A lot of people have said, "Gee I like this blog!" But some others have said, "It tells me nothing about industrial management theory." I have been thinking about that. I believe that my experience on Thursday evening can resolve that dilemma.
Let me set the scene:
I am home from my afternoon swim. Susie wants me to grill. Tonight is David Post's birthday. We are serving ribs. This is odd to begin with, because David and virtually all of the guests are Jewish. But don't worry about that. The important thing is that it is 82 degrees, humid, and I am eviscerating some beautiful ribs. To help me with my objective, I have carefully selected a handcrafted beverage.
Then....my propane runs out. We have a big tank. Even so, this happens about once every eight months. And it threatens a perfect afternoon. Not to mention these ribs.
I have lost face.
There is an exchange place nearby. The ribs still need another fifteen minutes. I could put the ribs in the oven. That, to me, strikes of a disastrous choice. Like buying a Porsche, and then getting it with an automatic transmission. I will get more propane.
I put the propane in the passenger seat and head over to the neighborhood exchange at Handee-Hugo's. This is a Carolina institution. They sell cheap gas. They sell money orders. "We love our troops,' says their sign in the window. They keep fresh barrels of propane outside on the sidewalk in a locked cage.
I lug the tank into the store. Empty of gas, it weighs 20 pounds. Three employees stand up behind the counter. Two flank a set of registers to the right, while the third sweeps in the back.
I look at the man on the right, lift the propane with my right shoulder.
"I need to exchange," I say. Its obvious, right?
He looks at me for a second. "I do not have the key," he mumbles. Then he looks back out the window. Maybe he is scouting for a more preferable customer -- one that will busy his register without asking him to lift heavy tanks.
The other one behind the register continues staring past the Bud Light Display. The sweeper has moved on to shuffling napkins at the hot dog rotissiserie. Its just the four of us. Looking four different ways. Like U2's cover art on the Joshua Tree album.
"So," I feel I have to mention it, "I was hoping to get more propane."
I believe that each one of these clerks hopes the other will fall for the dreaded propane job. I am just caught in their little war.
"But if you don't have it," I continue, "now would be a good time to speak up."
This drives me nuts. Back home, I am losing more face. Yet, we are talking about propane here. I set down the tank in the middle of their store. Let them go about their business of selling cigarettes, lighters, and 40 ouncers. Deal with me. Or my propane tank will just wait.
I guess my gambit was rooted in the right logic. A whirlwind of boxes, clip boards, cell phones and keys crosses the room. Its the manager.
He knows what's up.
"Like I said," he says to the man at the first register, "any register key will work the propane. You got a register, you can do the propane."
I can barely say anything before they are ringing me up.
So the answer is -- it takes four workers from two different management levels in order to exchange one tank of propane.
So there are two sides to everything.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Grand Opening
People often ask, "where do you work?" It is one of those questions that everyone wants to know, maybe because they can think of little else that would prefer to know instead, or because maybe they sense from my presence that I am a Guy with a Story.
Say, for example, that I am at a dinner party. There's a tv on in another room. Susie is in the kitchen with a friend. And I'm out in the living room. Sprawled out like a tamale in the sun.
"Where do you work?" says the Other Husband.
I am not sure if he actually wants to know. He is not looking at me. He sits way back in his soft couch, a finger lingering on a remote. He is waiting for dinner.
We are two lame non-cookers. Kind of like those pirates who don't do anything. Except we watch kids.
"Oh, I work at CRA-NC."
His eyes continue to follow his son. The toddler, about 3 as far as I can tell, nears a lamp. This furrows his brow. He looks back at me for a second. His lips open, but no words come out. As if my words have failed to spark a signal synapse of interest.
"You know," I say, "The Community Reinvestment Association of North Carolina. CRA-NC."
This does not advance his understanding. It does shorten whatever window of interest existed. If my answer led to dinner, now that would be interesting.
But I go on, because now that I am married, I have grown accustomed to droning on when no one is listening.
"We work on housing policy. We work on manufactured housing. I have a book on manufactured housing. We think manufactured housing can lead to opportunities for asset building. We organize. We have alternative media products. I work on HMDA data. We just got a loan from the FHLB. CRA-NC works with CFED."
I have totally blinded him. Maybe I can clear it up for him:
"CRA-NC," I say, is not unlike ACORN."
----
But...CRA-NC did have some big news the other day. We opened our new building officially. Last year we bought a ransacked 1920 brick building in the otherwise disinvested streets of North Central Durham. Since then, we've been fixing it up. On Friday, we opened it to the public.
