Written a couple hours ago while on a plane from Seattle to NYC
I sit on a plane.
I will sit on this plane for a little while longer. I will watch some of the second half of the Giants v. Eagles game before this plane lands at JFK. I will pull a backpack from beneath the seat in front of me and a garment bag from the overhead bin soon after landing. I will take a cab back to the apartment in SoHo and sleep in my bed tonight. I will wake up early tomorrow and dress in business casual clothing - a much different animal in New York than in Seattle - and I will become an employee of another company for the first time in eight years. God willing, that is. All of this is God willing.
I will return to Seattle as a visitor, hopefully in the near future. And perhaps I'll even live there again someday. But not tomorrow. And I'd imagine not for a good number of subsequent tomorrows.
It's time for something new.
To all of you who wish to stay in touch, please don't hesitate to comment here, send a Facebook message, email, text, and / or call.
With that I'll leave you with the sentiment I offered to my co-workers in my final email as a full time employee. For those who have read these words already, I beg your pardon for the repetition.
I could say goodbye, but I don’t believe in them. I could say parting is such sweet sorrow, but it seems overused. I could advise you – and myself – not to be sad because it’s over but rather to be happy because it happened, but that seems somewhat self-serving. Or I could offer that I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve, but it could be interpreted incorrectly.
Instead, I will simply say thank you; I am a better person for having lived in Seattle and for knowing each of you...
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
It's Personal: The More Things Change...
I've been quiet. Too quiet...
I've posted but one entry in the month of September. And only 50 all year on this, the 273rd day. I wish I could say that my journal had seen more fanciful swooshes with a pen, but alas it is as sparsely populated as this blog.
Where have I been? There and back and there and back and there and back again. Flying across the United States on Delta or Continental or Midwest earning magical miles that might serve me well on some future vacation to God knows where. In Connecticut. In New York. In Seattle. With stops in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Denver, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Minneapolis, and a host of other American cities.
I've learned to become a renter again. The myriad keys jingle jangle on their respective rings. A key for the top lock. One for the bottom. A key for the mailbox. One for the front door. Another for the laundry. I've not yet received the one that will unlock my frazzled mind.
And I've learned how to rent a property. Ants that might be of the carpenter variety. The final water bill listing more than a grand in owed debt, which made me think either the house had hit an iceberg or there was some kind of mistake. It happened to be the latter, though I wonder if I'd be covered if it were the former.
I've relegated myself to dog loving status rather than dog owning. Alas, Buddy is no longer mine. After an 'incident' with a slow moving car, Buddy went primal and high-tailed it at what neighbors described as 'mach 1' to some remote part of Milford, a good two miles away from the grandparents' house. By the grace of God, a woman saw the missing dog poster and called to let us know she had contacted the local shelter. Buddy returned home shaken and a bit scratched around the edges but otherwise fine. Still, I knew I needed to find him a good home. It just so happened that my grandparents' neighbors had lost their dog of 13 years this past year, and they also just so happened to adore Buddy. Well, the decision was easy enough. They, with their fenced yard and two daughters, now have a puppy with whom they can play.
I also find myself, for the first time since I was in the seminary, without a car. Who needs a car in New York anyway with subways, planes, trains, buses, and taxis aplenty. The 2006 Subaru Forester will now carry my parents through thick and thin, especially on their hilly roads in the midst of ice and snow.
I can count a new job and new boss, though I wisely choose to say no more about work within this blog.
And I've begun to move along in those more personal aspects, which will also remain deep within the recesses of the journals I keep.
I have reconnected with family. A niece who, when last I saw her, decided to bring to me penguins and monkeys and phones and bears from her pile of toys. A mother who has returned from the swamps of Florida to battle the soon-to-be-frigid northeast. The old man, who battles with some mysterious and some not so mysterious ailments, all the while cheering that the Red Sox will not be in the playoffs this year. An uncle who has, through remarkable will power, lost so much weight that some don't even recognize him. A brother who works and coaches and sleeps and eats... and who is one of the most devoted fathers I've met. And the list goes on...
And the beat goes on...
A lot of change. And with that change, I give to you yet another look for 'A Life in Days'. I'm somewhere in the top right of that picture... I think. New York is a big town, after all. Everything close is either on your doorstep or a 20 minute walk. Otherwise, it's a $2.25 subway ride away. Unless you're going to Newark International, in which case you want to catch the NJ Transit train from Penn Station for a mere $15.
The night grows long. The bed awaits my precious slumber that I might rise early to get to Grand Central for to journey to the outer reaches of Connecticut. There awaits a game in which the real Huskies have the chance to overcome 'Mr. C' and his brother (and sister) Commodores.
Until next I write...
I've posted but one entry in the month of September. And only 50 all year on this, the 273rd day. I wish I could say that my journal had seen more fanciful swooshes with a pen, but alas it is as sparsely populated as this blog.
Where have I been? There and back and there and back and there and back again. Flying across the United States on Delta or Continental or Midwest earning magical miles that might serve me well on some future vacation to God knows where. In Connecticut. In New York. In Seattle. With stops in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Salt Lake City, Denver, Cincinnati, Atlanta, Minneapolis, and a host of other American cities.
I've learned to become a renter again. The myriad keys jingle jangle on their respective rings. A key for the top lock. One for the bottom. A key for the mailbox. One for the front door. Another for the laundry. I've not yet received the one that will unlock my frazzled mind.
And I've learned how to rent a property. Ants that might be of the carpenter variety. The final water bill listing more than a grand in owed debt, which made me think either the house had hit an iceberg or there was some kind of mistake. It happened to be the latter, though I wonder if I'd be covered if it were the former.
I've relegated myself to dog loving status rather than dog owning. Alas, Buddy is no longer mine. After an 'incident' with a slow moving car, Buddy went primal and high-tailed it at what neighbors described as 'mach 1' to some remote part of Milford, a good two miles away from the grandparents' house. By the grace of God, a woman saw the missing dog poster and called to let us know she had contacted the local shelter. Buddy returned home shaken and a bit scratched around the edges but otherwise fine. Still, I knew I needed to find him a good home. It just so happened that my grandparents' neighbors had lost their dog of 13 years this past year, and they also just so happened to adore Buddy. Well, the decision was easy enough. They, with their fenced yard and two daughters, now have a puppy with whom they can play.
I also find myself, for the first time since I was in the seminary, without a car. Who needs a car in New York anyway with subways, planes, trains, buses, and taxis aplenty. The 2006 Subaru Forester will now carry my parents through thick and thin, especially on their hilly roads in the midst of ice and snow.
I can count a new job and new boss, though I wisely choose to say no more about work within this blog.
And I've begun to move along in those more personal aspects, which will also remain deep within the recesses of the journals I keep.
I have reconnected with family. A niece who, when last I saw her, decided to bring to me penguins and monkeys and phones and bears from her pile of toys. A mother who has returned from the swamps of Florida to battle the soon-to-be-frigid northeast. The old man, who battles with some mysterious and some not so mysterious ailments, all the while cheering that the Red Sox will not be in the playoffs this year. An uncle who has, through remarkable will power, lost so much weight that some don't even recognize him. A brother who works and coaches and sleeps and eats... and who is one of the most devoted fathers I've met. And the list goes on...
And the beat goes on...
A lot of change. And with that change, I give to you yet another look for 'A Life in Days'. I'm somewhere in the top right of that picture... I think. New York is a big town, after all. Everything close is either on your doorstep or a 20 minute walk. Otherwise, it's a $2.25 subway ride away. Unless you're going to Newark International, in which case you want to catch the NJ Transit train from Penn Station for a mere $15.
The night grows long. The bed awaits my precious slumber that I might rise early to get to Grand Central for to journey to the outer reaches of Connecticut. There awaits a game in which the real Huskies have the chance to overcome 'Mr. C' and his brother (and sister) Commodores.
Until next I write...
Monday, May 10, 2010
It's Personal: When Door's Are Locked, Open Windows
It was Sunday. This past Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact. Which reminds me to wish a Happy Belated Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there. And to anyone else who qualifies, though I can’t fathom who that might be.
Right, Sunday. I had things to do, mothers to see.
This post falls more in the ‘things to do’ category prior to the ‘mothers to see’ category. Though the ‘mothers to see’ task was somewhat dependent on the ‘things to do’ task.
I decided to run. Yes, run. I, who have scoffed voluminously at running. I, who used the Back to the Future 3 line, ‘Run for fun? What the hell kinda fun is that?’ every time someone told me that he/she ran for fun.
Why? Well, there are many reasons. Eh, who am I kidding? There’s one. I don’t want to invest in a gym. So, I’m finding ways of staying in shape that don’t require that investment at this point.
I know what all you runners are thinking. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I hope that he invested in good shoes. To the former, I say nope. To the latter, I say yep. Purchased them from a runner’s store in Grand Central Station. From the woman who looked like she was a runner. Not from the young, fat guy who liked to make sarcastic jokes.
Back to the running. I left the grandparents’ house at about 10. Decided I’d take only my wallet and the key to drive the car. Parked at Chick’s, a restaurant down on Beach Street. And proceeded to run to Lake Street and back again. A four-mile run in 40 minutes that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Stretched and got back into the car.
Proceeded to do some last minute Mother’s Day shopping. Saw fathers and kids galore in the stores at approximately noon. Chuckled a tad. And then recognized my hypocrisy. Then chuckled some more.
I proceeded back to the homestead. Caked in dried sweat with almost a full-grown beard – I hadn’t shaved in a week. My loot and jacket in my hands. I climbed the steps to the front door, opened the screen, and tried the door. Locked. I knocked. Nothing but the barking dog. My grandparents are somewhat hard of hearing; well, my grandfather is, and my grandmother could have been doing laundry. I ring the doorbell. Still nothing.
From behind me, I hear a voice saying hello. I turn to see the neighbor across the street peaking our her door. A middle-aged woman seemingly happily married and with two children. ‘I saw them leave about a half hour ago.’ I replied with an ‘okay’ and a ‘thanks’. I initially thought, how nice of her. Then, I thought, how strange. This little street where my grandparents live is a miniature spy network with everyone keeping an eye on everyone else. Good, in some ways. Spooky in others.
Locked out. The dog’s barking. And I’m in a sweaty t-shirt and running pants on the front porch with the neighbors spying on me. Good stuff.
I decide that I’m going to assess the situation. My first option is the back door. But no, it’s locked too. That left windows. All of the basement windows are screwed shut, not to mention they’re too small for my frame. That meant the second story windows. The picture window in front was out. I would have had to break it. There are three other windows across the front. But, I was concerned with the spying. So, I went to the side. A couple windows. One into the grandparents’ room. One into mine. Didn’t seem feasible. I had nothing I could use to reach them.
The three back windows remained. One into the dining room. One into the kitchen. And another into my room. Still, the windows are about eight feet from the ground, meaning I couldn’t reach them without climbing onto something.
Well, there was something in the grandparents’ backyard. A weird wooden frame looking thing that looks like it should have been thrown away about ten years prior. Peeling white paint. Uneven. Rotting wood. In other words, perfect.
I steadied the ‘thing’ beneath the window to my room. And proceeded to climb onto it. I heard some cracking and shifting and other questionable noise. But it held. I pushed the screen up. Then the window. Voila; I had my entry. Except I still needed to get through the window itself, which would require a jump from the rickety ‘thing’ on which I was standing. By that time, I had no other alternative. A little while longer and some neighbor would have been calling the cops on me. I had to chance it.
So, I jumped. And pulled myself into the room. I kissed the rosary that hung from the window. And then closed and locked said window to ensure that no one else could perform the same stunt. Especially when I was soundly sleeping on some random night in July. Or something.
Today, I ran too. And I brought all of my keys.
Right, Sunday. I had things to do, mothers to see.
This post falls more in the ‘things to do’ category prior to the ‘mothers to see’ category. Though the ‘mothers to see’ task was somewhat dependent on the ‘things to do’ task.
I decided to run. Yes, run. I, who have scoffed voluminously at running. I, who used the Back to the Future 3 line, ‘Run for fun? What the hell kinda fun is that?’ every time someone told me that he/she ran for fun.
Why? Well, there are many reasons. Eh, who am I kidding? There’s one. I don’t want to invest in a gym. So, I’m finding ways of staying in shape that don’t require that investment at this point.
I know what all you runners are thinking. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I hope that he invested in good shoes. To the former, I say nope. To the latter, I say yep. Purchased them from a runner’s store in Grand Central Station. From the woman who looked like she was a runner. Not from the young, fat guy who liked to make sarcastic jokes.
Back to the running. I left the grandparents’ house at about 10. Decided I’d take only my wallet and the key to drive the car. Parked at Chick’s, a restaurant down on Beach Street. And proceeded to run to Lake Street and back again. A four-mile run in 40 minutes that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Stretched and got back into the car.
Proceeded to do some last minute Mother’s Day shopping. Saw fathers and kids galore in the stores at approximately noon. Chuckled a tad. And then recognized my hypocrisy. Then chuckled some more.
I proceeded back to the homestead. Caked in dried sweat with almost a full-grown beard – I hadn’t shaved in a week. My loot and jacket in my hands. I climbed the steps to the front door, opened the screen, and tried the door. Locked. I knocked. Nothing but the barking dog. My grandparents are somewhat hard of hearing; well, my grandfather is, and my grandmother could have been doing laundry. I ring the doorbell. Still nothing.
From behind me, I hear a voice saying hello. I turn to see the neighbor across the street peaking our her door. A middle-aged woman seemingly happily married and with two children. ‘I saw them leave about a half hour ago.’ I replied with an ‘okay’ and a ‘thanks’. I initially thought, how nice of her. Then, I thought, how strange. This little street where my grandparents live is a miniature spy network with everyone keeping an eye on everyone else. Good, in some ways. Spooky in others.
Locked out. The dog’s barking. And I’m in a sweaty t-shirt and running pants on the front porch with the neighbors spying on me. Good stuff.
I decide that I’m going to assess the situation. My first option is the back door. But no, it’s locked too. That left windows. All of the basement windows are screwed shut, not to mention they’re too small for my frame. That meant the second story windows. The picture window in front was out. I would have had to break it. There are three other windows across the front. But, I was concerned with the spying. So, I went to the side. A couple windows. One into the grandparents’ room. One into mine. Didn’t seem feasible. I had nothing I could use to reach them.
The three back windows remained. One into the dining room. One into the kitchen. And another into my room. Still, the windows are about eight feet from the ground, meaning I couldn’t reach them without climbing onto something.
Well, there was something in the grandparents’ backyard. A weird wooden frame looking thing that looks like it should have been thrown away about ten years prior. Peeling white paint. Uneven. Rotting wood. In other words, perfect.
