty early to be soaking up the sun and relaxing around the pond, but it makes for a near perfect day.

As a Franciscan, I am somewhat ashamed to admit that each year we rent a spectacular condo at the ocean. But I defy anyone to sit in the predawn darkness surrounding “my” chair and not feel God sitting in the chair next to me. And, as a Franciscan, I am supposed to see the Gospels all around. What better place?
Each morning, at first light, a flight of Pelicans drops over the roof of this building. I sit less than ten feet from their passing, and then as they glide in perfect beauty, Like Peter and the boat, they seem to remember they can’t really fly, and they plummet into the water, much as I envision Peter hitting the drink when he realized he couldn’t walk on water.
The last morning we were there, I arose even earlier than usual. As I settled myself to await the rising of the sun, three or four miles up the beach, a lone automobile drove up and down the beach, showing first his headlights and then his taillights. I thought about how that person, whatever his mission, had no idea that miles away he was being watched. How often do we pass unknowingly through someone else’s life, with no idea what effect we have on them? A smile, a kind word or conversely, a dismissal or an impatient moment all have effects. I have come to believe that in the end, those things matter. So, I said a silent prayer that my mystery person would have a safe day and would discover a moment of joy that day.
When the sun finally did appear, when the pelicans performed their morning ritual, when the outside world could no longer be ignored, I rose from my window chair for the last time this year and prepared for the return to home and all the joys that brings.

Biltmore
We came to Asheville to see the Biltmore Estate. We had gone to Newport several years ago and toured those homes. I use the word homes in a ridiculous sense; because nothing about them was “homey” They were ostentatious, cold and just silly, especially as summer “cottages”. I expected Biltmore to be more of the same. Something to be seen, more as a museum, than a home. Oddly, I found it quite different.
Not that the place is particularly nice. It is gigantic, spectacular and well worth seeing, but not at all a comfortable place. But – the story is really compelling.
George Vanderbilt was the youngest of three sons born into a very, very wealthy family. Apparently the older boys went into the family business of getting richer. George took his 10 million ( in 1895 dollars) and built a house. He hired the best people to design it and the gardens, and the best craftsmen to complete the job. On the surface, it is about the power of money. But as the story unfolds, something else emerges. George first built homes for all the workers to live in during the construction. Then every detail was aimed at making Biltmore a place where visitors would have every need met quickly and without fuss.
Biltmore had not only an indoor swimming pool of great size, at a time few homes in America had electric lights, the swimming pool had underwater electric lights. It had a full gym in case his guests wished to exercise, stables, tennis, indoor bowling alleys and a kitchen area that would put most major hotels to shame.
The establishment employed about 30 people at all times. And here in lies a real look at George Vanderbilt's soul. A young girl, who had recently lost both Mother and Father, was hired. Barely 15, she found herself carrying a large tray of food, all on very expensive china, to the formal dining room. Young and terrified, she dropped the tray, smashing china, scattering food all over. George leaped to his feet and ------ helped the young girl pick up the pieces. For many years there after he gently teased her about their first meeting.

When the house was built, George was a bachelor, but he shortly found someone willing to marry one of the richest men in America. Yet, despite all the tendencies to make fun, the marriage was deliriously happy. Within a few years, Biltmore had a little girl, 5 St. Bernard’s and up to 30 guests any time the Vanderbilts were in residence.
George was generous to a fault. For example, the local minister would be invited to Biltmore for Lunch once a year. He would write up an account of all the expenses the parish had incurred during the year in an account book and would leave the book on the seat of his carriage. When he returned from a lovely Lunch, at which no money was discussed, he would find the book contained a check that covered all the years’ expenses.