It was a great day, with jazz music and karaoke. I have some pictures of the day. Notice who is sitting in with the band.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Father's Day
We had two driveways, separated by a long row of hedges that flowered in late May. In the fall, brown leaves slid across the shiny blacktop that sloped down and left near the basketball. We had a two car garage. That was once the standard. Now I suppose it designates the property as a fixer-upper. Nevertheless, with all of that black top we always kept one car outside. My dad used most of his side for tools. He had a tool box with wheels, Snap-On Tools calenders. Bosch and Castrol -- Sebring 94! The works.
Dad had a wooden board with wheels that he used to slide underneath our cars with when he fixed things. I'd stand there. Mainly, I did nothing useful. It looked like the scene in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy lands on the Wicked Witch of the East. Just a pair of feet. Except there were no ruby slippers. More likely, it was a pair of Bass Weejuns and some paint stained khakis. No socks, so that you could really see his skinny pale legs.
Dad's hand would jut out. Get the 3/18ths Lassiter!!! Don't just stand there! Its next to the ratchets, by the Hanover Set."
Then his figures would snap. And snap. And then his wrist would rotate while his finger jutted out to the back of the garage.
"Uh," I'd say, "where do you mean, specifically?" Because basically there were hundreds of tools in that garage. Each one was soddered with his code number. They all looked like they were in the Hanover Set.
The feet would pull a body out from under the car about now.
My father would emerge, his fingers dripping with oil, his white t-shirt so worn as to resemble gauze, and look puzzled. I think he wondered how someone could be smart in school, and never bother to find out how an engine works.
He would hold an oil filter gently, considering its manufacture more as an effort at art than as an example of blind reproduction. Did it have a good seal? Would that gasket last? He'd pour a few drops of oil on the seal. Those fingers, already oiled, spread the viscous clear liquid evenly across the circumference.
Pretty much I was quiet at this time. I could hear his breath. Always heavy. And the fresh scent of Speed Stick.
He would set that filter down in the crook of the hood. He'd take his glasses off, blow his nose like a fog horn, wipe his forehead with a cloth diaper, and expound.
It could pretty much be anything from the canon of Awesome Pieces of Fatherly Knowledge. They rotated. The effect was something akin to classic records in a juke box. Few new ones were ever invented.
Here are ten all time Faves:
1) Shift down, stay off the brakes, accelerate through the curve.
2) Get with the program
3) Order the adult donut
4) Don't smoke those damn cigarettes
5) Just make sure its from my store. And, get your gig line straight.
6) One Day at a Time
7) The job expands to fill the available time.
8) Adoption would be a good thing for you to think about. It is nothing to be afraid of.
9) We have more than some, less than others.
10) Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.
Dad had a wooden board with wheels that he used to slide underneath our cars with when he fixed things. I'd stand there. Mainly, I did nothing useful. It looked like the scene in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy lands on the Wicked Witch of the East. Just a pair of feet. Except there were no ruby slippers. More likely, it was a pair of Bass Weejuns and some paint stained khakis. No socks, so that you could really see his skinny pale legs.
Dad's hand would jut out. Get the 3/18ths Lassiter!!! Don't just stand there! Its next to the ratchets, by the Hanover Set."
Then his figures would snap. And snap. And then his wrist would rotate while his finger jutted out to the back of the garage.
"Uh," I'd say, "where do you mean, specifically?" Because basically there were hundreds of tools in that garage. Each one was soddered with his code number. They all looked like they were in the Hanover Set.
The feet would pull a body out from under the car about now.
My father would emerge, his fingers dripping with oil, his white t-shirt so worn as to resemble gauze, and look puzzled. I think he wondered how someone could be smart in school, and never bother to find out how an engine works.
He would hold an oil filter gently, considering its manufacture more as an effort at art than as an example of blind reproduction. Did it have a good seal? Would that gasket last? He'd pour a few drops of oil on the seal. Those fingers, already oiled, spread the viscous clear liquid evenly across the circumference.
Pretty much I was quiet at this time. I could hear his breath. Always heavy. And the fresh scent of Speed Stick.
He would set that filter down in the crook of the hood. He'd take his glasses off, blow his nose like a fog horn, wipe his forehead with a cloth diaper, and expound.
It could pretty much be anything from the canon of Awesome Pieces of Fatherly Knowledge. They rotated. The effect was something akin to classic records in a juke box. Few new ones were ever invented.
Here are ten all time Faves:
1) Shift down, stay off the brakes, accelerate through the curve.
2) Get with the program
3) Order the adult donut
4) Don't smoke those damn cigarettes
5) Just make sure its from my store. And, get your gig line straight.
6) One Day at a Time
7) The job expands to fill the available time.