I steadied the ‘thing’ beneath the window to my room. And proceeded to climb onto it. I heard some cracking and shifting and other questionable noise. But it held. I pushed the screen up. Then the window. Voila; I had my entry. Except I still needed to get through the window itself, which would require a jump from the rickety ‘thing’ on which I was standing. By that time, I had no other alternative. A little while longer and some neighbor would have been calling the cops on me. I had to chance it.
So, I jumped. And pulled myself into the room. I kissed the rosary that hung from the window. And then closed and locked said window to ensure that no one else could perform the same stunt. Especially when I was soundly sleeping on some random night in July. Or something.
Today, I ran too. And I brought all of my keys.
Monday, April 19, 2010
It's Personal: A Lion
A new chapter begins...
In Seattle, we were not very good about taking the dogs for regular walks. It was difficult for one person to handle both, and we always had other things happening. We therefore set them upon the backyard to play and run to their hearts content. And if not in the backyard, then they went to a dog park.
Well, I haven't found the dog parks in Connecticut yet. And the back yard here is not as conducive to playing. Not to mention the fact that Buddy no longer has his playmate.
I therefore decided that it would be a good idea to walk the dog. And thus, after work, I proceeded to trot the dog from the house, across the semi-main thoroughfare, and into a nice neighborhood - with sidewalks.
Buddy trotted by my side. Well, more ahead of me, upon which I know the Dog Whisperer would frown since it means the dog is leading me. Nonetheless, we meandered along the sidewalks in that neighborhood at our leisure. Buddy stopped to smell trees and fence posts and random patches of grass. He barked under his breath a few times at passersby. And a few other times at nothing in particular.
We then came to a royal blue house. It was obvious that Italians lived there by the three landmarks that graced their yard. The first was a statue of the Blessed Virgin near the house. The second two were small lion statues placed at either end of their property.
We approached the first lion, and Buddy slowed. He looked at it curiously for a moment before trotting up to it and sniffing it. He was waiting for it to move, which it didn't. Well, I hope it didn't.
We traversed the length of sidewalk between the two lions and approached the second. Across from the lion statue - on the other side of the sidewalk - was a light pole. This meant that we had to walk between the light pole and the lion. Well, Buddy was having no parts of that. He looked at the second lion and immediately backed off. I coaxed him forward, but he pulled backward with all his might. I patted his head and rubbed his stomach, telling him it was okay. We took a couple steps again, and he darted backwards, almost pulling the leash from my hand. At this point, I could do nothing but laugh. Something about the second lion - and not the first - completely freaked him out. But I also wasn't going to cross the street just because he was afraid of the lion. I therefore pulled him a bit more forcefully. He began to understand that he needed to move forward. And when that dawned on him, he took off - with me attached to the other end of the leash - past the lion and light pole until he had at least a ten foot distance from them. He then looked back and let forth a muffled growl to let the lion know his displeasure.
And we were on our way again.
I think we'll take that walk again tomorrow...
In Seattle, we were not very good about taking the dogs for regular walks. It was difficult for one person to handle both, and we always had other things happening. We therefore set them upon the backyard to play and run to their hearts content. And if not in the backyard, then they went to a dog park.
Well, I haven't found the dog parks in Connecticut yet. And the back yard here is not as conducive to playing. Not to mention the fact that Buddy no longer has his playmate.
I therefore decided that it would be a good idea to walk the dog. And thus, after work, I proceeded to trot the dog from the house, across the semi-main thoroughfare, and into a nice neighborhood - with sidewalks.
Buddy trotted by my side. Well, more ahead of me, upon which I know the Dog Whisperer would frown since it means the dog is leading me. Nonetheless, we meandered along the sidewalks in that neighborhood at our leisure. Buddy stopped to smell trees and fence posts and random patches of grass. He barked under his breath a few times at passersby. And a few other times at nothing in particular.
We then came to a royal blue house. It was obvious that Italians lived there by the three landmarks that graced their yard. The first was a statue of the Blessed Virgin near the house. The second two were small lion statues placed at either end of their property.
We approached the first lion, and Buddy slowed. He looked at it curiously for a moment before trotting up to it and sniffing it. He was waiting for it to move, which it didn't. Well, I hope it didn't.
We traversed the length of sidewalk between the two lions and approached the second. Across from the lion statue - on the other side of the sidewalk - was a light pole. This meant that we had to walk between the light pole and the lion. Well, Buddy was having no parts of that. He looked at the second lion and immediately backed off. I coaxed him forward, but he pulled backward with all his might. I patted his head and rubbed his stomach, telling him it was okay. We took a couple steps again, and he darted backwards, almost pulling the leash from my hand. At this point, I could do nothing but laugh. Something about the second lion - and not the first - completely freaked him out. But I also wasn't going to cross the street just because he was afraid of the lion. I therefore pulled him a bit more forcefully. He began to understand that he needed to move forward. And when that dawned on him, he took off - with me attached to the other end of the leash - past the lion and light pole until he had at least a ten foot distance from them. He then looked back and let forth a muffled growl to let the lion know his displeasure.
And we were on our way again.
I think we'll take that walk again tomorrow...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
It's Personal: Returning East Day 4
I am sitting in my brother's basement under a blanket. The dog lays sprawled beside me, utterly exhausted and conked out. I should probably feel the same. But there's an adrenaline rush associated with finishing a journey of such magnitude. Not to mention the fact that it feels like the time that my work laptop still reads: 9:42 p.m.
I first awoke at 5:32 a.m. Eastern. I looked at the alarm clock and chuckled. Then went back to sleep. I awoke again at approximately 7:30 when the brother got out of bed. I didn't feel like moving but knew that the final leg of the journey was calling me. I sat up and told the brother to start getting himself ready while I took the dog to potty. The brother showered. And then went down to get food. He reported back that the breakfast was questionable at best. And thus we departed the Jameson.
The Old Man had, the day before, suggested strongly that we explore the campus of Notre Dame if only for a brief while. In addition, the brother waxed poetic about his missed opportunity to see UCONN play at Notre Dame with his friends. So, we went to the campus of Notre Dame.
Before I speak about Notre Dame, I shall reminisce a tad. When I left for Seattle in 2002, I had planned to race across the country and arrive in the city within three days. That meant no stops, apart from bathroom breaks and the occasional snack. I made one exception. You guessed it, Notre Dame. I must admit that I had always had an interest in ND. Thanks to the Old Man, I've seen Knute Rockne All American about 10 million times. And I enjoyed Rudy. So, there was that. But, more importantly, I had just left the seminary. And I thought I could use a little help from Our Lady. Thus, I saw Touchdown Jesus, the outside of the stadium, and the Grotto when I had been there that once before. And I knelt in front of the Grotto asking God to help me understand myself and my direction.
Today, we parked at Notre Dame at 8:30 a.m. We walked toward the stadium, where there was a private event. We asked if we could see the field. We were turned away. At least we asked. We proceeded to Touchdown Jesus, the brother snapping pictures wildly with his cell. Then we went to the Basilica - a funeral prevented us from peaking in - and subsequently, the Grotto. At the Old Man's request, I lit a candle for our family. Then, I lit another for whatever it is that God wants to be my future. The brother and I knelt for a moment in prayer. I asked God for more help in my discernment. And thanked him for prayers answered since last I'd knelt there. We then walked swiftly back to the car where the dog had fogged up all the windows.
We entered the Indiana Toll Road at 9:30 a.m. Eastern.
Right, tolls. A pain. The idea is to make people pay for roadwork and infrastructure by purchasing the right to be on those same roads. Not a bad idea, theoretically, but in practice, it's questionable. I shan't rant this evening, but I had to go through my share of tolls today. The first was in Indiana. $6.00. The second was in Ohio. From the state border with Indiana to where I-90 splits from I-80. $14.75. Then another $1.50 for crossing the Hudson. We were lucky that those were the only tolls we did pay.
Perfect segue.
Sometime during that drive in northern Ohio, the Old Man texted the brother about another potential route. A bit longer in terms of miles but potentially shorter in terms of time. And an easier drive. Well, it wasn't shorter in time. Close enough at just under an hour difference. (And what's an hour difference in a cross country trip?) But it was an easier trip for the most part.
An easier trip except, perhaps, for Cleveland. I can now say I've driven through the heart of Cleveland, and I feel no cleaner than I did before. Apart from its general disheveled-lookingness, I have one major issue with Cleveland. At some point in I-90, there is a sharp turn in the middle of the highway. Again, I say a sharp turn in the middle of a major interstate in the middle of a major city. Yes, they warn you ahead of time. With those divets in the ground often used to alert cars to slow before tolls. Well, going over those divets scared the bejesus out of the dog, who burrowed his head under the brother's arm and shook uncontrollably. Just Dumb.
We drove up I-90 until we hit I-86 / Rte 17. We then took that road through Pennsylvania and New York. Where it was snowing. Not sticking. But snowing nonetheless. We got to Binghamton at about 7 p.m. And then we traversed the multiple hills in the area to get to I-84. And on into Connecticut we drove. Past the city where the brother teaches. Through Waterbury and Cheshire and into Meriden.
We ate and drank along the way. Subway subs. A few danishes with large iced coffee drinks. Water, always water.
The dog ate and drank too. Finding plastic utensils sturdy enough to unwedge the dog food from the can was a challenge. I'd give Wendy's the highest marks in that arena. Though not in the food arena.
We saw some interesting people. The very fat young man who worked at the Valero gas station. When I went into the small market to use the facilities, I heard him talking at the top of his lungs to his boss or his mother - maybe both - about all kinds of injustices and drama. Reminded me of the main character from Confederacy of Dunces. There was the woman walking her dog at Notre Dame who, when we tried to ask her for directions to the Grotto, avoided us as if we had some kind of communicable disease until she heard Grotto; she then hesitantly pointed to where it was. There were the two ladies in the tollbooth on the other side of the Hudson who saw the dog and wanted the dog to do something that would make their night. And they waited until he did. When he finally barked, they reluctantly lifted the gate for us to proceed.
We entered the brother's abode at approximately 11 p.m. Eastern. 8 p.m. Pacific. The dog introduced himself to the brother's dog and the brother's wife. Everyone seemed to get along.
I texted a few friends to tell them I was safe.
And then I made the call that sealed the deal.
On July 8, 2002 at approximately 5 a.m. Eastern, I departed West Haven, CT to learn some things about myself. I drove for three straight days in a 1996 Mitsubishi Galant. The first night I spent in Rockford, IL; the second night in Glendive, MT. I arrived on July 10, 2002 at 6:30 p.m. Pacific to the open arms of Joseph Fields.
On April 14, 2010 at approximately 8 a.m. Pacific, I departed Seattle, WA to return to the place from whence I came. I drove with the brother, the dog, and the trailer all either in or attached to a 2006 Subaru Forester. The first night we spent in Twin Falls, ID; the second night in North Platte, NE; and the third night in South Bend, IN. I arrived in Meriden, CT on April 17, 2010 at 11:00 p.m. Eastern and called Joseph to say goodbye.
143
I first awoke at 5:32 a.m. Eastern. I looked at the alarm clock and chuckled. Then went back to sleep. I awoke again at approximately 7:30 when the brother got out of bed. I didn't feel like moving but knew that the final leg of the journey was calling me. I sat up and told the brother to start getting himself ready while I took the dog to potty. The brother showered. And then went down to get food. He reported back that the breakfast was questionable at best. And thus we departed the Jameson.
The Old Man had, the day before, suggested strongly that we explore the campus of Notre Dame if only for a brief while. In addition, the brother waxed poetic about his missed opportunity to see UCONN play at Notre Dame with his friends. So, we went to the campus of Notre Dame.
Before I speak about Notre Dame, I shall reminisce a tad. When I left for Seattle in 2002, I had planned to race across the country and arrive in the city within three days. That meant no stops, apart from bathroom breaks and the occasional snack. I made one exception. You guessed it, Notre Dame. I must admit that I had always had an interest in ND. Thanks to the Old Man, I've seen Knute Rockne All American about 10 million times. And I enjoyed Rudy. So, there was that. But, more importantly, I had just left the seminary. And I thought I could use a little help from Our Lady. Thus, I saw Touchdown Jesus, the outside of the stadium, and the Grotto when I had been there that once before. And I knelt in front of the Grotto asking God to help me understand myself and my direction.
Today, we parked at Notre Dame at 8:30 a.m. We walked toward the stadium, where there was a private event. We asked if we could see the field. We were turned away. At least we asked. We proceeded to Touchdown Jesus, the brother snapping pictures wildly with his cell. Then we went to the Basilica - a funeral prevented us from peaking in - and subsequently, the Grotto. At the Old Man's request, I lit a candle for our family. Then, I lit another for whatever it is that God wants to be my future. The brother and I knelt for a moment in prayer. I asked God for more help in my discernment. And thanked him for prayers answered since last I'd knelt there. We then walked swiftly back to the car where the dog had fogged up all the windows.
We entered the Indiana Toll Road at 9:30 a.m. Eastern.
Right, tolls. A pain. The idea is to make people pay for roadwork and infrastructure by purchasing the right to be on those same roads. Not a bad idea, theoretically, but in practice, it's questionable. I shan't rant this evening, but I had to go through my share of tolls today. The first was in Indiana. $6.00. The second was in Ohio. From the state border with Indiana to where I-90 splits from I-80. $14.75. Then another $1.50 for crossing the Hudson. We were lucky that those were the only tolls we did pay.
Perfect segue.
Sometime during that drive in northern Ohio, the Old Man texted the brother about another potential route. A bit longer in terms of miles but potentially shorter in terms of time. And an easier drive. Well, it wasn't shorter in time. Close enough at just under an hour difference. (And what's an hour difference in a cross country trip?) But it was an easier trip for the most part.
An easier trip except, perhaps, for Cleveland. I can now say I've driven through the heart of Cleveland, and I feel no cleaner than I did before. Apart from its general disheveled-lookingness, I have one major issue with Cleveland. At some point in I-90, there is a sharp turn in the middle of the highway. Again, I say a sharp turn in the middle of a major interstate in the middle of a major city. Yes, they warn you ahead of time. With those divets in the ground often used to alert cars to slow before tolls. Well, going over those divets scared the bejesus out of the dog, who burrowed his head under the brother's arm and shook uncontrollably. Just Dumb.
We drove up I-90 until we hit I-86 / Rte 17. We then took that road through Pennsylvania and New York. Where it was snowing. Not sticking. But snowing nonetheless. We got to Binghamton at about 7 p.m. And then we traversed the multiple hills in the area to get to I-84. And on into Connecticut we drove. Past the city where the brother teaches. Through Waterbury and Cheshire and into Meriden.