George was considered one of the best read men in America and he constantly shared his space with men of words. In the entire house, I found only two rooms I loved. One was a central sun room that was open and bright and filled with life, and the other was the library. This room is two stories tall, with floor to ceiling bookcases surrounding the room. A circular stair takes you to the second tier balcony that surrounds the room and gives access to the second floor shelves. What I found remarkable was a comment George once made. “ There should always be books and a comfortable chair to read it in.” Well, he made the books available, but I could not see a comfortable chair anywhere in the house.
Which made me think. With all his money and effort, in 1895, George was unable to build a “comfortable” home. Biltmore was notoriously hard to heat. Winter guests would wear woolen everything under their formal attire and still have trouble manipulating forks with frozen hands. The furniture was torturous by our standards. While the food was excellent it took a gigantic staff working from 6AM until 9PM everyday to produce it.
I think about my home. We take the heat for granted, of the 8 chairs in our living rooms, 7 are guaranteed to lull you asleep within 10 minutes and modern cooking appliances make gourmet cooking within the reach of even – well, me.

What could go wrong??
This was the easy week. Before we left for South Carolina, we made a list of things that needed doing. Nothing big. The computer security program needed updating, the ceiling molding in the upstairs needed to be finished and the downstairs bathtub and sink were draining slowly, but the pipes are all exposed and easy to get to. In addition we had the regular run of the mill jobs. The Toyota needed to be defused so it won’t go into overdrive, stop the mail, pay the bills, and exchange books at the Library. Time was not an issue. We were tied up with Retired Teacher’s Monday, The car needed to be repaired Tuesday morning, but I would have the rest of Tuesday, most of Wednesday and all of Thursday. That would give me Friday free for fun and Rotary. (Not that the two are not one and the same!)
I finished with the car around 11 on Tuesday, headed home and started putting in molding. Only molding requires something to attach it to. Normally you would find one stud and measure 16 inches and you would find another. In some early construction they used 12 inches or 18 inches. In our 17 foot hallway the studs are – 10, 13, 9, 21, 17 , 18, 12, 15, 11, 16, 20, 12, and 14. Note this does not add up to 204 inches because of course there are no studs at the ends of the hallway. For many years, these irregularities bothered me, now I just figure it is part of the charm of owning an old house that had previously been remodeled by a “creative” person. But it turned a simple job into a simple but long job. So most of Tuesday disappeared. But I still had time to do that short plumbing job. I pulled the pipes apart, cleaned out the drain, put it all back together, turned on the sink and found it drained easily and quickly ----- into the bathtub.
So ok, I would call the plumber, not an unusual event.
At least I could update the computer security. By the time I went to bed, our computer was completely unsecured, none of the USB ports would work , we could not download any pictures from our cameras and the mouse no longer functioned. Not a bad day in the world of disasters.
Wednesday we drove to Scoharie to attend the funeral of a dear friend’s father. He was in his nineties and had lived life exactly the way I would like to. At age 85, the family felt they needed to take his motorcycle keys away, because he was still riding it regularly. Three weeks before he died he was on a ladder with a drill repairing something. Way to go!!
So Thursday was spent getting the plumbing cleared up, the computer up and running, so that Friday morning could be spent finishing the hallway.
We leave Tuesday for the Biltmore Estate and Kiawah Island, South Carolina. We now have a laptop computer and the plan is to keep everyone informed of our travels while staying in touch. After all, What could go Wrong???