8) Adoption would be a good thing for you to think about. It is nothing to be afraid of.
9) We have more than some, less than others.
10) Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Yard Sale
The smell of a baker's dozen of chocolate bagels hangs in the cabin of the Sienna. It is 8:40 am on Saturday morning. I am out with my buddy, cruising. If we find something to extend the trip back from Brueggers, then Susie will have more peace.
And there it is...a yard filled with junk.
"John" I say,"this is called a garage sale. Or, in some cases, a tag sale. It is where people sell stuff for nothing. Don't touch."
The sale fronts a smallish brick ranch. I can see crock pots, golf clubs, records, books, latin american weavings, Yankee candles.
"Are you the host-ess?" I ask. "How much are cd's?"
"They are a quarter," she says. She appears to be about my age. All of her junk is here, but I can't make any demographic analyses. Lots of books about sermons, but then it is too disparate after that: Etonic golf spikes?
"We just want to keep it from the landfill," she adds.
I think, how nice. I think Dick Cheney would say that you have a wonderful ethic there.
I see that she will not be offering me "grandfather's mysterious German travel camera" with the Zeiss lens.
But the compact discs are a bargain. Behold, not just any songs, but the ones that bring back high school in full technicolor. My parents sent me to one fancy prep school, but it didn't help to change the music that I heard while I was there.
"Rock'N the 80s, eh?" I say, giving her a glance that suggests that I too share her guilty pleasure.
She is a quick one, too, because she knows that acquisition of an 80s disc, or mere possession, could need an explanation among strangers.
"We get XM Radio," she says, "you know?"
I do know. But for now, I leave her to explain. Let her twist in the wind. I had XM for a week last month in California. It was great. All the baseball that I wanted to hear. Plus, times for bluegrass. I succumbed to the 80s channel at the end of a long day of talking/shooting/talking.
But she doesn't need to say anymore. I know she knows. I know she knows about so much else, too. 80s music, before it all happened.
It would be too much, but I know that:
She remembered when Coke Classic was not, and when New Coke was.
She watched music videos
She wore "leggings" and wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper
Her husband probably has one of those thin shiny ties. Also one of those square woven jobs.
The cd collection tells more of her narrative. Right next to it are some of the things that came next. I'd say what came next was better, too. We were the same people, but the world let us grow up.
There's Tracy Chapman. The whole UnPlugged Genre that is represented here by 10,000 Maniacs and Eric Clapton.
So I also know that:
She knows what ACT UP stands for.
She remembers PETA
She thought Clinton was a little to the right.
We got a lot of stuff. But all of those days carrying shoes from Payless and not eating for Oxfam, where did that go?
Its time to go. I have her music now. She's got my five bucks.
And there it is...a yard filled with junk.
"John" I say,"this is called a garage sale. Or, in some cases, a tag sale. It is where people sell stuff for nothing. Don't touch."
The sale fronts a smallish brick ranch. I can see crock pots, golf clubs, records, books, latin american weavings, Yankee candles.
"Are you the host-ess?" I ask. "How much are cd's?"
"They are a quarter," she says. She appears to be about my age. All of her junk is here, but I can't make any demographic analyses. Lots of books about sermons, but then it is too disparate after that: Etonic golf spikes?
"We just want to keep it from the landfill," she adds.
I think, how nice. I think Dick Cheney would say that you have a wonderful ethic there.
I see that she will not be offering me "grandfather's mysterious German travel camera" with the Zeiss lens.
But the compact discs are a bargain. Behold, not just any songs, but the ones that bring back high school in full technicolor. My parents sent me to one fancy prep school, but it didn't help to change the music that I heard while I was there.
"Rock'N the 80s, eh?" I say, giving her a glance that suggests that I too share her guilty pleasure.
She is a quick one, too, because she knows that acquisition of an 80s disc, or mere possession, could need an explanation among strangers.
"We get XM Radio," she says, "you know?"
I do know. But for now, I leave her to explain. Let her twist in the wind. I had XM for a week last month in California. It was great. All the baseball that I wanted to hear. Plus, times for bluegrass. I succumbed to the 80s channel at the end of a long day of talking/shooting/talking.
But she doesn't need to say anymore. I know she knows. I know she knows about so much else, too. 80s music, before it all happened.
It would be too much, but I know that:
She remembered when Coke Classic was not, and when New Coke was.
She watched music videos
She wore "leggings" and wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper
Her husband probably has one of those thin shiny ties. Also one of those square woven jobs.
The cd collection tells more of her narrative. Right next to it are some of the things that came next. I'd say what came next was better, too. We were the same people, but the world let us grow up.