We ate and drank along the way. Subway subs. A few danishes with large iced coffee drinks. Water, always water.
The dog ate and drank too. Finding plastic utensils sturdy enough to unwedge the dog food from the can was a challenge. I'd give Wendy's the highest marks in that arena. Though not in the food arena.
We saw some interesting people. The very fat young man who worked at the Valero gas station. When I went into the small market to use the facilities, I heard him talking at the top of his lungs to his boss or his mother - maybe both - about all kinds of injustices and drama. Reminded me of the main character from Confederacy of Dunces. There was the woman walking her dog at Notre Dame who, when we tried to ask her for directions to the Grotto, avoided us as if we had some kind of communicable disease until she heard Grotto; she then hesitantly pointed to where it was. There were the two ladies in the tollbooth on the other side of the Hudson who saw the dog and wanted the dog to do something that would make their night. And they waited until he did. When he finally barked, they reluctantly lifted the gate for us to proceed.
We entered the brother's abode at approximately 11 p.m. Eastern. 8 p.m. Pacific. The dog introduced himself to the brother's dog and the brother's wife. Everyone seemed to get along.
I texted a few friends to tell them I was safe.
And then I made the call that sealed the deal.
On July 8, 2002 at approximately 5 a.m. Eastern, I departed West Haven, CT to learn some things about myself. I drove for three straight days in a 1996 Mitsubishi Galant. The first night I spent in Rockford, IL; the second night in Glendive, MT. I arrived on July 10, 2002 at 6:30 p.m. Pacific to the open arms of Joseph Fields.
On April 14, 2010 at approximately 8 a.m. Pacific, I departed Seattle, WA to return to the place from whence I came. I drove with the brother, the dog, and the trailer all either in or attached to a 2006 Subaru Forester. The first night we spent in Twin Falls, ID; the second night in North Platte, NE; and the third night in South Bend, IN. I arrived in Meriden, CT on April 17, 2010 at 11:00 p.m. Eastern and called Joseph to say goodbye.
143
Friday, April 16, 2010
It's Personal: Returning East Day 3
Hello from South Bend, IN. Yes, the home of St. Mary's, Holy Cross, and Notre Dame...
We started the day in North Platte, NE. The dog, the brother, the trailer, the Forester, and I got under way at 8 a.m. Central. We couldn't escape that hell hole of a hotel quickly enough. We didn't even stop immediately for breakfast. We just got onto I-80 and started driving.
We drove due east until we came to Kearney, NE. There, we partook of Starbucks. Yes, I know. A little taste of home in the midst of a foreign land. A veinti white chocoloate mocha and a sausage with egg breakfast sandwich. The brother longed for Dunkin Donuts simplicity and requested an iced coffee with milk and sugar.
We were soon on our way across the very flat state of Nebraska. Thank you God and Subaru for cruise control. And Ralph Teetor, the blind inventor and mechanical engineer who suggested the idea of cruise control in modern vehicles.
The dog slept most of the way with his head on the center arm rest. The brother slept some of the way. And played PSP some of the way. Meanwhile, I drove. And texted a few people from time to time. I was told to beware, for instance, the children of the corn.
We passed Lincoln. Not the man but the capitol city. We didn't get to see the dome.
Then we got to Omaha. Bigger city than I expected. Significant signs of extensive civilization. But we didn't stay long enough to see if they were highly evolved.
We found ourselves in Iowa. And the brother and I, because of our love of baseball, immediately found ourselves talking about the field. You know, the field. Where James Earl Jones disappeared into the corn. And where Moonlight Graham had his first hit.
The next few hours went - what I thought to be - quickly. Iowa's certainly more hilly than I expected. But it has just as much corn as I thought it would. Well, it will. The other thing that surprised me was the amount of wind across the plains. I suppose it makes sense since there's nothing to stop the wind from blowing across those states. But still, there were gusts that almost carried my Yankee cap far away.
Random comment. Saw the name Dubuque. The brother - who enjoys reading every sign and billboard on both sides of the road said, 'DUH buck'. I turned and smiled at him, thinking he was making fun. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, that isn't how you say it? No, it's 'duh BYOOK'. He looked at the name again and said, that's dumb.
We made our way through Des Moines. And then passed near Winterset, IA. I texted a few people and told them I was passing by Marion Morrison's birthplace. Most had no idea about whom I was speaking. But Ashley came back with her favorite quotation from him, 'Life is tough, but it's tougher when you're stupid.' And the Old Man - of course he knew who it was - asked if the brother and I were 'DUKEING' it out.
We passed by Brooklyn and Montezuma. Not to mention Iowa City and Davenport.
We crossed the Mississippi - which the brother loves to spell (I dunno). It was a tad anticlimactic. The brother thought it should have been wider. That's the word he used.
That meant we were in Illinois. Land of Lincoln. Well, not Lincoln, NE. We had just passed. Lincoln, NE. But Lincoln the man. Well, he's not a man anymore. Hasn't been for 145 years and 1 day. Is it strange that we passed both Lincoln, NE and through Illinois the day after the 145th anniversary of his death? Yeah, I suppose not.
On another note, the Old Man was excited to tell us that Utah experienced a 4.9 earthquake yesterday after we had driven through approximately the same part. Hmm... strange coincidences.
Yes, in Illinois. And in Illinois, I came across the strangest road signs I had ever seen. 'Caution Rough Road Ahead'. There were two yellow diamond-shaped signs that told me this. And the road was rough. I said aloud, why don't they just fix the damn road? The brother laughed and agreed. I then followed up by saying it was probably more cost effective to put the two signs on the side of the road.
We passed Peru, Ottawa, Princeton, and Marseilles. The brother quipped that people in the midwest weren't particularly original with their naming. I agreed.
We passed Joliet. He started talking about Juliet Capulet. And Romeo. But we couldn't remember his last name. I came up with Mercutio out of nowhere. And knew there was a guy that had the name 'Ty'. I just looked it up. Romeo Montague. And Tybalt. My Shakespeare is rusty.
Some time after Joliet, IL the brother suggested a game he had learned from his wife. Take a well known real person's name, for instance Meryl Streep. Then take the last letter of the last name and think of another person's name who begins with that letter, for instance Pedro Martinez. Then Ziggy Marley. And Yolanda Adams. Sam Snead. Dwight David Eisenhower. Raquel Welch. And so on. It lasted us through Illinois.
By Indiana, night had come. And there was construction. And the brother was bored and decided to sing and whistle and make random unintelligible noises. The dog continued to sleep. The GPS lady kept telling me to veer left. She was insistent, like an unbearable nanny crossed with a scratched record. We stopped for gas soon after. And I walked into the visitor center to regain some semblance of sanity.
We drove the last hour to South Bend. When we arrived at the exit, the GPS lady - she's buried deep in the recesses of the machine - told us to go and look for the Comfort Suites somewhere opposite the direction of all the hotels. Not a good sign, we thought. She then took us around and about until we discovered that we had gone in a circle. Not at all helpful. The brother started cursing. At her. At long lights. At lights that weren't bright enough. I headed back towards the hotels while the brother had a tiny fist fight with the woman in the GPS. I think he eventually won because we found the Comfort Suites. Except it was full. Just what we wanted to hear. I backed up the trailer all by my lonesome. The brother was surprised at the agility with which I maneuvered the small rig. I told him it was because I was pissed. Yeah, I can see that, he said.
Luckily, the guy at the Comfort Suites had recommended the Jameson Inn. Well, I was damn well not going to spend another night in a Motel 6 type place. So, I approached the Jameson with caution. But I'm pleasantly surprised. Thank God.
Now, it's 1:45. Primarily because we crossed into yet another time zone, the last one. And we'll be up early tomorrow to reach our final destination. And my final destination for now...
Good night all...
We started the day in North Platte, NE. The dog, the brother, the trailer, the Forester, and I got under way at 8 a.m. Central. We couldn't escape that hell hole of a hotel quickly enough. We didn't even stop immediately for breakfast. We just got onto I-80 and started driving.
We drove due east until we came to Kearney, NE. There, we partook of Starbucks. Yes, I know. A little taste of home in the midst of a foreign land. A veinti white chocoloate mocha and a sausage with egg breakfast sandwich. The brother longed for Dunkin Donuts simplicity and requested an iced coffee with milk and sugar.
We were soon on our way across the very flat state of Nebraska. Thank you God and Subaru for cruise control. And Ralph Teetor, the blind inventor and mechanical engineer who suggested the idea of cruise control in modern vehicles.
The dog slept most of the way with his head on the center arm rest. The brother slept some of the way. And played PSP some of the way. Meanwhile, I drove. And texted a few people from time to time. I was told to beware, for instance, the children of the corn.
We passed Lincoln. Not the man but the capitol city. We didn't get to see the dome.
Then we got to Omaha. Bigger city than I expected. Significant signs of extensive civilization. But we didn't stay long enough to see if they were highly evolved.
We found ourselves in Iowa. And the brother and I, because of our love of baseball, immediately found ourselves talking about the field. You know, the field. Where James Earl Jones disappeared into the corn. And where Moonlight Graham had his first hit.
The next few hours went - what I thought to be - quickly. Iowa's certainly more hilly than I expected. But it has just as much corn as I thought it would. Well, it will. The other thing that surprised me was the amount of wind across the plains. I suppose it makes sense since there's nothing to stop the wind from blowing across those states. But still, there were gusts that almost carried my Yankee cap far away.
Random comment. Saw the name Dubuque. The brother - who enjoys reading every sign and billboard on both sides of the road said, 'DUH buck'. I turned and smiled at him, thinking he was making fun. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, that isn't how you say it? No, it's 'duh BYOOK'. He looked at the name again and said, that's dumb.
We made our way through Des Moines. And then passed near Winterset, IA. I texted a few people and told them I was passing by Marion Morrison's birthplace. Most had no idea about whom I was speaking. But Ashley came back with her favorite quotation from him, 'Life is tough, but it's tougher when you're stupid.' And the Old Man - of course he knew who it was - asked if the brother and I were 'DUKEING' it out.
We passed by Brooklyn and Montezuma. Not to mention Iowa City and Davenport.
We crossed the Mississippi - which the brother loves to spell (I dunno). It was a tad anticlimactic. The brother thought it should have been wider. That's the word he used.
That meant we were in Illinois. Land of Lincoln. Well, not Lincoln, NE. We had just passed. Lincoln, NE. But Lincoln the man. Well, he's not a man anymore. Hasn't been for 145 years and 1 day. Is it strange that we passed both Lincoln, NE and through Illinois the day after the 145th anniversary of his death? Yeah, I suppose not.
On another note, the Old Man was excited to tell us that Utah experienced a 4.9 earthquake yesterday after we had driven through approximately the same part. Hmm... strange coincidences.
Yes, in Illinois. And in Illinois, I came across the strangest road signs I had ever seen. 'Caution Rough Road Ahead'. There were two yellow diamond-shaped signs that told me this. And the road was rough. I said aloud, why don't they just fix the damn road? The brother laughed and agreed. I then followed up by saying it was probably more cost effective to put the two signs on the side of the road.
We passed Peru, Ottawa, Princeton, and Marseilles. The brother quipped that people in the midwest weren't particularly original with their naming. I agreed.
We passed Joliet. He started talking about Juliet Capulet. And Romeo. But we couldn't remember his last name. I came up with Mercutio out of nowhere. And knew there was a guy that had the name 'Ty'. I just looked it up. Romeo Montague. And Tybalt. My Shakespeare is rusty.
Some time after Joliet, IL the brother suggested a game he had learned from his wife. Take a well known real person's name, for instance Meryl Streep. Then take the last letter of the last name and think of another person's name who begins with that letter, for instance Pedro Martinez. Then Ziggy Marley. And Yolanda Adams. Sam Snead. Dwight David Eisenhower. Raquel Welch. And so on. It lasted us through Illinois.
By Indiana, night had come. And there was construction. And the brother was bored and decided to sing and whistle and make random unintelligible noises. The dog continued to sleep. The GPS lady kept telling me to veer left. She was insistent, like an unbearable nanny crossed with a scratched record. We stopped for gas soon after. And I walked into the visitor center to regain some semblance of sanity.
We drove the last hour to South Bend. When we arrived at the exit, the GPS lady - she's buried deep in the recesses of the machine - told us to go and look for the Comfort Suites somewhere opposite the direction of all the hotels. Not a good sign, we thought. She then took us around and about until we discovered that we had gone in a circle. Not at all helpful. The brother started cursing. At her. At long lights. At lights that weren't bright enough. I headed back towards the hotels while the brother had a tiny fist fight with the woman in the GPS. I think he eventually won because we found the Comfort Suites. Except it was full. Just what we wanted to hear. I backed up the trailer all by my lonesome. The brother was surprised at the agility with which I maneuvered the small rig. I told him it was because I was pissed. Yeah, I can see that, he said.
Luckily, the guy at the Comfort Suites had recommended the Jameson Inn. Well, I was damn well not going to spend another night in a Motel 6 type place. So, I approached the Jameson with caution. But I'm pleasantly surprised. Thank God.
Now, it's 1:45. Primarily because we crossed into yet another time zone, the last one. And we'll be up early tomorrow to reach our final destination. And my final destination for now...
Good night all...
Thursday, April 15, 2010
It's Personal: Returning East Days 1 & 2
Here I sit in a Motel 6 in North Platte, NE. I've never been to Nebraska. And I hope never to stay in a Motel 6 again. It's true that you get that for which you pay.
Many of you already know that I'm on my way back east. Others of you didn't prior to the preceding sentence. Well, now you know. And here I am.
Because it is late, because I am tired, but mostly because I'm not prepared to discuss the topic, I will not be disclosing the associated whys and wherefores. Instead, I give you a few hows along the way. My trip remembered, as it were.
Before I begin, I will warn you that I have no pictures. It's partially because I don't have a camera. Partially because the camera on my phone isn't up to par. And mostly because pictures of random signs and mountains will not help me to remember this trip. Instead, I give to you a few recollections, most of them true...
With all the stuff - translated books, clothes, and crap - that I've accumulated, I can no longer fit everything into a Mitsubishi Galant. Not to mention I have my brother and the black / brown dog, Buddy, with me. So, a trailer was a must. Which meant I needed a hitch. Well, I did it by the book. A hitch first, professionally installed. Then an appointment for a 4' x 8' trailer. Then got the trailer on Tuesday. Drove it to the house. And acted like I was going to back the trailer into the driveway. Then I realized it was rush hour and pulled forward. And then I realized that I didn't know how to back it up.
So, that's how the whole thing started. After goodbyes had been said (again, not getting into that) I got into the car. With the booklet I had received from UHaul and the advice I had received from the old man through the brother, I slowly but surely backed the trailer and the forester out of the driveway. Yes, I held up morning traffic for 5-10 minutes. But I think Joseph enjoyed telling them to wait.