Odds and Ends
When discussing the medical profession, my father would often say,“ They are just Practicing.” Boy did he have that right!!
Last November I cleaned up the last of the leaves and apparently some of the left over mold as well. Within a week I had a pretty good case of bronchitis. Not at all unusual for me – happens every fall if I am not careful. The thing runs its course ---- I lose my voice for a short time, feel awful, then feel better and life moves on. This time I got caught in a time warp. By January ----- time for the Doc.
I was given a bunch of pills, and MR. Neb. Things got better, then much worse. I would go to sleep feeling fairly good and then wake up needing a sewer snake run down my windpipe. Back to the Halls of Medicine. “ Beginning asthma, complicated by post nasal drip.” One month later, back to the Doc. This time we discovered sever bronchitis and definite asthma so bad I would need an inhaler and Advar.
In 1968 sucking white powder down my throat didn’t seem like a good idea and the idea hasn‘t improved with age. Plus I know the history of me better than anyone else.
One of my clearest memories was having croup as a kid. I would be fine, go to bed wake up unable to breath. Needless to say, this caused some commotion. Shortly the big metal humidifier was out, Vicks was on me, in me and being blown at me and I didn’t go to school the next day. Sometime in the late 50’s, I got a real mystery disease. Since only small kids got croup, it had to be a mystery disease. We went to the doctor every week for what seems like months. They did tests, ran a light bulb down my throat, even suggested mental therapy.
The whole thing turned into a bonding time with my mother. I would go to bed at 10 wake up choking at 11 or so, and then we would sit up the rest of the night watching old movies. I learned a lot about her during those weeks.
Anyway, Spring came, the disease disappeared and it didn’t return. I did have some mild bouts while teaching, but usually pretty mild.
This time around, it never got as sever, but it acted exactly like that 50’s version. But this time I had the internet and did some research. Turns out the symptoms perfectly fit chronic croup. Something young children get for no apparent reason and outgrow by the age of 6 or 7. The present cure is a series of steroid drugs.
Well, back to the present. For the first time in life I told the Doctor what we were going to do. Steroids!! She was willing to try it with the admonition that if it didn,t work we were sucking white powder. Remember three months of wheezing badly enough to wake people up? One, six tablet dose of steroids, 24 hours and no wheezing. Since I also had bronchitis, “ one step from pneumonia” I got to take the same Cipro dose given someone exposed to anthrax. But, at least for the time being I seem to be healed. That would make me the oldest croup patient in history.

Unfinished Business
Last Lent, I took wise advise and spent the 40+ days trying to understand a virtue of choice. I settled on Forgiveness because I was most in need of that. A wonderful journey I highly recommend for anyone. The first part, why should we forgive was actually very easy. Every Religion, every ethical system, every mental health care expert agrees. It is not about the person forgiven, but about the person who forgives.
Now comes the second and hardest part. If Forgiveness is that wonderful, why is there so little of it? ( Please do not count the, “ I forgive you, but I will never let you live it down.” Forgiveness.) In fact, it took another 300 + days, and the only two reasons I can offer this now are 1} It’s Lent again and time for a new Virtue (Compassion) and 2} I promised myself to finish this piece of writing by March 1, 2010 and please forgive me, I’m going to.
That should not be interpreted as I have anything to offer in answer, because I remain as confused as ever. But I can offer two plausible explanations. Perhaps people hang on to the hate and anger because it pays off. Eckhart Tolle, in A New Earth, talks about the ego’s need to find form in constant thought. That long held grievances give meaning to the egos existence and it takes great courage and wisdom to step away from the “voice” in our head and see reality. We come to define ourselves as someone who had this done to us, or this said about us. Our ego realizes it’s greatest dream—to be noticed.
Secondly, seeing reality requires an autopsy of our lives and that can be very painful. Anger is a healthy response to immediate physical threats. If I cannot flee I may need to fight. Anger will keep me from feeling the pain when I get hit in the head. I will keep going and perhaps save my life. But long term anger is not protecting me from physical pain, so what is it protecting me from? Emotional pain. If I stop being angry, then reality will slowly emerge and I am forced to examine my responsibility in the situation. Perhaps there were kinder, better responses. That would make me partly to blame and realizing that indicates I might not be perfect. As long as I stay angry, I don’t need to face that.
I have a poster on my wall that says, “ The voyage of discovery is not about seeking new landscapes but having new eyes.” Proust.
The Amish in PA that comforted the family of the man who had killed their children, the man who reached out and healed the young adult who destroyed his son in a drunk driving accident, those who wished to include a candle for the murderer at the Front street shooting – those people had “new Eyes” and when God asks them ,” What did you do for the Least in my Kingdom?” they have a pretty good answer.