There's Tracy Chapman. The whole UnPlugged Genre that is represented here by 10,000 Maniacs and Eric Clapton.
So I also know that:
She knows what ACT UP stands for.
She remembers PETA
She thought Clinton was a little to the right.
We got a lot of stuff. But all of those days carrying shoes from Payless and not eating for Oxfam, where did that go?
Its time to go. I have her music now. She's got my five bucks.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
What will he say next
John: "Why do cars hit people? Why is it bad? Why?"
Always he ends with that same rejoinder. I kneel to face him eye to eye. His face is slightly bent, like a Japanese in a moment of dishonor. John might hear me now.
"You can't run in the road because cars do not see you." Using words like dangerous is lost, I suppose, because they rely on Telling when he needs Showing. I can't show what happens when a car hits a little boy, of course.
I am feeling like I am stuck in a battle that will only be waged with time and patience.
He speaks again.
"Why did Jesus die? Who killed him? Did Daniel help?"
----
911 Urban Avenue welcomes Joan, member of Bruderhof and new family friend, to our cast of family and friends. Joan will be with us for about two months. She grew up in England and has the accent to show for it. Like Kathy, she likes marmite, gardens, and walks. She brings a new openness to dogs and adds to our appetite for watercoloring. Joan has worked as a 5th and 6th grade teacher in Catskill. Her favorite newspaper section is the International page. She likes tea. 'Nuff said.
Always he ends with that same rejoinder. I kneel to face him eye to eye. His face is slightly bent, like a Japanese in a moment of dishonor. John might hear me now.
"You can't run in the road because cars do not see you." Using words like dangerous is lost, I suppose, because they rely on Telling when he needs Showing. I can't show what happens when a car hits a little boy, of course.
I am feeling like I am stuck in a battle that will only be waged with time and patience.
He speaks again.
"Why did Jesus die? Who killed him? Did Daniel help?"
----
911 Urban Avenue welcomes Joan, member of Bruderhof and new family friend, to our cast of family and friends. Joan will be with us for about two months. She grew up in England and has the accent to show for it. Like Kathy, she likes marmite, gardens, and walks. She brings a new openness to dogs and adds to our appetite for watercoloring. Joan has worked as a 5th and 6th grade teacher in Catskill. Her favorite newspaper section is the International page. She likes tea. 'Nuff said.
Friday, June 02, 2006
grandmother rules
Now in Connecticut visiting my mother.
Everything is a bit different with kids on the road. We could not bring all of our kid property with us. We do not have a stroller. We do not have a full changing station. And, there is never a familiar place for either child to unwind. But there are some things that are better to the kids. Rosie loves the attention from Katie-Baba.
We had lunch yesterday, while trying to get away to Brooklyn. Watermelon (yellow) and peanut butter on bread. Some ham and cheese. But then Katie-baba moves in with a chocolate chip cookie. And then she adds a popsicle. Rosie eats the popsicle in her left hand. Then moves to the right for a draw on the cook. Sort of like Ralph Macchio -- popsicle on, cookie off. repeat.
-----
"Susie! Look at that cemetery!" I shout. We are driving across the whitestone bridge. This is a large bridge that leads into New York City. There is a bit of water and then a large cemetery. It is an overcast day. The skyline of New York hangs behind a curtain of white mist. The layering is quite an effect. Rectangular graves in the foreground, rectangular skyscrapers in the rear.
"Take a picture!" I continue. Susie picks up the camera. The camera is conveniently in the passenger seat foot area. I continue my instructions.
"See, there's the cemetery..." I am motioning with my fingers at the composition of choice.
WHAMM!
Yep. You could have imagined what came next. Bumper to the Sienna in front of us. Bam.
We stop. I turn off the car. I can tell that the car ahead is not damaged, but there is a custom here.
I get out.
A woman emerges from the car in front. She is asian, about 40, with a ponytail. She looks exhausted and confused. Maybe sleepy.
"Do you want to exchange information?" I ask. It is the normal thing to ask. There is no damage to my car. Everything seems straight. She grabs her neck.
"You hit me."
The words spill out slowly. You......hit......me...
Yes, it is true.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Cars are backing up in our lane. Do I need to mention that this is the Whitestone Bridge at 5 pm on Thursday afternoon?
"Do you want to say, exchange cards?" I continue.
"Forget it."
----
Back in the car:
"Damn," says Susie.
"No," I assure her, "its ok. No damage. And I definitely hit her."
"I couldn't get that window to open," says Susie. "I totally missed the picture."