We were on our way. North on I-5. East on I-90. The brother, the dog, and I. Late, by the way. 8 a.m. You have to understand that when I started towards Seattle, I awoke at 5 a.m. Big difference.
Anyway. We traversed the Cascades. Beautiful this time of year. Don't have to worry about snow too much. And yet you can still see the traces of it here and there. Mountains and lakes and beautiful conifers. Amazing that I hadn't actually visited that road since July 2002. In fact, it's quite amazing that I visited so few places in the immediate vicinity. Once to Portland. Twice to Vancouver. Once to the San Juans. Once to Mt. Rainier. Never to Leavenworth. And still never to California, not that it's in the immediate vicinity.
We followed I-90 to Ellensburg and then veered south on I-82. Through Yakima and Kennewick, our first stop. Nothing really of note during that period. Buddy wasn't sure what was happening. And I felt badly for him. The brother fiddled in the front seat - not literally - and tried to enjoy the scenery. His favorite saying of the trip thus far - except for Seattle and Ogden, UT of all places - there is nothing here; I mean nothing.
We entered Oregon, which the brother insists on calling oar-uh-GONE as opposed to OAR uh gun. We got gas. I forgot it was full service. I hadn't had full service gas since a trip through New Jersey. And then we left Oregon. Not much in that northeast corner.
We entered Idaho and almost immediately passed through Boise. Well, that was after Nampa which the brother quipped was Tampa's cousin. Relatively uneventful. Except for the smell. Not sure what it was, but every so often we caught a scent entirely too similar to raw sewage. Yuck.
Lost an hour sometime in there. Went from Pacific to Mountain. Ugh.
636 miles. 12 hours. Good enough.
Spent the night in Twin Falls at a Best Western. Nice place. Had amenities I wish I had had time to use.
Went to bed. Slept well.
Awoke at 6 a.m. Better. We ate the complimentary breakfast and were on our way by 7.
Made it the rest of the way through Idaho. Then into Utah. Didn't quite get down to the Great Salt Lake. But close. Did go to a rest area just before the Rockies where Buddy left some treats.
The trip through Utah was short. Wyoming came next. Stopped in Evanston for gas. And answered some work email. Yes, there's still work.
Crossed Wyoming to Rawlins. Got gas again. In between, there were buttes and mountains and cows and sheep and lots of trucks.
Tangent. We passed by a small, frail looking creature. It was whitish and had horns. I thought it was a deer and said as much. The brother said, no, it's a cantelope. I turned to look at him. And he started laughing the addictive laugh he's had since childhood.
After Rawlins, we made our way to Cheyenne, Wyoming's capital. We saw the golden top of the capitol building. And we kept going.
Into Nebraska. Sidney was our first stop in the state. Needed gas, after all. So, I insert the credit card and am told to go into the cashier. I pump the gas and then see the cashier. The card has a hold on it. I use the debit card. Why does the credit card have a hold?
I call customer service. In the middle of the call, I get dropped. I am out in the middle of nowhere after all. During the second call, I discover that the card has been flagged as having fraudulent activity on it. Why? Because I'm taking a cross country trip, and that is abnormal. So, the guy removes the hold.
What annoyed me the most about it? Well, I had a hard time understanding the people on the other end of the line. They were all foreign. I'm not against foreigners working in the U.S. But methinks they weren't working in the U.S. Yet more business process outsourcing.
Drove through the black night in western Nebraska. Trucks passed at ridiculous speeds. And then I saw the sign saying we had passed into the Central time zone. Which meant we didn't get into the room at 9:30 as we had intended. But at 10:30.
And I was adamant about writing this entry. So, now it's almost 1:30 Central. That's 11:30 Pacific. Or even 12:30 Mountain, if you'd like. Right now, with everything I've endured of late, it might as well be high noon.
I suppose I should try to sleep. We've another long day ahead tomorrow. South Bend is a reach. More than likely, we'll be somewhere south of Chicago.
Until next I write...
Many of you already know that I'm on my way back east. Others of you didn't prior to the preceding sentence. Well, now you know. And here I am.
Because it is late, because I am tired, but mostly because I'm not prepared to discuss the topic, I will not be disclosing the associated whys and wherefores. Instead, I give you a few hows along the way. My trip remembered, as it were.
Before I begin, I will warn you that I have no pictures. It's partially because I don't have a camera. Partially because the camera on my phone isn't up to par. And mostly because pictures of random signs and mountains will not help me to remember this trip. Instead, I give to you a few recollections, most of them true...
With all the stuff - translated books, clothes, and crap - that I've accumulated, I can no longer fit everything into a Mitsubishi Galant. Not to mention I have my brother and the black / brown dog, Buddy, with me. So, a trailer was a must. Which meant I needed a hitch. Well, I did it by the book. A hitch first, professionally installed. Then an appointment for a 4' x 8' trailer. Then got the trailer on Tuesday. Drove it to the house. And acted like I was going to back the trailer into the driveway. Then I realized it was rush hour and pulled forward. And then I realized that I didn't know how to back it up.
So, that's how the whole thing started. After goodbyes had been said (again, not getting into that) I got into the car. With the booklet I had received from UHaul and the advice I had received from the old man through the brother, I slowly but surely backed the trailer and the forester out of the driveway. Yes, I held up morning traffic for 5-10 minutes. But I think Joseph enjoyed telling them to wait.
We were on our way. North on I-5. East on I-90. The brother, the dog, and I. Late, by the way. 8 a.m. You have to understand that when I started towards Seattle, I awoke at 5 a.m. Big difference.
Anyway. We traversed the Cascades. Beautiful this time of year. Don't have to worry about snow too much. And yet you can still see the traces of it here and there. Mountains and lakes and beautiful conifers. Amazing that I hadn't actually visited that road since July 2002. In fact, it's quite amazing that I visited so few places in the immediate vicinity. Once to Portland. Twice to Vancouver. Once to the San Juans. Once to Mt. Rainier. Never to Leavenworth. And still never to California, not that it's in the immediate vicinity.
We followed I-90 to Ellensburg and then veered south on I-82. Through Yakima and Kennewick, our first stop. Nothing really of note during that period. Buddy wasn't sure what was happening. And I felt badly for him. The brother fiddled in the front seat - not literally - and tried to enjoy the scenery. His favorite saying of the trip thus far - except for Seattle and Ogden, UT of all places - there is nothing here; I mean nothing.
We entered Oregon, which the brother insists on calling oar-uh-GONE as opposed to OAR uh gun. We got gas. I forgot it was full service. I hadn't had full service gas since a trip through New Jersey. And then we left Oregon. Not much in that northeast corner.
We entered Idaho and almost immediately passed through Boise. Well, that was after Nampa which the brother quipped was Tampa's cousin. Relatively uneventful. Except for the smell. Not sure what it was, but every so often we caught a scent entirely too similar to raw sewage. Yuck.
Lost an hour sometime in there. Went from Pacific to Mountain. Ugh.
636 miles. 12 hours. Good enough.
Spent the night in Twin Falls at a Best Western. Nice place. Had amenities I wish I had had time to use.
Went to bed. Slept well.
Awoke at 6 a.m. Better. We ate the complimentary breakfast and were on our way by 7.
Made it the rest of the way through Idaho. Then into Utah. Didn't quite get down to the Great Salt Lake. But close. Did go to a rest area just before the Rockies where Buddy left some treats.
The trip through Utah was short. Wyoming came next. Stopped in Evanston for gas. And answered some work email. Yes, there's still work.
Crossed Wyoming to Rawlins. Got gas again. In between, there were buttes and mountains and cows and sheep and lots of trucks.
Tangent. We passed by a small, frail looking creature. It was whitish and had horns. I thought it was a deer and said as much. The brother said, no, it's a cantelope. I turned to look at him. And he started laughing the addictive laugh he's had since childhood.
After Rawlins, we made our way to Cheyenne, Wyoming's capital. We saw the golden top of the capitol building. And we kept going.
Into Nebraska. Sidney was our first stop in the state. Needed gas, after all. So, I insert the credit card and am told to go into the cashier. I pump the gas and then see the cashier. The card has a hold on it. I use the debit card. Why does the credit card have a hold?
I call customer service. In the middle of the call, I get dropped. I am out in the middle of nowhere after all. During the second call, I discover that the card has been flagged as having fraudulent activity on it. Why? Because I'm taking a cross country trip, and that is abnormal. So, the guy removes the hold.
What annoyed me the most about it? Well, I had a hard time understanding the people on the other end of the line. They were all foreign. I'm not against foreigners working in the U.S. But methinks they weren't working in the U.S. Yet more business process outsourcing.
Drove through the black night in western Nebraska. Trucks passed at ridiculous speeds. And then I saw the sign saying we had passed into the Central time zone. Which meant we didn't get into the room at 9:30 as we had intended. But at 10:30.
And I was adamant about writing this entry. So, now it's almost 1:30 Central. That's 11:30 Pacific. Or even 12:30 Mountain, if you'd like. Right now, with everything I've endured of late, it might as well be high noon.
I suppose I should try to sleep. We've another long day ahead tomorrow. South Bend is a reach. More than likely, we'll be somewhere south of Chicago.
Until next I write...
Monday, March 29, 2010
It's Personal: Dancing
I don't dance.
I'm sitting here in the living room. Buddy's sitting on the ottoman staring at me. Cleo's scrunched between pillows, sleeping. My hands are cold. It's normal. My hands are always cold.
I've just returned from the other room with my New York Football Giants fleece blanket. No, it's not a snuggie.
I sip my Pitch Black IPA.
And there's something on the television. Most of you know that I'm not a huge fan of television. The last show I followed with any regularity by choice was West Wing. Oh, and what's on the television is a reality show. Gag me with a spoon...
I'm trying not to pay attention. I'm succeeding for the most part. But still I can't avoid the ridiculous drama, the terrible singing, the crotchety British judge, and Tom Bergeron.
You got it; it's Dancing with the Stars.
What's worse is that it brings back memories. And I'm not talking about an appearance on a ridiculous reality television show.
I was in college. Somewhere in the midst of my math education major phase. I had a steady girlfriend. Steph, of Paraguayan descent. And Steph, of Paraguayan descent, wanted to dance. No, not at a club. Nor at a wedding.
Buzz Aldrin dances. If it were anyone else, it would be a trainwreck. But this guy walked on the moon. So, he gets a pass.
She wanted to dance. Like ballroom dance. Me. And ballroom dance.
I've tried to forget that part of my life. With a memory like mine, I've almost succeeded. But every so often, I hear the female instructor rhythmically chant 'Tee' (pause) 'Ay' (pause) 'En Gee Oh'. And then it all comes rushing back. The waltz. The cha cha. The foxtrot. The tango. I enjoyed watching Steph. She had a natural talent for movement on the dance floor. I, on the other hand, dreaded every moment spent on the hardwood. Trainwreck is being nice.
I tried. I really did. But I had no rhythm. And the very fact that I dreaded it meant that I was doomed to fail before I had begun.
I think I'd be better at it now if I were to try it again. Because I understand that it's about having the confidence.
But don't get me wrong, it'll be a cold day in hell before I try it again.
Because I don't dance.
I'm sitting here in the living room. Buddy's sitting on the ottoman staring at me. Cleo's scrunched between pillows, sleeping. My hands are cold. It's normal. My hands are always cold.
I've just returned from the other room with my New York Football Giants fleece blanket. No, it's not a snuggie.
I sip my Pitch Black IPA.
And there's something on the television. Most of you know that I'm not a huge fan of television. The last show I followed with any regularity by choice was West Wing. Oh, and what's on the television is a reality show. Gag me with a spoon...
I'm trying not to pay attention. I'm succeeding for the most part. But still I can't avoid the ridiculous drama, the terrible singing, the crotchety British judge, and Tom Bergeron.
You got it; it's Dancing with the Stars.
What's worse is that it brings back memories. And I'm not talking about an appearance on a ridiculous reality television show.
I was in college. Somewhere in the midst of my math education major phase. I had a steady girlfriend. Steph, of Paraguayan descent. And Steph, of Paraguayan descent, wanted to dance. No, not at a club. Nor at a wedding.
Buzz Aldrin dances. If it were anyone else, it would be a trainwreck. But this guy walked on the moon. So, he gets a pass.
She wanted to dance. Like ballroom dance. Me. And ballroom dance.
I've tried to forget that part of my life. With a memory like mine, I've almost succeeded. But every so often, I hear the female instructor rhythmically chant 'Tee' (pause) 'Ay' (pause) 'En Gee Oh'. And then it all comes rushing back. The waltz. The cha cha. The foxtrot. The tango. I enjoyed watching Steph. She had a natural talent for movement on the dance floor. I, on the other hand, dreaded every moment spent on the hardwood. Trainwreck is being nice.
I tried. I really did. But I had no rhythm. And the very fact that I dreaded it meant that I was doomed to fail before I had begun.
I think I'd be better at it now if I were to try it again. Because I understand that it's about having the confidence.
But don't get me wrong, it'll be a cold day in hell before I try it again.
Because I don't dance.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
It's Personal: Free Pastry
Names have been changed to protect the incoherent. No, not really. I'll use the real names; I don't think they'll mind.
Karina gave us coupons. Well, gave us each the same coupon. I think she gave it to others too. It wasn't one of those unique coupons for a free trip to the moon or anything. It was a coupon printed from her email, I think. A coupon for a free pastry at Starbucks. Of course, there was a caveat; you had to buy a drink too. Easy.
When I arrived this morning, the copied coupon stared at me. I placed it on my desk where I couldn't miss it. I didn't miss it. I walked into Olympus and waved the coupon. 'You wanna go?' she asked. 'Yep,' I said. So, we hightailed it downstairs. Well, I can't say it was exactly hightailing given the speed of the elevators in the building. So, I suppose it's more accurate to say we hightailed it to the elevators and then meandered downward into the abyss of the lobby.
We exited the elevator and looked toward the Starbucks located conveniently in the lobby of the building. A line. Were we surprised? Nah. I mean, we couldn't have been the only ones who knew about the free pastry. It was a nationwide thing, after all. So, we traded glances and she said, 'Later?' I nodded, 'Yep.' So, we walked back to the elevator, meanderingly ascended and loped back to our desks.
The team engaged in meetings for one hour and forty-five minutes.
Right, forgot to tell you an important catch. The free pastry coupon was only good on March 23rd until 10:30 a.m. Pacific. So, we stopped the meeting at 10:15 a.m. Pacific. Tara and I retrieved our coupons. And we hightailed it to the elevators again. We hit the lobby somewhere in the 10:20 a.m. Pacific timeframe. We looked towards Starbucks. No line. We half jogged to the front doors.