Hits, Misses and Musings
We just returned from a trip to Florida and I thought I would steal the column title of the New York giants Newsletter that appears after each game.
HITS
1. Gigantic hit to Allegiant Air. We had a great flight from Elmira directly to Sanford, Florida. It was quick, easy and Sanford is so much saner that Orlando International. On the return trip, we left Sanford at 8 and we were in our living room by 12:30.
2. Gigantic hit to Port Orleans. We have always stayed on Disney property, and this place was the usual high quality, convenient, well laid out experience you expect.
3. Big hit to Disney Transportation. They got us everywhere easily and without fuss. And the one time they were an hour late because of technical difficulties, they put someone on the bus to smooth everything over.
4. Super gigantic hit to Epcot World Showcase. OK , we had had a hellacious rainstorm about 5, so we went to the Cape May Restaurant for dinner. After dinner it had quit raining, but upon entering Epcot through the back door ( my favorite entrance to any park, anywhere) we discovered most people had gone home for the night. There were probably two thousand people left, which in Epcot is almost lonely. We had probably the nicest view of the light show ever, and then walked around the park for an hour or so after. Great time.
5. Big hit to Gail and Dean for giving us a beautiful send off dinner in Elmira, to the Margaret and her husband for sharing a delightful breakfast with us in Disney and a special hit to Fran and Karyl for getting us a reduction in rate and for sharing a very relaxing evening at Boma’s in the Animal Kingdom.
6. A hit to the bar in Port Orleans. Nice people, nice place.
7. Usual hit to Pirates and Haunted Mansion, plus the upgrade to the Earth ride at Epcot.
MISSES
1. Cocoa Beach. Fair is fair. Cocoa Beach is glorious in 60 plus, sunny weather. When it is 50, raining and windy not so much.
2. A conditional miss to Port Orleans food court. At 6 AM, after a nice walk it is wonderful, at 8 AM it is pleasant – by 8:30 ouch!! Keep an eye on the kids or they may become door prizes.
3. The Contemporary Hotel, which I used to love, especially the game room on the bottom floor. At one time it looked futuristic and exciting. Now it looks seedy and in need of serious refurbishing. And there is no bottom floor anymore!!
4. Kay will disagree, but one of the great joys of the Polynesian Hotel was coming through the doors on a hot day and being assailed by the scent. Sure the smell came from decaying plants, but it was just – special. Entering the Polynesian still feels like coming home, but now the center section has cut out much of the large growth and replaced it with orchids. Much brighter and much more colorful, but no Poly Stink.
5. MGM
6. Florida
MUSINGS
Just one big one has bothered me since the idea was put forward during the ride through the ball at Epcot. Did paper lead to the civilization of man, or did Civilization lead to the invention of paper? And how about the printing press? Was it really “ the reason for the Renaissance, or was it a byproduct that was inevitable?
Well, all and all it was a wonderful trip, despite the weather. Our welcome home was a little rocky, but that is a tale for another time.

S.O.S. Emergency!! This is Frankie Hairball, chief security officer of the S.S. Corcoran. My associate and I have been abandoned. We have not eaten in nearly 24 hours.
The residents loaded their belongings in a black box and left in their Toyota Time Bomb late yesterday. We have remained at our posts for as long as possible. About an hour ago, my companion officer, Bob, went into a semi coma. I have not been able to revive her. It looks like the end is near.
I was barely able to drag myself to this chair and send one last communication. It is growing dim and my paws no longer – wait, the door just opened, It’s the food lady! Please disregard the previous. Got to GO!!