Everything is a bit different with kids on the road. We could not bring all of our kid property with us. We do not have a stroller. We do not have a full changing station. And, there is never a familiar place for either child to unwind. But there are some things that are better to the kids. Rosie loves the attention from Katie-Baba.
We had lunch yesterday, while trying to get away to Brooklyn. Watermelon (yellow) and peanut butter on bread. Some ham and cheese. But then Katie-baba moves in with a chocolate chip cookie. And then she adds a popsicle. Rosie eats the popsicle in her left hand. Then moves to the right for a draw on the cook. Sort of like Ralph Macchio -- popsicle on, cookie off. repeat.
-----
"Susie! Look at that cemetery!" I shout. We are driving across the whitestone bridge. This is a large bridge that leads into New York City. There is a bit of water and then a large cemetery. It is an overcast day. The skyline of New York hangs behind a curtain of white mist. The layering is quite an effect. Rectangular graves in the foreground, rectangular skyscrapers in the rear.
"Take a picture!" I continue. Susie picks up the camera. The camera is conveniently in the passenger seat foot area. I continue my instructions.
"See, there's the cemetery..." I am motioning with my fingers at the composition of choice.
WHAMM!
Yep. You could have imagined what came next. Bumper to the Sienna in front of us. Bam.
We stop. I turn off the car. I can tell that the car ahead is not damaged, but there is a custom here.
I get out.
A woman emerges from the car in front. She is asian, about 40, with a ponytail. She looks exhausted and confused. Maybe sleepy.
"Do you want to exchange information?" I ask. It is the normal thing to ask. There is no damage to my car. Everything seems straight. She grabs her neck.
"You hit me."
The words spill out slowly. You......hit......me...
Yes, it is true.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Cars are backing up in our lane. Do I need to mention that this is the Whitestone Bridge at 5 pm on Thursday afternoon?
"Do you want to say, exchange cards?" I continue.
"Forget it."
----
Back in the car:
"Damn," says Susie.
"No," I assure her, "its ok. No damage. And I definitely hit her."
"I couldn't get that window to open," says Susie. "I totally missed the picture."
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Farewell Kathy: You are our Best
We returned Kathy to her home at Catskill community yesterday. After 14 months, the time finally came for Kathy to be back with her family. As our minivan pulled out of the lower circle, even Rosie realized that a moment of gravity was taking place. John understood exactly the implication of the event.
"I am very disappointed," says John. "Why does Kathy want to stay at Catskill?"
I think John would like to stay at Catskill. It is a lot of fun to be there. Let's see -- in three days -- we went fishing, took a pony ride, swam in waterfalls, and sang guitar songs. I ran to a mountain lake every morning.
On Monday morning two days ago, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was 8:15 am. I had just finished weeding a blueberry patch for an hour. I had already gone running and swam in a lake. I had eaten breakfast with about fifteen other people. And soon, I would be fastening Rifton equipment in the factory shop. Quite a morning!
Kathy shepherded us through the birth of Rosie and the death of Zeddie. She has shared late night chocolates and tea with us for many evenings. We introduced her to email, computers, the mall, and religion with liturgy. She went to prison ministry. She got to know Rose and Phyllis and even put up with Samson. She is the godparent to Rosie.
We drove down aptly named Danger Road (Route 16) and off into the horizon. Joan will join us in Brooklyn shortly.
"I am very disappointed," says John. "Why does Kathy want to stay at Catskill?"
I think John would like to stay at Catskill. It is a lot of fun to be there. Let's see -- in three days -- we went fishing, took a pony ride, swam in waterfalls, and sang guitar songs. I ran to a mountain lake every morning.
On Monday morning two days ago, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was 8:15 am. I had just finished weeding a blueberry patch for an hour. I had already gone running and swam in a lake. I had eaten breakfast with about fifteen other people. And soon, I would be fastening Rifton equipment in the factory shop. Quite a morning!
Kathy shepherded us through the birth of Rosie and the death of Zeddie. She has shared late night chocolates and tea with us for many evenings. We introduced her to email, computers, the mall, and religion with liturgy. She went to prison ministry. She got to know Rose and Phyllis and even put up with Samson. She is the godparent to Rosie.
We drove down aptly named Danger Road (Route 16) and off into the horizon. Joan will join us in Brooklyn shortly.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Growing Season
Rosie has made use of daddy and mommy. She has not learned a verbal "no," although she does have a "yeah." She shakes her head. Her new word is "Samson." I think that we are about to witness a lot of growth out of her. She eats more than John these days. Yesterday they both picked strawberries. Rosie ate a lot of them.