We looked across the store and spied the case that held the pastries. It wasn't empty. Success. With ten minutes to spare. The manager and a peon watched as Tara and I traversed the tiny store. The peon, usually bordering on mute, became suddenly animated. 'Oh, are you here for the free pastry?' she asked as she watched us wave the coupons like a banner. Her tone next bordered on aggresive, 'Those pastries aren't free; we can't give them away.'
I had made it to the case before Tara. I saw doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and pastries plenty. No, it wasn't stocked. But there they were in all their calorific glory. And we still had eight minutes.
She continued to explain, more in a pleading way, 'We have to sell some pastries today. The supply was limited like it says on the coupon.' Yes, in fact there in bold was the statement that supply was limited. The peon settled. 'Can I get anything started for you?'
Tara looked like she was somewhere between perplexed and vexed. Closer to vexed if I had to choose. She didn't look directly at the peon. I was a little concerned that she would. The peon repeated the question about whether we wanted anything. Tara turned briefly and said succinctly, 'No.' I followed suit but with an attempted smile. I'm not sure it came off. Not that I care altogether much.
We walked back to the elevators. I said, 'It just doesn't make business sense.' Tara said something to the effect of 'It's firetrucking stupid.' Except it wasn't firetrucking. And we ascended in the slow elevators back to the conference room.
Empty handed again.
Karina gave us coupons. Well, gave us each the same coupon. I think she gave it to others too. It wasn't one of those unique coupons for a free trip to the moon or anything. It was a coupon printed from her email, I think. A coupon for a free pastry at Starbucks. Of course, there was a caveat; you had to buy a drink too. Easy.
When I arrived this morning, the copied coupon stared at me. I placed it on my desk where I couldn't miss it. I didn't miss it. I walked into Olympus and waved the coupon. 'You wanna go?' she asked. 'Yep,' I said. So, we hightailed it downstairs. Well, I can't say it was exactly hightailing given the speed of the elevators in the building. So, I suppose it's more accurate to say we hightailed it to the elevators and then meandered downward into the abyss of the lobby.
We exited the elevator and looked toward the Starbucks located conveniently in the lobby of the building. A line. Were we surprised? Nah. I mean, we couldn't have been the only ones who knew about the free pastry. It was a nationwide thing, after all. So, we traded glances and she said, 'Later?' I nodded, 'Yep.' So, we walked back to the elevator, meanderingly ascended and loped back to our desks.
The team engaged in meetings for one hour and forty-five minutes.
Right, forgot to tell you an important catch. The free pastry coupon was only good on March 23rd until 10:30 a.m. Pacific. So, we stopped the meeting at 10:15 a.m. Pacific. Tara and I retrieved our coupons. And we hightailed it to the elevators again. We hit the lobby somewhere in the 10:20 a.m. Pacific timeframe. We looked towards Starbucks. No line. We half jogged to the front doors.
We looked across the store and spied the case that held the pastries. It wasn't empty. Success. With ten minutes to spare. The manager and a peon watched as Tara and I traversed the tiny store. The peon, usually bordering on mute, became suddenly animated. 'Oh, are you here for the free pastry?' she asked as she watched us wave the coupons like a banner. Her tone next bordered on aggresive, 'Those pastries aren't free; we can't give them away.'
I had made it to the case before Tara. I saw doughnuts, muffins, cookies, and pastries plenty. No, it wasn't stocked. But there they were in all their calorific glory. And we still had eight minutes.
She continued to explain, more in a pleading way, 'We have to sell some pastries today. The supply was limited like it says on the coupon.' Yes, in fact there in bold was the statement that supply was limited. The peon settled. 'Can I get anything started for you?'
Tara looked like she was somewhere between perplexed and vexed. Closer to vexed if I had to choose. She didn't look directly at the peon. I was a little concerned that she would. The peon repeated the question about whether we wanted anything. Tara turned briefly and said succinctly, 'No.' I followed suit but with an attempted smile. I'm not sure it came off. Not that I care altogether much.
We walked back to the elevators. I said, 'It just doesn't make business sense.' Tara said something to the effect of 'It's firetrucking stupid.' Except it wasn't firetrucking. And we ascended in the slow elevators back to the conference room.
Empty handed again.
Monday, March 15, 2010
It's Personal: The Video Game I Beat
It was 1988. My brother and I visited the old man at his newly rented apartment in the wilds of Meriden. I can't remember if it was a Wednesday or a Friday. And there beneath the old man's television was the dark and light grey Nintendo console. Beside the box were a new-fangled laser gun and two controllers. My brother and I raced to them and obligatorily tried Duck Hunt for about 30 seconds. And then we moved to Super Mario Brothers. I can't even begin to say how many hours I spent playing that game. But I didn't beat it...
Soon after, I tried my hand at Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I beat Bald Bull, Soda Popinski, Don Flamenco, Glass Joe, and King Hippo. But did I ever beat Mike Tyson himself? Nope...
I played the Legend of Zelda. And then stopped after I got bored.
Tecmo Bowl. I couldn't beat the Bears.
Tetris? Yeah right...
Super Mario Brothers 2 was just weird with all the digging.
And Super Mario Brothers 3, forget the high level dungeons.
Ninja Gaiden was fun. But it wasn't much fun without someone else with whom to play.
And Contra was awesome with all those different types of weapons, but I lost interest.
No, there was only one game that kept me coming back. Day upon day and night after night, I hoarded the NES playing this RPG. And most to whom I speak do not remember it. It's name? Dragon Warrior. (It's name later changed to Dragon Quest.) I can't tell you how many different colored slimes I fought to get to the end of that game. And on the night I got to the end, I saw the dawn of the next day without going to sleep. I think it might have been the first time I had ever stayed up an entire night.
But it was during summer vacation, so it was all good...
Soon after, I tried my hand at Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I beat Bald Bull, Soda Popinski, Don Flamenco, Glass Joe, and King Hippo. But did I ever beat Mike Tyson himself? Nope...
I played the Legend of Zelda. And then stopped after I got bored.
Tecmo Bowl. I couldn't beat the Bears.
Tetris? Yeah right...
Super Mario Brothers 2 was just weird with all the digging.
And Super Mario Brothers 3, forget the high level dungeons.
Ninja Gaiden was fun. But it wasn't much fun without someone else with whom to play.
And Contra was awesome with all those different types of weapons, but I lost interest.
No, there was only one game that kept me coming back. Day upon day and night after night, I hoarded the NES playing this RPG. And most to whom I speak do not remember it. It's name? Dragon Warrior. (It's name later changed to Dragon Quest.) I can't tell you how many different colored slimes I fought to get to the end of that game. And on the night I got to the end, I saw the dawn of the next day without going to sleep. I think it might have been the first time I had ever stayed up an entire night.
But it was during summer vacation, so it was all good...
Monday, March 8, 2010
It's Personal: Alice
It was a beautiful day in Seattle. Saturday, that is. This past Saturday. When it was sunny. And warm. A beautiful day. But I see I've already said as much.
The day ended uneventfully. At the end of the day. It was dark out, I remember. But there wasn't much else. A bit of work on the plan for softball practice. Apart from that, however, there was the digestion of the dinner I didn't have that evening.
Sometime during the day we went to a place called Roxy's up north. Not so far north that you start going south, mind you, but far enough north that it wasn't south of where we started. There's a deli-like atmosphere at Roxy's. Small tables and small chairs for big people who don't fit at and in them. A bar of mirror and multivariate bottles with the devil's drink. I had eggs with sausage and pancakes at noon. With iced tea, always unsweetened.
We departed the theater sometime later after the moving picture ceased to show us pictures of interest. Just flashing names of grips and tographers of cinema. The sticky ground with clumps of popped corn. Who thought to pop the first corn, I wonder. Or put fizz in water with sugar and syrup of the might fructose corn stalk. It was dark then. With people walking to and fro. In out doors. Out in doors. It was a chaos of sorts, tempered by screaming children.
We tried the theater at the mall in all its sunny gloom. The giant Eastwood aiming his dirty harry gun at Elizabeth Taylor and her violet eyes. There were broken lines of old people interspersed with new people hopping up and down in impatient glee. With people neither old nor new attempting to smile at both the old and new people but not much succeeding. We looked at one another without three dimensional glasses and determined we would make a four dimensional escape across time.
There was a lull during the warm day when we sat at home and stared at what might have been a fire in the fireplace if we had firewood. Or fire. Or kindling. Or if it wasn't so warm out. There was no tension to break. No movement. Almost no silence except that there was. Between the clicks of the dogs' nails.
We decided on a non-three dimensional showing at another theater at a place called the landing in Renton near Boeing. Which I don't think was named because it was a place that was once a landing. For planes or boats. Or trains or automobiles, for that matter. Just a landing. Or the landing to be more correct from an articled perspective.
The movie began and ended with moving pictures in between fraught with computer-generated imagery and talented actors. Row, row, row your boat. A hatter, mad as can be on stage and off, danced impossibly and fought the same. Gently down the stream. A big-headed queen with her knave provided some what might be considered humor in an anti-non-Vaudevillian sort of way. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. And from the moving pictures, there came to me a lesson I have not yet unlearned. Life is but a dream.
The day ended uneventfully. At the end of the day. It was dark out, I remember. But there wasn't much else. A bit of work on the plan for softball practice. Apart from that, however, there was the digestion of the dinner I didn't have that evening.
Sometime during the day we went to a place called Roxy's up north. Not so far north that you start going south, mind you, but far enough north that it wasn't south of where we started. There's a deli-like atmosphere at Roxy's. Small tables and small chairs for big people who don't fit at and in them. A bar of mirror and multivariate bottles with the devil's drink. I had eggs with sausage and pancakes at noon. With iced tea, always unsweetened.
We departed the theater sometime later after the moving picture ceased to show us pictures of interest. Just flashing names of grips and tographers of cinema. The sticky ground with clumps of popped corn. Who thought to pop the first corn, I wonder. Or put fizz in water with sugar and syrup of the might fructose corn stalk. It was dark then. With people walking to and fro. In out doors. Out in doors. It was a chaos of sorts, tempered by screaming children.
We tried the theater at the mall in all its sunny gloom. The giant Eastwood aiming his dirty harry gun at Elizabeth Taylor and her violet eyes. There were broken lines of old people interspersed with new people hopping up and down in impatient glee. With people neither old nor new attempting to smile at both the old and new people but not much succeeding. We looked at one another without three dimensional glasses and determined we would make a four dimensional escape across time.
There was a lull during the warm day when we sat at home and stared at what might have been a fire in the fireplace if we had firewood. Or fire. Or kindling. Or if it wasn't so warm out. There was no tension to break. No movement. Almost no silence except that there was. Between the clicks of the dogs' nails.
We decided on a non-three dimensional showing at another theater at a place called the landing in Renton near Boeing. Which I don't think was named because it was a place that was once a landing. For planes or boats. Or trains or automobiles, for that matter. Just a landing. Or the landing to be more correct from an articled perspective.
The movie began and ended with moving pictures in between fraught with computer-generated imagery and talented actors. Row, row, row your boat. A hatter, mad as can be on stage and off, danced impossibly and fought the same. Gently down the stream. A big-headed queen with her knave provided some what might be considered humor in an anti-non-Vaudevillian sort of way. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. And from the moving pictures, there came to me a lesson I have not yet unlearned. Life is but a dream.
Monday, March 1, 2010
It's Personal: How I Discovered Personal Email
It was 1996. And I didn't have a personal email address. I don't think it was particularly strange to be in that predicament in 1996. The techies all had one by that time, but I was by no means a techie. I just didn't see the need. I had a school email address, after all. I had used that for both my academic and personal needs. Not to mention that I still wrote the occasional letter to friends and family. Yes, actual snail mail. Again, not uncommon in 1996. Less common 14 years later.
It was around that time that I started asking questions about myself. Without going into detail, I was determining the type of person to whom I was attracted. I've always been a late bloomer. Whereas most people figure that stuff out in high school, it took me until my sophomore year in college to consider such things. So, I went to certain message boards to find discussions about hetero and homosexuality. Innocent enough stuff. And I participated, asking questions and involving myself in conversations. Informative stuff.
Where is the intersection point, you ask?
One day while visiting a message board discussing homosexuality, a person suggested that I get a personal email address. It sounded interesting, but I didn't understand the need since I had an academic address. He suggested that the personal email address would allow me to separate personal from academic. So, I asked him how to go about getting an address. He suggested I get a hotmail address. I wasn't certain what to respond. I was interested in that kind of address (and by that kind of address, I meant one with the word, hot, in it. It sounded to me like the email equivalent of a late night telephone commercial with a buxom blonde speaking in ridiculously whispered tones. He, of course, told me it was completely legitimate. But I would hear nothing more about it.
A short time later, I saw in my academic email inbox a message from a good friend. And that friend had a hotmail address. I decided to do some research at that point and discovered that hotmail was, in fact, legitimate.
Boy, did I feel dumb.
It was around that time that I started asking questions about myself. Without going into detail, I was determining the type of person to whom I was attracted. I've always been a late bloomer. Whereas most people figure that stuff out in high school, it took me until my sophomore year in college to consider such things. So, I went to certain message boards to find discussions about hetero and homosexuality. Innocent enough stuff. And I participated, asking questions and involving myself in conversations. Informative stuff.
Where is the intersection point, you ask?
One day while visiting a message board discussing homosexuality, a person suggested that I get a personal email address. It sounded interesting, but I didn't understand the need since I had an academic address. He suggested that the personal email address would allow me to separate personal from academic. So, I asked him how to go about getting an address. He suggested I get a hotmail address. I wasn't certain what to respond. I was interested in that kind of address (and by that kind of address, I meant one with the word, hot, in it. It sounded to me like the email equivalent of a late night telephone commercial with a buxom blonde speaking in ridiculously whispered tones. He, of course, told me it was completely legitimate. But I would hear nothing more about it.
A short time later, I saw in my academic email inbox a message from a good friend. And that friend had a hotmail address. I decided to do some research at that point and discovered that hotmail was, in fact, legitimate.
Boy, did I feel dumb.