Pledging 1966
Kate recently had a picture of her trip to Washington in her blog. It showed her standing on the ellipse across from the White house, with the White House in the background. It brought back great memories of my pledge trip to Washington DC in 1966.
At that time, there were three active social fraternities at Oneonta. Since I had managed to do so well in my first semester Freshman finals, I turn a “guaranteed” 3.8 grade point average into a 2.0, joining a fraternity in my Freshman year, seemed stupid even to my somewhat impaired brain. So I waited a year and “rushed” my Sophomore year.
Rushing involved lots of harassment, both physical and emotional. We were beaten with our wooden paddles, awakened in the middle of the night and dumped in the woods, forced to carry yellow buckets and recite ridiculous poems on demand. In general, it was three weeks of nonsense. But during that time, each of us was assigned a pledge trip to some part of the country to do some silly stunt. Someone was sent to a New York State Indian Reservation to get a picture of a teepee. Imagine the surprise when all they found were regular housing developments. Some one else was shipped to New York City to do something equally stupid. I was teamed with Paul “Rac” Lansperry and Tom Rabidue to steal a garbage can from in front of the White House. I think there was a fourth person, but for the life of me I can’t remember who it was. It might have been the legendary Vinnie White. At any rate, the trip to Washington in Rabidue’s car was uneventful. We stayed at American University on someone’s floor. We attended the coolest bar I ever saw, filled with Georgetown University students. There was a great band playing and I remember having a really good time. Then , the next day we buzzed over to the White House to snag a garbage can.
We got there, chatted up the guard who I noticed had a really large gun and a really small sense of humor. It was pretty evident that he would not mind shooting me to protect government property. SOOO we jumped back in the car, sped around the White House circle, and just at the point where Kate is standing, we snapped several pictures of what we thought were the Kennedy dogs still in residence at the White house. Since, unlike Kate, we were moving at about 40 miles an hour, our pictures were somewhat fuzzier. I spent two days going through the attic to see if I could find those pictures, but then I realized that even if I did find them, they would not fit in any of the orifices we put things into the computer, so I couldn’t share them anyway. But they do exist.

Walter the Cat and Mr. Neb
For anyone under 50, Walter Brennan was a popular movie star of the “old” generation. He often played crotchety sidekicks, or grandfathers. Part of his portrayal was a “hitch in his get along”, better known as a limp. I was astounded to see him at an awards ceremony and find out he did not have a real limp, it was just part of the act.
A few days ago, Bob, our older cat, developed a sever limp. Whether, she and Frankie, the little one, got into a fight, if she fell off something, if she tried to outrun a mouse, who knows, but the limp was serious. We took her to the vets, where she was folded, stapled and manipulated beyond belief by the vet during his exam. The result was a cat with a much worse limp, and the news that she has basically blown her knee ligaments. Better known as the Joe Namath Knee. The vet thinks the trauma of surgery would be harder on an old cat than the stress of the injury. I’m glad because the stress on the wallet of the owner would be worse than the trauma of seeing her limp. She seems quite fine with the whole thing. Since she sleeps 23 hours a day and since she does not need much athletic ability to catch her food dish, I think we will rename her Walter and forget it.
Last Monday I went to the Human Vet, to see if she could do anything about my cough. I started about six weeks ago and the cough has gotten steadily worse. By New Year’s Day I was starting to feel run down and found sitting on the couch doing nothing much preferable to getting up and doing anything – except eating Kate’s chocolate chip cookies, which did lure me of the couch way too often.
At any rate, the Dr. went over me thoroughly and decided I have asthma. Well, I never did, and I don’t think I do now, at least not what I think of as asthma, but a rose by any other name is still a long term cough so what the heck. She prescribed some new antibiotic and a nebulizer – MR. NEB. She warned me the Nebulizer might make me nervous and jumpy.
I went home, hooked up the wires, tubes secret medicine vials and blew drugs down my throat, all the time thinking where was this stuff in the sixties when I could have used it. Anyway, the first night, the results were really good. No side effects and the cough let up. The next morning I fixed a big cup of coffee and hooked myself up for the AM fix. Within an hour my arm took on a life of its own and started jumping, my heart rate was around 100 and I was pacing the floor. Somewhat alarmed I Googled the drug. One recommendation jumped out at me. “Avoid Caffeine while on this drug” Gee, couldn’t they have mentioned that?