Right now I cannot spend enough time in my garden. We made a raised bed for tomatoes on Saturday. It is eight by four. We put in two better boys and a lemon boy. Susie will put in the rest soon. The soil is a special blend -- almost forty percent manures -- to appeal to those plants. I put in some monster hostas as well.
Poll: What do you say to someone who grew up in the 80s, and yet cannot recognize a bitchin' camaro?
Friday, April 28, 2006
A Heroine for Planners
I want to use this space to mourn the passing of someone who helped me decide to change careers. There are not many heroes in the field of urban planning. I have wondered why for a while. What heroes there are tend to be on the margins of the field. They are authors, or iconoclasts. Few work for a county devising zoning regs. One of those authors was Jane Jacobs, who passed away this week. She lived in New York and Toronto. She believed in density, but she argued that everything was best in moderation. She believed in functional cities with a tolerance for messiness. She liked alleys. She thought delivery trucks were the enzyme of skyscrapers. She hated the Vietnam War. She felt the same about our follies in Iraq.
Jane Jacobs never used regression. She never made maps or any kind of regulation. But she put into words the feelings that people had about their favorite places that were otherwise left unsaid. Why is it so pleasing to watch pedestrians? Why is it so lonely driving around at night in a suburb? If it takes a person to commit crime, why do we feel more safe in places with lots of people?
This reminds me about the degree to which planning reflects a belief in the power of environment. Planners see the will of nurture above the ability nature. They think that a person is very much a chameleon, capable of changing depending upon place.
Jane Jacobs never used regression. She never made maps or any kind of regulation. But she put into words the feelings that people had about their favorite places that were otherwise left unsaid. Why is it so pleasing to watch pedestrians? Why is it so lonely driving around at night in a suburb? If it takes a person to commit crime, why do we feel more safe in places with lots of people?
This reminds me about the degree to which planning reflects a belief in the power of environment. Planners see the will of nurture above the ability nature. They think that a person is very much a chameleon, capable of changing depending upon place.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Jury Duty
Seat three, Adam Rust.
The bailiff pulls a low hinged door open and motions for me to sit in the rear. The judge continues.
"We have decided to excuse three jurors."
Of course, because one said that she could not convict a 17 year old, another is a Ph.D. in blood pathology, and another said he cannot trust any Durham police officers. The judge tells us that this case could last more than three weeks. I do not doubt the sincerity of these stories. But they could be motivated for alterior reasons.
"Let's move on," says the judge.
Good, I think. There were originally 224 jurors. Now I remain among 26. A sign on the wall mocks us: unlawful for occupany of more than 82 persons.
"Does anyone know the defendant?" asks the judge.
"Yes, I do, maybe not personally, but I know him," says a lady in seat One. "I know him from when he came into the bank at CCB. He was always writing bad checks."
"I think we will take a recess," says the judge.
-----
In the jury room, we talk about missing persons in Aruba and if blind people like to go on cruises. But then juror number 8 mentions the big topic on our minds:
"That was Mrs. Too Much Information!"
True on that. Of course, CCB is hardly just any bank. They have quite a record for behavior in the community.
-----
Only 11 of us remain when we return.
"That was untrue, what the lady said before recess," says Judge Stephens. "Nevertheless, it could bias what you think about the defendant. And because this is such a serious crime, I am going to have to excuse all of you. Now I know that two days is a long time. It is for us, as well, to have to start over.
The bailiff pulls a low hinged door open and motions for me to sit in the rear. The judge continues.
"We have decided to excuse three jurors."
Of course, because one said that she could not convict a 17 year old, another is a Ph.D. in blood pathology, and another said he cannot trust any Durham police officers. The judge tells us that this case could last more than three weeks. I do not doubt the sincerity of these stories. But they could be motivated for alterior reasons.
"Let's move on," says the judge.
Good, I think. There were originally 224 jurors. Now I remain among 26. A sign on the wall mocks us: unlawful for occupany of more than 82 persons.
"Does anyone know the defendant?" asks the judge.
"Yes, I do, maybe not personally, but I know him," says a lady in seat One. "I know him from when he came into the bank at CCB. He was always writing bad checks."
"I think we will take a recess," says the judge.
-----
In the jury room, we talk about missing persons in Aruba and if blind people like to go on cruises. But then juror number 8 mentions the big topic on our minds:
"That was Mrs. Too Much Information!"
True on that. Of course, CCB is hardly just any bank. They have quite a record for behavior in the community.
-----
Only 11 of us remain when we return.