Monday, February 15, 2010
It's Personal: School or Bust
Before I owned the silver 1984 Toyota Celica GT Hatchback with power roof, windows, and doors, I owned a refurbished 10-speed bicycle, my vehicle of choice for traveling to school from my apartment during middle and high school. Like some deranged mailman, I set out on that straight handle-barred bike each morning at 6 a.m. in whatever weather the Board of Education deemed not detrimental for bus travel. And not being a skilled 'biker' as it were, I spent most of my time on the frail - and sometimes frosty - sidewalks avoiding people, dogs, and their leashes. as well as the cars driven by sleepy people, who couldn't care less about students on 10-speeds at 6 a.m. What made me look the most hysterical and ridiculous was the way I 'carried' my bag. For whatever reason, I did not like backpacks during middle and high school. I can't give a good reason why; I simply didn't want to have one. Instead, I carried a duffel bag, a big you-can-fit-all-of-your-books-in-it duffel bag. How does one carry such a bag when venturing to school? Not on one's back lest one break one's back at the age of 15. No, I 'fastened' the bag to the right handlebar and subsequently attempted to wobble the bike the 1.4 miles to the high school.
Of all the mornings I rode to school, I think I can choose a worst. I can give you no date apart from the fact that it was during high school, meaning between August 1991 and June 1995. The rain was falling hard. My mother made the suggestion that I call someone for a ride. Although a good idea, I could think of no 'someone' for whom it wouldn't be an inconvenience. My mother left for work, as she always did, leaving my brother and I to stare into the murky morning. Thinking I had no other choice, I wheeled my bike from the apartment and banged the wheels down the stairs to the front doors of the apartment complex. I 'fastened' my duffel bag to the right handlebar and opened the door. It wasn't raining; it was pouring. But, convinced I had no other choice, I pushed the bike into the rain, sat on the seat, and began pedaling. It would have been better had anything I was wearing been waterproof. But it wasn't. And my book bag? Same issue. Within the first half mile, my hair was as soaked as it had been prior to my post-shower towel drying that morning. By the one mile mark, my socks and school shirt were drenched. I could only imagine my books. And by the time I arrived at school, it looked as though I had driven off a diving board and into the deep end of a pool. I thought about going to my homeroom, but then thought better of it. Having been a nerd in high school, that might have been all the ammunition the other students needed to let loose. Instead, I walked into the office and simply said, 'I can't go to class like this.' Those blessed women agreed and allowed me to call my mother, who contacted someone to take me back to the apartment. I changed and returned to school.
It continued to rain all day.
And I had to ride back home...
Of all the mornings I rode to school, I think I can choose a worst. I can give you no date apart from the fact that it was during high school, meaning between August 1991 and June 1995. The rain was falling hard. My mother made the suggestion that I call someone for a ride. Although a good idea, I could think of no 'someone' for whom it wouldn't be an inconvenience. My mother left for work, as she always did, leaving my brother and I to stare into the murky morning. Thinking I had no other choice, I wheeled my bike from the apartment and banged the wheels down the stairs to the front doors of the apartment complex. I 'fastened' my duffel bag to the right handlebar and opened the door. It wasn't raining; it was pouring. But, convinced I had no other choice, I pushed the bike into the rain, sat on the seat, and began pedaling. It would have been better had anything I was wearing been waterproof. But it wasn't. And my book bag? Same issue. Within the first half mile, my hair was as soaked as it had been prior to my post-shower towel drying that morning. By the one mile mark, my socks and school shirt were drenched. I could only imagine my books. And by the time I arrived at school, it looked as though I had driven off a diving board and into the deep end of a pool. I thought about going to my homeroom, but then thought better of it. Having been a nerd in high school, that might have been all the ammunition the other students needed to let loose. Instead, I walked into the office and simply said, 'I can't go to class like this.' Those blessed women agreed and allowed me to call my mother, who contacted someone to take me back to the apartment. I changed and returned to school.
It continued to rain all day.
And I had to ride back home...
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Return of the... What was I saying?
I chose the Indianapolis Colts. Then again, what do I know?
Good evening friends, family, and random readers. I have returned. And plan to return for more regular posts. Because it's what I should be doing. Because it's what I want to do.
It's Personal. Sporting Rants and Raves. Three Word Wednesdays. All on the docket.
For now, I give to you a brief overview of the time since last I posted. Try to keep up...
I chose the Saints, the Colts, the Cowboys, and the Chargers. Saints and Colts played Saturday. Cowboys and Chargers played Sunday. 100% on Saturday and 0% on Sunday. The Old Man made it a point to tell me. I like to think of it as 50/50.
Softball started on the 17th. I, the lunatic coach, had the team at the fields at 9 a.m. People straggled and lazily trotted. 'This ain't last year's team,' I told 'em. Then we ran. And ran. And ran some more...
No class that Monday. The celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. I don't really remember it. Okay, not for the reasons you're thinking. Well, maybe for the reasons you're thinking...
A short week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
On January 23rd, I should have wished Kevin Mawae a happy 39th birthday.
JB hasn't been too happy about the lack of trivia...
Trivia of the Week 1/23
Who was the first Heisman Trophy winner elected to the Football Hall of Fame? In what year was he inducted?
And I thought it would be the Colts and Saints. Not that I have any way of proving it.
Another week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Rusty and I met with the owner of Purr, a bar on the Hill. We discussed sponsorship for this year's Thrusters. Very generous, she...
The weekend with no football during football season arrived. No, the Pro Bowl doesn't count, even if it was played the week before.
I should have wished Davey Johnson a happy 67th birthday on January 30th.
Trivia of the Week 1/30
For which team does Davey Johnson now serve as a Senior Adviser?
What is Sunday without football anyway?
Eh...
First week of February followed. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Phil saw his shadow. Another six weeks of winter. Then, I read a stat regarding his accuracy. Phil gets it right 37% of the time. Now, honestly, given a very brief background in statistics, I'd imagine Phil would be about 50/50. Same as I with predicting football games. But no, he's a whopping 37/63. Has anyone ever wondered if there's a possibility that seeing his shadow actually means there won't be six more weeks of winter?
Given of course, that we're talking about a tradition that has a guy dressed in antiquated clothing yanking a rodent out of a hole and translating what that rodent sees.
That Wednesday night, a night not alright for fighting, Joseph and I accompanied a couple friends not to Zanzibar where we didn't replay scenes from an Italian restaurant, but rather to a packed and understaffed Mexican restaurant where we didn't start the fire in our stomachs. The meal was ridiculously late, which made us wonder if we could get to the concert on time. But we did, which allowed us to witness the song of you who have actually read this far into this post. When captain fantastic arrived, I was somewhat unsure about what he was trying to say. But the other one with his uptown girl was as hilarious as I'd been told. Neither piano man has yet let the sun go down on them...
Super Bowl weekend came in all its glory.
I could have wished Brodie Croyle a happy 27th birthday on February 6th. But I wouldn't have had more than that to say.
Trivia of the Week 2/6
Where did Babe Ruth - born on 2/6 - hit his final home run? (City and field)
The Super Bowl came. First half was boring. And then Sean Payton decided to try something that had never been attempted in any quarter but the fourth. It just so happens he became a hero and not a goat. A game of inches. Who dat!
I traveled that following Tuesday to Las Vegas. An uneventful flight. And raining in Vegas. Raining, really? A cab ride to the Mirage. A smoky casino wrapped in a mall. An average room. Steve and I drinking a beer. Visited Tao, a night club with which I was supposed to be impressed. Ate at Del Fresco's twice, a restaurant with which I was impressed. A guy named Robert yelling in the street, 'La verdad no está aquí', which roughly translated means 'The truth is not here.' I couldn't agree more.
The difference between New York and Las Vegas? New York has history and a soul...
Traveled back from Vegas and realized some things. Heard the Old Man asking me that Sunday before the Super Bowl began, 'What are you doing? Where are you going?'
We all have a window of opportunity. And that window isn't about money or fame. Neither greed nor lust. But truth. And, as a priest once told me, for saving the one soul that I can, namely mine.
That time fast approaches.
And here we are on this Saturday in mid-February. Anticipating an enjoyably long weekend followed by a week of work, some victuals, and more sleep.
I wish Mr. Randall Gene Moss a happy 33rd birthday.
Trivia of the Week
Randy Moss played for Marshall in college. But that was not his original choice. For which school did he sign a letter of intent? And when he was denied enrollment, to which college did he 'transfer'?
If you have made it this far, I applaud you. And if you've skimmed, I'll give you accolades. If you skipped all the way down here, shame on you. And if you never read this at all, you won't mind me calling you a dope. Thanks for taking the time. And I'll see you soon. Until next I write...
Good evening friends, family, and random readers. I have returned. And plan to return for more regular posts. Because it's what I should be doing. Because it's what I want to do.
It's Personal. Sporting Rants and Raves. Three Word Wednesdays. All on the docket.
For now, I give to you a brief overview of the time since last I posted. Try to keep up...
I chose the Saints, the Colts, the Cowboys, and the Chargers. Saints and Colts played Saturday. Cowboys and Chargers played Sunday. 100% on Saturday and 0% on Sunday. The Old Man made it a point to tell me. I like to think of it as 50/50.
Softball started on the 17th. I, the lunatic coach, had the team at the fields at 9 a.m. People straggled and lazily trotted. 'This ain't last year's team,' I told 'em. Then we ran. And ran. And ran some more...
No class that Monday. The celebration of Martin Luther King, Jr. I don't really remember it. Okay, not for the reasons you're thinking. Well, maybe for the reasons you're thinking...
A short week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
On January 23rd, I should have wished Kevin Mawae a happy 39th birthday.
JB hasn't been too happy about the lack of trivia...
Trivia of the Week 1/23
Who was the first Heisman Trophy winner elected to the Football Hall of Fame? In what year was he inducted?
And I thought it would be the Colts and Saints. Not that I have any way of proving it.
Another week. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Rusty and I met with the owner of Purr, a bar on the Hill. We discussed sponsorship for this year's Thrusters. Very generous, she...
The weekend with no football during football season arrived. No, the Pro Bowl doesn't count, even if it was played the week before.
I should have wished Davey Johnson a happy 67th birthday on January 30th.
Trivia of the Week 1/30
For which team does Davey Johnson now serve as a Senior Adviser?
What is Sunday without football anyway?
Eh...
First week of February followed. I worked. I home-worked. I class-worked. I remember a few victuals and a lack of sleep.
Phil saw his shadow. Another six weeks of winter. Then, I read a stat regarding his accuracy. Phil gets it right 37% of the time. Now, honestly, given a very brief background in statistics, I'd imagine Phil would be about 50/50. Same as I with predicting football games. But no, he's a whopping 37/63. Has anyone ever wondered if there's a possibility that seeing his shadow actually means there won't be six more weeks of winter?
Given of course, that we're talking about a tradition that has a guy dressed in antiquated clothing yanking a rodent out of a hole and translating what that rodent sees.
That Wednesday night, a night not alright for fighting, Joseph and I accompanied a couple friends not to Zanzibar where we didn't replay scenes from an Italian restaurant, but rather to a packed and understaffed Mexican restaurant where we didn't start the fire in our stomachs. The meal was ridiculously late, which made us wonder if we could get to the concert on time. But we did, which allowed us to witness the song of you who have actually read this far into this post. When captain fantastic arrived, I was somewhat unsure about what he was trying to say. But the other one with his uptown girl was as hilarious as I'd been told. Neither piano man has yet let the sun go down on them...
Super Bowl weekend came in all its glory.
I could have wished Brodie Croyle a happy 27th birthday on February 6th. But I wouldn't have had more than that to say.
Trivia of the Week 2/6
Where did Babe Ruth - born on 2/6 - hit his final home run? (City and field)
The Super Bowl came. First half was boring. And then Sean Payton decided to try something that had never been attempted in any quarter but the fourth. It just so happens he became a hero and not a goat. A game of inches. Who dat!
I traveled that following Tuesday to Las Vegas. An uneventful flight. And raining in Vegas. Raining, really? A cab ride to the Mirage. A smoky casino wrapped in a mall. An average room. Steve and I drinking a beer. Visited Tao, a night club with which I was supposed to be impressed. Ate at Del Fresco's twice, a restaurant with which I was impressed. A guy named Robert yelling in the street, 'La verdad no está aquí', which roughly translated means 'The truth is not here.' I couldn't agree more.
The difference between New York and Las Vegas? New York has history and a soul...
Traveled back from Vegas and realized some things. Heard the Old Man asking me that Sunday before the Super Bowl began, 'What are you doing? Where are you going?'
We all have a window of opportunity. And that window isn't about money or fame. Neither greed nor lust. But truth. And, as a priest once told me, for saving the one soul that I can, namely mine.
That time fast approaches.
And here we are on this Saturday in mid-February. Anticipating an enjoyably long weekend followed by a week of work, some victuals, and more sleep.
I wish Mr. Randall Gene Moss a happy 33rd birthday.
Trivia of the Week
Randy Moss played for Marshall in college. But that was not his original choice. For which school did he sign a letter of intent? And when he was denied enrollment, to which college did he 'transfer'?
If you have made it this far, I applaud you. And if you've skimmed, I'll give you accolades. If you skipped all the way down here, shame on you. And if you never read this at all, you won't mind me calling you a dope. Thanks for taking the time. And I'll see you soon. Until next I write...
Monday, December 7, 2009
It's Personal: A Trip to Church
Welcome back, readers. After what turned out to be a three-week hiatus - Sporting Rants & Raves excluded, of course - I have returned with new and exciting - or maybe not so exciting - attempts at intriguing and / or boring you to tears. And so, without further ado, I give to you a story having to do with a recent trip to Church.
I go on Sundays - go figure - to St. James Cathedral in Seattle. I prefer high mass with all the bells, whistles, and - occasionally - holy smoke. Otherwise known as incense. As with every other Sunday morning in recent memory, I woke at approximately 7 a.m. and stayed in bed to read. I arose from the warmth of the bed at 8:30 and began to prepare. Arranging the clothes, showering, playing Mafia Wars, and the like.
I got into my car at 9:30 a.m. and made my way to I-5. For those of you who know the area, I enter the interstate from Boeing Access Road. For those of you unfamiliar, I'll give a brief description. I sit at a stoplight facing west. When the stoplight turns green, I take a left - going south for no more than an eighth of a mile - and then begin driving around a loop that turned me 180 degrees. I then have to merge into a a left lane while cars exiting at that exit merge into the right lane. It reminds me of many New Jersey exits - at least on the Turnpike.
That sets the stage. So, there I was merging into that left lane and ready to merge fully onto the highway. At 9:40 a.m. on a Sunday. I see ahead of me a PT Cruiser being tailgated by an off-white sedan, the make of which I do not recall. Suddenly, I see - do not hear for whatever reason - the PT Cruiser lurch forward awkwardly. I notice a broken right tail light. Then, I see the sedan swerve, fishtailing in the middle of I-5. If any other car had been there, it would have been a very serious accident. But, thankfully, there were no oncoming cars. Just me merging onto the road. The sedan finally comes to a stop horizontally across the center two lanes.