"That was untrue, what the lady said before recess," says Judge Stephens. "Nevertheless, it could bias what you think about the defendant. And because this is such a serious crime, I am going to have to excuse all of you. Now I know that two days is a long time. It is for us, as well, to have to start over.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Birthday Par-tee
John hosts 11 children and their parents today. We have a bounce house. We have chips. We have salsa. Not too hot. We have napkins. We have it ready to go. Then it rains. Not a little rain. Buckets. Gutters full. Maybe four or five inches in an hour. No problem, just bring all those little feet indoors.
Today John had some intriguing questions:
"Daddy, what did your daddy, named John, ask you about?"
I had to think. I suppose that he asks me something most days, if I listen.
John is perched on his new Tonka bicycle. Red flames and stiff training wheels. The rain has paused. Only paused. More buckets come later.
"He told me to pay attention to what is unsaid, John," I said. I remembered him as I searched the toolshed for a trowel. Something about craftsman tools, damp air, cement and wd-40. Our shed just seems like his kind of place.
"Daddy, what did he do in the morning?"
This was John's question all day about me, about Susie, and about Lisa Davidson, who was visiting.
"He used to read a book, the same book, while sitting in his bed. He did it every morning."
John thought about that.
"Daddy, what is your status?"
I love that.
Today John had some intriguing questions:
"Daddy, what did your daddy, named John, ask you about?"
I had to think. I suppose that he asks me something most days, if I listen.
John is perched on his new Tonka bicycle. Red flames and stiff training wheels. The rain has paused. Only paused. More buckets come later.
"He told me to pay attention to what is unsaid, John," I said. I remembered him as I searched the toolshed for a trowel. Something about craftsman tools, damp air, cement and wd-40. Our shed just seems like his kind of place.
"Daddy, what did he do in the morning?"
This was John's question all day about me, about Susie, and about Lisa Davidson, who was visiting.
"He used to read a book, the same book, while sitting in his bed. He did it every morning."
John thought about that.
"Daddy, what is your status?"
I love that.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Get back to work
This is a lot of mail to have sitting on your desk after a few days out of the office.
Easter is here
John and Kathy dyed eggs on Sunday.
I have returned from California. John has taken to imagining that he owns a helicopter. With it, he can fly on his to California as well. I have a lot of thoughts about California. It was so hot (--How hot was it?) I drank six pints of water one evening. I drove north for thirty miles, lost on 405, and never left Los Angeles. I ate refried beans three times per day. I need better clothes.
Friday, March 31, 2006
That is what I was saying
I have always hated the way those students park large black pickup trucks across the sidewalk on Buchanan. I have never understood why it was ok to leave trash out beginning on Sunday morning, when pickup day is Thursday. And how is it appropriate to leave a couch you no longer want in the street, or hung up in some creeky tree branches?
Kvetch...Kvetch...Kvetch.
But no! I feel sooooooo validated. Yes! This week has been great. My personal peeve, the Duke students who leave trash all over our neighborhood, are now the subject of national disdain.
Just check out the story in the Voice of Authority.
You will also see links to the four other stories online this week about our neighborhood.
That is our neighborhood -- Trinity Park. I wish the Times would get it straight. This not a seedy run down neighborhood. At least, except for the part full of BMW's and SUV's with New York and Florida plates.
We have had this problem for a long time. Last year, it was the affair de baby oil. So while we do not know if the charges are true, now at least the whole world will shine its light on the habits of these undergrads.
Of course it is tragic that the light comes only because someone has been hurt. It stirs up a lot of other anger.
The additional point that I want to make with this blog, though, is the degree to which it is absolutely undue and thrilling to have your long term seething pet peeve turn into national news.
Kvetch...Kvetch...Kvetch.
But no! I feel sooooooo validated. Yes! This week has been great. My personal peeve, the Duke students who leave trash all over our neighborhood, are now the subject of national disdain.
Just check out the story in the Voice of Authority.
You will also see links to the four other stories online this week about our neighborhood.
That is our neighborhood -- Trinity Park. I wish the Times would get it straight. This not a seedy run down neighborhood. At least, except for the part full of BMW's and SUV's with New York and Florida plates.
We have had this problem for a long time. Last year, it was the affair de baby oil. So while we do not know if the charges are true, now at least the whole world will shine its light on the habits of these undergrads.
Of course it is tragic that the light comes only because someone has been hurt. It stirs up a lot of other anger.
The additional point that I want to make with this blog, though, is the degree to which it is absolutely undue and thrilling to have your long term seething pet peeve turn into national news.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Titular implications
Language matters. Not to sound like Allan Bloom, because what bothers me has nothing with the cultural implications.
The catalog from a Christian bookseller in Tennessee does not sell Bibles. It sells "biblical solutions."
The catalog from a Christian bookseller in Tennessee does not sell Bibles. It sells "biblical solutions."