I slow a tad, wondering if I'm about to witness a train wreck. I don't. But I do witness the sedan spin its wheels enough to cause a significant amount of tire smoke just before it launches down the highway. I instinctively press the gas and glance at the Texas license plate. I memorize the number before he catapults down the road. I choose not to chase.
But a couple cars do, including a blue Durango.
And then I drive. A bit shocked by what I had just witnessed, I simply glide along on autopilot towards the James Street exit. Going through my mind? Should I or shouldn't I call? On the one hand, I don't want to get involved. No one was really hurt. And that guy will get his. Karma will do its worst. On the other hand, I wonder if it's somehow my civic duty. I start lecturing myself about being a good member of society.
That war wages until I find a parking spot. I consider what to do. I look up to the twin spires of the cathedral and just know that I have to call. I didn't ask what Jesus would do. I didn't pray about it, specifically. I just knew that calling was the right answer. So, I dial 911 on the cell and explain what I have seen. It seems I wasn't the first person to call. But I was the only one with the license plate number.
I didn't get a call back. But I did feel as though I had done the right thing...
I go on Sundays - go figure - to St. James Cathedral in Seattle. I prefer high mass with all the bells, whistles, and - occasionally - holy smoke. Otherwise known as incense. As with every other Sunday morning in recent memory, I woke at approximately 7 a.m. and stayed in bed to read. I arose from the warmth of the bed at 8:30 and began to prepare. Arranging the clothes, showering, playing Mafia Wars, and the like.
I got into my car at 9:30 a.m. and made my way to I-5. For those of you who know the area, I enter the interstate from Boeing Access Road. For those of you unfamiliar, I'll give a brief description. I sit at a stoplight facing west. When the stoplight turns green, I take a left - going south for no more than an eighth of a mile - and then begin driving around a loop that turned me 180 degrees. I then have to merge into a a left lane while cars exiting at that exit merge into the right lane. It reminds me of many New Jersey exits - at least on the Turnpike.
That sets the stage. So, there I was merging into that left lane and ready to merge fully onto the highway. At 9:40 a.m. on a Sunday. I see ahead of me a PT Cruiser being tailgated by an off-white sedan, the make of which I do not recall. Suddenly, I see - do not hear for whatever reason - the PT Cruiser lurch forward awkwardly. I notice a broken right tail light. Then, I see the sedan swerve, fishtailing in the middle of I-5. If any other car had been there, it would have been a very serious accident. But, thankfully, there were no oncoming cars. Just me merging onto the road. The sedan finally comes to a stop horizontally across the center two lanes.
I slow a tad, wondering if I'm about to witness a train wreck. I don't. But I do witness the sedan spin its wheels enough to cause a significant amount of tire smoke just before it launches down the highway. I instinctively press the gas and glance at the Texas license plate. I memorize the number before he catapults down the road. I choose not to chase.
But a couple cars do, including a blue Durango.
And then I drive. A bit shocked by what I had just witnessed, I simply glide along on autopilot towards the James Street exit. Going through my mind? Should I or shouldn't I call? On the one hand, I don't want to get involved. No one was really hurt. And that guy will get his. Karma will do its worst. On the other hand, I wonder if it's somehow my civic duty. I start lecturing myself about being a good member of society.
That war wages until I find a parking spot. I consider what to do. I look up to the twin spires of the cathedral and just know that I have to call. I didn't ask what Jesus would do. I didn't pray about it, specifically. I just knew that calling was the right answer. So, I dial 911 on the cell and explain what I have seen. It seems I wasn't the first person to call. But I was the only one with the license plate number.
I didn't get a call back. But I did feel as though I had done the right thing...
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's Personal: Bolero
We had just returned from brunch at Geraldine's. (If ever you have the chance to go to Geraldine's in Columbia City, order the French Toast or the Casserole. Awesome.) We futzed around a bit, and Joseph got comfortable. The kiss of death for Joseph on a cool, dreary day. The key for me? I didn't change out of the clothes I'd worn to church that morning. And when 2 p.m. came, I was out the door.
I arrived at Meany Hall looking forward to the performance of Boléro. But I was pleasantly surprised by a slew of other performances from Ravel and Debussy. Apart from the Asian woman with the perma-fro behind me - rustling some plastic bag filled with goodies and chomping them much like a cow might in the middle of Iowa - the overall performance was impressive.
I do enjoy music, but I can't say that I enjoy music enough to know how to be critical. I do not frequent the symphony after all - the tickets were a gift from my mother - and go primarily to close my eyes and meditate to the sounds of harps and violas complementing each other.
Still, I knew Boléro and wondered how I would like a live performance. As the drummer began her tapping, the composer kept his hand by his side and directed as if a restraint was tied around his chest and arms. It is a piece that requires patience, a gradually blossoming work that both relaxes and inspires. Woodwinds give way to strings whilst the drummers keep a very difficult consistent beat. Perhaps a more critical ear could find a few missed notes from time to time, but I heard only the near perfect coalescence.
Apart from Ravel's most famous work, I learned something I'd never known, even after having studied music theory - a very beginner course - in college. Most - if not all of you - have witnessed The Sound of Music I'd imagine. And within that musical, you will recall the song, Do, Re, Mi. As most of you probably know as well, do, re, mi, etc. refer to notes on a scale in music. Well, every letter of the English alphabet can be assigned to these notes. Most people who know music understand that there are notes A-G. But it doesn't stop there...
The last word... If ever you have the chance to attend the symphony I suggest you go. Even if it isn't your 'cup of tea' I think you'll be entertained. If not by the music, at least by some of the stuffy people in their odd garb...
I arrived at Meany Hall looking forward to the performance of Boléro. But I was pleasantly surprised by a slew of other performances from Ravel and Debussy. Apart from the Asian woman with the perma-fro behind me - rustling some plastic bag filled with goodies and chomping them much like a cow might in the middle of Iowa - the overall performance was impressive.
I do enjoy music, but I can't say that I enjoy music enough to know how to be critical. I do not frequent the symphony after all - the tickets were a gift from my mother - and go primarily to close my eyes and meditate to the sounds of harps and violas complementing each other.
Still, I knew Boléro and wondered how I would like a live performance. As the drummer began her tapping, the composer kept his hand by his side and directed as if a restraint was tied around his chest and arms. It is a piece that requires patience, a gradually blossoming work that both relaxes and inspires. Woodwinds give way to strings whilst the drummers keep a very difficult consistent beat. Perhaps a more critical ear could find a few missed notes from time to time, but I heard only the near perfect coalescence.
Apart from Ravel's most famous work, I learned something I'd never known, even after having studied music theory - a very beginner course - in college. Most - if not all of you - have witnessed The Sound of Music I'd imagine. And within that musical, you will recall the song, Do, Re, Mi. As most of you probably know as well, do, re, mi, etc. refer to notes on a scale in music. Well, every letter of the English alphabet can be assigned to these notes. Most people who know music understand that there are notes A-G. But it doesn't stop there...
- Do - A, H, O, V
- Re - B, I, P, W
- Mi - C, J, Q, X
- Fa - D, K, R, Y
- So - E, L, S, Z
- La - F, M, T
- Ti - G, N, U
The last word... If ever you have the chance to attend the symphony I suggest you go. Even if it isn't your 'cup of tea' I think you'll be entertained. If not by the music, at least by some of the stuffy people in their odd garb...
Monday, November 9, 2009
It's Personal: A Letter...
I had no ideas for the evening. Nothing particularly interesting happened today. The dogs haven't done anything noteworthy. Nor have the cats. I finally submitted my application to Seattle University for the MBA program, but that doesn't take much space to say. Pittsburgh beat Denver. I don't care overly much. And I don't have any idea what's wrong with the Jints. I wish I knew. Yeah, really nothing.
And then I decided to look back through my journals. I began in 1998. But for the first year, I didn't keep good track of dates. I found nothing of note in November of 1999, a time that I'd rather forget in any case. But then I looked through the white binder that held my thoughts from the year 2000. I came across a letter I had written. But to give you some flavor, I will first sample from a paper I wrote for Fr. Connor's Introduction to the Spiritual Life in May 2001.
'During February of 2000, the seminarians from Hartford discovered that they were going to Rome for the Jubilee year. All of us were ecstatic.. We could not believe the Archdiocese would pay for such an expense. In any case, we began to prepare for the trip. We looked through some Italian phrase books; we analyzed maps so that we would know our way through the city.
'I was more than excited because this would mean my first trip overseas. In addition, the vocation director hinted at the fact that we might be able to have a private audience with the Pope. Generally, I do not become excited at the mention of celebrities. But the Pope is so much more than a celebrity. And this Pope, specifically, has become a personal hero for me. I began to listen to the Pope's rendition of the Pater Noster each morning as I readied myself for work and school. In addition, I began to read books written by and about him. I wanted to know as much as I could about the man whom I was going to meet.
'The date of our pilgrimage came, and we traveled to the Eternal City on November 6th. We attended the papal audience the next day, but no one had mentioned the private audience. I became worried and started talking to my brother seminarians. We finally asked the priests, and they responded with blank stares. No one had arranged for a meeting with His Holiness. I did not give up - nor did my brothers. We had heard that we could deliver a hand-written note to the Swiss Guard at 6 a.m. in which we could request a private audience.'
And so I personally wrote the following letter on November 7, 2000:
'Dear Father Dziwisz, (Pope John Paul's secretary)
The seminarians of the Archdiocese of Hartford request a private audience with His Holiness Pope John Paul II as part of our pilgrimage during this, the Holy Jubilee Year of 2000. We shall be in the Eternal City until Friday evening, and we feel that this private audience would enrich our respective vocations. In our ranks, we have two men who will be ordained to the priesthood in May as well as another who is preparing for his ordination to the diaconate in January. In addition, 15 others are in theology, pre-theology, and college. Please contact Robert _____ in Rm 367 of the Quality Hotel Regent on the Via Filippo Civinni, 46 (Pavioli) 00197 Roma.
We thank you for your time and we pray that we may have the opportunity to meet the Beloved Vicar of Christ.'
We gave it to one of the Swiss Guard at 6 a.m. on the morning of 11/8. I give to you the remainder of the paper written in May 2001.
'Alas, we never received the call. Fate had dashed my dreams. I knew that I should have been happy about seeing him at all. I knew that this pilgrimage was itself a gift from God. I knew that I was celebrating the Jubilee Year of 2000 in the birthplace of Roman Catholicism. But none of these reasonable truths kept me from the disappointment that I felt. I wanted so badly to meet the Pope.'
Yes, I was disappointed. But the final paragraph of that paper revealed that there are always silver linings.
'Meanwhile, I struggle onward. As I reach the end of my first year in the seminary I know that I have a long way to go in my formation. I still need to be less prideful. I still need to listen better. I still need to pray more fervently. I still need to control my appetites. While I progress, however, I can take comfort in at least one thing. A good source has informed me that the Pope reads all letters that people write requesting private audiences. If this is true, the Pope has read a letter written by my hand. And, because our names were on that sheet, the Pope is praying for us. I can imagine no better person... except perhaps my grandmother.'
Nine years ago. And I still consider Pope John Paul II a hero. And I can still imagine no better person praying for me than my grandmother...
And then I decided to look back through my journals. I began in 1998. But for the first year, I didn't keep good track of dates. I found nothing of note in November of 1999, a time that I'd rather forget in any case. But then I looked through the white binder that held my thoughts from the year 2000. I came across a letter I had written. But to give you some flavor, I will first sample from a paper I wrote for Fr. Connor's Introduction to the Spiritual Life in May 2001.
'During February of 2000, the seminarians from Hartford discovered that they were going to Rome for the Jubilee year. All of us were ecstatic.. We could not believe the Archdiocese would pay for such an expense. In any case, we began to prepare for the trip. We looked through some Italian phrase books; we analyzed maps so that we would know our way through the city.
'I was more than excited because this would mean my first trip overseas. In addition, the vocation director hinted at the fact that we might be able to have a private audience with the Pope. Generally, I do not become excited at the mention of celebrities. But the Pope is so much more than a celebrity. And this Pope, specifically, has become a personal hero for me. I began to listen to the Pope's rendition of the Pater Noster each morning as I readied myself for work and school. In addition, I began to read books written by and about him. I wanted to know as much as I could about the man whom I was going to meet.
'The date of our pilgrimage came, and we traveled to the Eternal City on November 6th. We attended the papal audience the next day, but no one had mentioned the private audience. I became worried and started talking to my brother seminarians. We finally asked the priests, and they responded with blank stares. No one had arranged for a meeting with His Holiness. I did not give up - nor did my brothers. We had heard that we could deliver a hand-written note to the Swiss Guard at 6 a.m. in which we could request a private audience.'
And so I personally wrote the following letter on November 7, 2000:
'Dear Father Dziwisz, (Pope John Paul's secretary)
The seminarians of the Archdiocese of Hartford request a private audience with His Holiness Pope John Paul II as part of our pilgrimage during this, the Holy Jubilee Year of 2000. We shall be in the Eternal City until Friday evening, and we feel that this private audience would enrich our respective vocations. In our ranks, we have two men who will be ordained to the priesthood in May as well as another who is preparing for his ordination to the diaconate in January. In addition, 15 others are in theology, pre-theology, and college. Please contact Robert _____ in Rm 367 of the Quality Hotel Regent on the Via Filippo Civinni, 46 (Pavioli) 00197 Roma.
We thank you for your time and we pray that we may have the opportunity to meet the Beloved Vicar of Christ.'
We gave it to one of the Swiss Guard at 6 a.m. on the morning of 11/8. I give to you the remainder of the paper written in May 2001.
'Alas, we never received the call. Fate had dashed my dreams. I knew that I should have been happy about seeing him at all. I knew that this pilgrimage was itself a gift from God. I knew that I was celebrating the Jubilee Year of 2000 in the birthplace of Roman Catholicism. But none of these reasonable truths kept me from the disappointment that I felt. I wanted so badly to meet the Pope.'
Yes, I was disappointed. But the final paragraph of that paper revealed that there are always silver linings.
'Meanwhile, I struggle onward. As I reach the end of my first year in the seminary I know that I have a long way to go in my formation. I still need to be less prideful. I still need to listen better. I still need to pray more fervently. I still need to control my appetites. While I progress, however, I can take comfort in at least one thing. A good source has informed me that the Pope reads all letters that people write requesting private audiences. If this is true, the Pope has read a letter written by my hand. And, because our names were on that sheet, the Pope is praying for us. I can imagine no better person... except perhaps my grandmother.'
Nine years ago. And I still consider Pope John Paul II a hero. And I can still imagine no better person praying for me than my grandmother...
Monday, November 2, 2009
It's Personal: A Different Kind of Adventure
I'm not particularly adventurous. In fact, I'm rather risk averse. Yes, I took off across the country in a half-packed Mitsubishi Galant unsure where I might land. But I still haven't been out of the state in which I now live - apart from flying home - more than thrice. Okay, I once purchased part of a horse named White Tex in an internet venture when I was in college; the horse broke its leg. But I've never played the lottery. And I've been to the casino twice in my life and have spent maybe about $20.
And when I tell you what I think my greatest adventure thus far has been, you might think me a bit of a square. But I challenge you to attempt this adventure...
It was just after the winter vacation of my second year in the seminary. The pre-Theologians (those who have not yet attained a philosophy degree and can therefore not attend theology classes or wear a collar) were at what I seem to remember was St. Williams Hall just up the road from the main seminary building. We were there for a retreat.
Tangent: I loved retreats when I was in the seminary. A time to reflect and read. A time to sleep and relax. A time to center one's self. We had retreats immediately before every winter/spring semester in the seminary. And during the summer with the Archdiocese.
It was an Ignatian Retreat.
Tangent: Ignatius of Loyola was founder of the Society of Jesus otherwise known as the Jesuits. His Spiritual Exercises (composed 1522-1524) are well known throughout the Church.
We followed the prayers, meditations, and mental exercises of the Exercises. Though meant for approximately 1 month, the priest in charge of the retreat condensed them into 2 weeks.
Where's the adventure, you might ask?
The priest suggested that we seminarians might try a silent retreat.
And I took him up on the offer.
For 2 weeks, I spoke only at mass and with my spiritual advisor. I slept some. I read a lot. I prayed even more. What was most interesting? I still communicated with everyone in the building. Not with my voice but with my hands. And my eyes. With my actions and facial expressions.
Those 2 weeks stick in my memory as the most profound in my life. And in some ways, the most adventurous. Because I journeyed not across a nation or even into the unknown but rather into the depths of myself.
And when I tell you what I think my greatest adventure thus far has been, you might think me a bit of a square. But I challenge you to attempt this adventure...
It was just after the winter vacation of my second year in the seminary. The pre-Theologians (those who have not yet attained a philosophy degree and can therefore not attend theology classes or wear a collar) were at what I seem to remember was St. Williams Hall just up the road from the main seminary building. We were there for a retreat.
Tangent: I loved retreats when I was in the seminary. A time to reflect and read. A time to sleep and relax. A time to center one's self. We had retreats immediately before every winter/spring semester in the seminary. And during the summer with the Archdiocese.
It was an Ignatian Retreat.
Tangent: Ignatius of Loyola was founder of the Society of Jesus otherwise known as the Jesuits. His Spiritual Exercises (composed 1522-1524) are well known throughout the Church.
We followed the prayers, meditations, and mental exercises of the Exercises. Though meant for approximately 1 month, the priest in charge of the retreat condensed them into 2 weeks.
Where's the adventure, you might ask?
The priest suggested that we seminarians might try a silent retreat.
And I took him up on the offer.
For 2 weeks, I spoke only at mass and with my spiritual advisor. I slept some. I read a lot. I prayed even more. What was most interesting? I still communicated with everyone in the building. Not with my voice but with my hands. And my eyes. With my actions and facial expressions.
Those 2 weeks stick in my memory as the most profound in my life. And in some ways, the most adventurous. Because I journeyed not across a nation or even into the unknown but rather into the depths of myself.
Monday, October 26, 2009
It's Personal: You Decide... St. Bridget's
It was the feast of St. Pius X. August 21, 2000. I was nearing the end of my time at St. Bridget's in Cheshire. A summer internship, if you will, before entering the seminary. The pastor, a priest for whom my uncles had been altar boys in West Haven, was a smart and happy man of Irish stock who ruled his roost absolutely and effectively. That's why it was such an honor for him to allow me to give the homily at a 7:30 a.m. Monday mass. Although not practice the Catholic Church technically allows, the pastor believed that the only way an aspiring priest could be good at giving homilies was to give them. It made sense to me. By late August, I had already given my fair share of homilies to the small Monday congregation. I can't say many of the homilies were particularly good; I was actually very nervous in my alb in front of even those few people. But, on August 21st, I stepped to the pulpit and delivered what was probably the best homily I had given during my short tenure. In fact, I had more than one parishioner tell me that it had brought them to tears. After the mass, a group of us went over to the small coffee shop across the street and enjoyed a cup of joe. The pastor and I then returned to the office to begin the day's work. The pastor immediately called me into his office and complimented me on the homily. I thanked him. Then, he smiled a big grin and said, 'But you do know that you just gave a homily about St. Rose of Lima and that today is the feast of St. Pius X. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me...'
I returned to St. Bridget's for Christmas in 2000 at the pastor's request. And because I felt that St. Bridget's felt more like my own parish at the time. The pastor welcomed me and grilled me about all the happenings at the seminary. He wanted to know which priests visited. And what I was learning. What I'd seen in Boston. And what I'd learned thus far. He then told me that he needed someone to help him at the Christmas masses, especially the Midnight Mass, which for whatever reason is not really at midnight in most parishes but at 10. I was, of course, more than happy to oblige. And so, we readied ourselves for the very special mass. The pastor wanted me to be the thurifer. In other words, the guy that holds the thurible. Okay, so the guy that swings the holy smoke. That help? I had acquired the knack at the seminary. A clean swing - like a pendulum - using a little wrist action in the right hand. So, we got the smoke smoking for the entrance and then I put the thurible aside. Well, it soon came time to add more incense to the thurible. The one problem was that I didn't know how it opened. The ones with which I was accustomed at the seminary had a piece on top that you could grab and lift. This one had no such piece. And I had no idea how to open it. So, I did the only thing I could at that moment. I lifted the metal with my bare fingers. For those of you who don't know, where there's smoke there's generally fire. And the embers in that thurible made touching the metal like touching a stove. I survived that first time. And then I had to do it again later in the mass. And then right before leaving. And no, I did not figure out how to life the lid - at least during the mass. The result? Fingertips that didn't heal for a month.
I returned to St. Bridget's for Christmas in 2000 at the pastor's request. And because I felt that St. Bridget's felt more like my own parish at the time. The pastor welcomed me and grilled me about all the happenings at the seminary. He wanted to know which priests visited. And what I was learning. What I'd seen in Boston. And what I'd learned thus far. He then told me that he needed someone to help him at the Christmas masses, especially the Midnight Mass, which for whatever reason is not really at midnight in most parishes but at 10. I was, of course, more than happy to oblige. And so, we readied ourselves for the very special mass. The pastor wanted me to be the thurifer. In other words, the guy that holds the thurible. Okay, so the guy that swings the holy smoke. That help? I had acquired the knack at the seminary. A clean swing - like a pendulum - using a little wrist action in the right hand. So, we got the smoke smoking for the entrance and then I put the thurible aside. Well, it soon came time to add more incense to the thurible. The one problem was that I didn't know how it opened. The ones with which I was accustomed at the seminary had a piece on top that you could grab and lift. This one had no such piece. And I had no idea how to open it. So, I did the only thing I could at that moment. I lifted the metal with my bare fingers. For those of you who don't know, where there's smoke there's generally fire. And the embers in that thurible made touching the metal like touching a stove. I survived that first time. And then I had to do it again later in the mass. And then right before leaving. And no, I did not figure out how to life the lid - at least during the mass. The result? Fingertips that didn't heal for a month.
Monday, October 19, 2009
It's Personal: A Public Apology and Some Other Stuff...
I had a few ideas for tonight's post. Maybe something about musicals. Or about another of my friends; I haven't done a 'How I Met...' post in a while. But then it came to me; it had to be a random smattering of stuff that has made an impression on me in the past few days. Why? No reason.
And the public apology.
I woke up at 3:30 this morning. Cleo had decided to scratch herself or the crate or some haunting apparition at great length. I went into the room and stared through the crate's front door. She stared back at me like, what? Thanks Cleo.
Went to Safeway this evening to buy the food that Joseph would make for dinner. Walked across the parking lot and towards the front door. A short African woman, her head fully covered, crossed in front of a dented and dilapidated minivan. Suddenly, the driver's door opened and a rather rotund black woman yelled obscenities at the oblivious African woman. Why didn't she roll down the window to speak her mind? The plastic and electrical tape, methinks.
Literally 30 seconds later, we proceeded down the pasta aisle. What looked to be a 12 year old boy sat in a carriage while his mother spoke on the phone. Had no idea where she was planning to put the food since he more than filled the sagging carriage. Joseph shook his head and said a little too loudly, 'That's a damn shame.'
In case you haven't noticed, I generally avoid writing about work. It does no good, let me tell you. I made a mistake in this regard recently, however. Yes, the apology's coming.
Called my grandfather yesterday right after church. 'The Giants are killing me,' I hear from him. Still in the first half. We talked. I hung up. Next was Uncle Mark. 'They can't stop anything,' he explained. Indeed they could not. Called the Old Man. 'You better have some good news,' he says sometime during the third quarter. Called my brother later. 'The Giants looked like the Danbury freshman team,' he commented (paraphrased) well after the game. Danbury's 0-6. My brother's the coach.
Reading The Economist recently - a birthday gift from my mother - and am in the middle of an article about smart grids. Pretty cool stuff. I recommend investing in the up and coming technology. But that's not investment advice. Don't want to get myself in trouble.
Church was beautiful, as usual. Ended with an Ave Maria sung by the woman's choir and accompanied by the pipe organ. I sat to pray the rosary and was approached by an acquaintance who plays in the softball league. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. I chuckled and repeated the question back to him. 'Waiting to be hit by lightning,' he explained. 'I come to church about twice a year. Just randomly.' An October 19th is pretty random. 'I attend mass every Sunday,' I explained. 'Really?' he asked, surprise evident in his wide eyes. It hit me at that moment that there are so many gay men out there who want to have faith... Never mind gay men. Just people, period.
Almost ready for this apology. Almost...
Spent three hours taking the practice GMAT on Saturday. Bug-eyed afterward. Not a big fan of standardized tests. I understand the basic need, but I'm not convinced they are particularly effective.
Talked to Jared yesterday. He got married a week ago Saturday in Massachusetts. A very small wedding. And he decided on the passage from John regarding the money changers. 2:12-25. So Jared. Good talking to him after such a long time.
So, I've made Steve wait long enough. The Mets and Jets fan who relocated from New York to the Seattle area by way of Korea and God knows where else. He's the Operations Director at the company. And he reads this blog...
So, those of you who read this blog know that I posted an 'It's Personal' story just after my birthday. And within that post I made the comment, 'About 10:30 a.m. Tara comes in and tells me there's a problem with a client. That she needs to see me in Steve's office immediately. I roll my eyes. There goes my day. I exit my office and walk towards Steve's.'
After he read the post he 'demanded' an apology because I rolled my eyes. His most recent 'reminder' came by way of text on Saturday. And thus I formally offer an apology for the commentary. I rarely roll my eyes when forced to go to Steve's Cave. Nor do I just walk. Rather, I joyfully saunter - we mutually decided on the language. In fact I generally make that my first stop in the morning after I pour myself some tea.
At which point I more often than not offer condolences for the Mets' and / or Jets' latest loss(es).
And there you have a public apology and some other stuff...
And the public apology.
I woke up at 3:30 this morning. Cleo had decided to scratch herself or the crate or some haunting apparition at great length. I went into the room and stared through the crate's front door. She stared back at me like, what? Thanks Cleo.
Went to Safeway this evening to buy the food that Joseph would make for dinner. Walked across the parking lot and towards the front door. A short African woman, her head fully covered, crossed in front of a dented and dilapidated minivan. Suddenly, the driver's door opened and a rather rotund black woman yelled obscenities at the oblivious African woman. Why didn't she roll down the window to speak her mind? The plastic and electrical tape, methinks.
Literally 30 seconds later, we proceeded down the pasta aisle. What looked to be a 12 year old boy sat in a carriage while his mother spoke on the phone. Had no idea where she was planning to put the food since he more than filled the sagging carriage. Joseph shook his head and said a little too loudly, 'That's a damn shame.'
In case you haven't noticed, I generally avoid writing about work. It does no good, let me tell you. I made a mistake in this regard recently, however. Yes, the apology's coming.
Called my grandfather yesterday right after church. 'The Giants are killing me,' I hear from him. Still in the first half. We talked. I hung up. Next was Uncle Mark. 'They can't stop anything,' he explained. Indeed they could not. Called the Old Man. 'You better have some good news,' he says sometime during the third quarter. Called my brother later. 'The Giants looked like the Danbury freshman team,' he commented (paraphrased) well after the game. Danbury's 0-6. My brother's the coach.
Reading The Economist recently - a birthday gift from my mother - and am in the middle of an article about smart grids. Pretty cool stuff. I recommend investing in the up and coming technology. But that's not investment advice. Don't want to get myself in trouble.
Church was beautiful, as usual. Ended with an Ave Maria sung by the woman's choir and accompanied by the pipe organ. I sat to pray the rosary and was approached by an acquaintance who plays in the softball league. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. I chuckled and repeated the question back to him. 'Waiting to be hit by lightning,' he explained. 'I come to church about twice a year. Just randomly.' An October 19th is pretty random. 'I attend mass every Sunday,' I explained. 'Really?' he asked, surprise evident in his wide eyes. It hit me at that moment that there are so many gay men out there who want to have faith... Never mind gay men. Just people, period.
Almost ready for this apology. Almost...
Spent three hours taking the practice GMAT on Saturday. Bug-eyed afterward. Not a big fan of standardized tests. I understand the basic need, but I'm not convinced they are particularly effective.
Talked to Jared yesterday. He got married a week ago Saturday in Massachusetts. A very small wedding. And he decided on the passage from John regarding the money changers. 2:12-25. So Jared. Good talking to him after such a long time.
So, I've made Steve wait long enough. The Mets and Jets fan who relocated from New York to the Seattle area by way of Korea and God knows where else. He's the Operations Director at the company. And he reads this blog...
So, those of you who read this blog know that I posted an 'It's Personal' story just after my birthday. And within that post I made the comment, 'About 10:30 a.m. Tara comes in and tells me there's a problem with a client. That she needs to see me in Steve's office immediately. I roll my eyes. There goes my day. I exit my office and walk towards Steve's.'
After he read the post he 'demanded' an apology because I rolled my eyes. His most recent 'reminder' came by way of text on Saturday. And thus I formally offer an apology for the commentary. I rarely roll my eyes when forced to go to Steve's Cave. Nor do I just walk. Rather, I joyfully saunter - we mutually decided on the language. In fact I generally make that my first stop in the morning after I pour myself some tea.
At which point I more often than not offer condolences for the Mets' and / or Jets' latest loss(es).
And there you have a public apology and some other stuff...
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