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Time for playing in the dirt
This is the time of the year for resurrecting some great past times.
Baseball will soon return. I admit that I care. I am not alone. Kathy likes baseball. John is going to like baseball. I believe that baseball fans should be loyal. If your team won the World Series in 1985, no amount of misery should be reason to make you change your mind.
Gardening is here, too. Ever seen an aqualegia? How about a really great astible? Maybe you settle for a hosta.
I think hosta lovers are probably like Yankees fans. Everyone doesn't have to like hostas. You know, Cardinals fans are a bit like pussy willows. I built a four foot by eight foot planter in my front yard. Right now, it looks like an unfinished tomb. I suppose the neighbors are chuckling. But they are just cutting their liropi, right?
While we are at it, no one has to plant another azalea, either.
Peter Sellers starred in a movie about gardening and politics. The two are a lot alike, on a very simple level. That was his device for humor.
Baseball will soon return. I admit that I care. I am not alone. Kathy likes baseball. John is going to like baseball. I believe that baseball fans should be loyal. If your team won the World Series in 1985, no amount of misery should be reason to make you change your mind.
Gardening is here, too. Ever seen an aqualegia? How about a really great astible? Maybe you settle for a hosta.
I think hosta lovers are probably like Yankees fans. Everyone doesn't have to like hostas. You know, Cardinals fans are a bit like pussy willows. I built a four foot by eight foot planter in my front yard. Right now, it looks like an unfinished tomb. I suppose the neighbors are chuckling. But they are just cutting their liropi, right?
While we are at it, no one has to plant another azalea, either.
Peter Sellers starred in a movie about gardening and politics. The two are a lot alike, on a very simple level. That was his device for humor.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Dan Nicholas Park
John sits perched upon my shoulders. He pulls my hair. He puts a finger in my left ear. He leans hard into my neck. He wants to grab a wooden automobile on the table below us, in line at Hurley Station in Dan Nicholas Park. We, as well as about 2000 other people, are waiting in line in Rowan County, North Carolina.
"You inhale, you pay," says the sign next to the kazoos for sale. I will have to resist.
I pay for two tickets. But that is the line for buying tickets. There is another line for getting on to the train.
I like democracy. Everyone does, right?
Waiting in line represents the implementation of the democratic ideal. First come, first served. That's the only rule. No matter how much the richest banker might derive more utility (as an economist would say) from free time, that banker has to wait in line behind the guy with three tattoos.
I see plenty of free speech in line, emblazoned on the t-shirts of my fellow line waiters.
"I love Rock 92."
"Don't drive your truck when U are Jacked Up!"
"It's Bubba Time"
The antidote to all of this democracy: a strong cup of British tea.
But I realize, as I walk through a knoll littered with screaming children and smoking parents, there is a difference between these people and myself.
They are Republicans. Or, more than 70 percent of the people in this county voted Republican. The only ward that votes for Democrats is the one downtown -- where Elizabeth Dole grew up. Out here, in the country, its full of anti-tax voters. My county, with the geneticists on the left and the pharmaceutical salesman across the street - that is where you get people who cannot say no to a bond referendum.
Enough demos.
"You inhale, you pay," says the sign next to the kazoos for sale. I will have to resist.
I pay for two tickets. But that is the line for buying tickets. There is another line for getting on to the train.
I like democracy. Everyone does, right?
Waiting in line represents the implementation of the democratic ideal. First come, first served. That's the only rule. No matter how much the richest banker might derive more utility (as an economist would say) from free time, that banker has to wait in line behind the guy with three tattoos.
I see plenty of free speech in line, emblazoned on the t-shirts of my fellow line waiters.
"I love Rock 92."
"Don't drive your truck when U are Jacked Up!"
"It's Bubba Time"
The antidote to all of this democracy: a strong cup of British tea.
But I realize, as I walk through a knoll littered with screaming children and smoking parents, there is a difference between these people and myself.
They are Republicans. Or, more than 70 percent of the people in this county voted Republican. The only ward that votes for Democrats is the one downtown -- where Elizabeth Dole grew up. Out here, in the country, its full of anti-tax voters. My county, with the geneticists on the left and the pharmaceutical salesman across the street - that is where you get people who cannot say no to a bond referendum.
Enough demos.
hungry bachelors say no to yogurt
I can see spring on my walk home from work. People are outside. Kids push bicycles on sidewalks. Daffodils push through the soil. The sun heats the earth. The earth smells damp. Not withstanding all of this life, I feel so tired from staring at rows of cells. But the walk helps.
The process of mourning continues. Susie has been staying in Salisbury for the past week. Having all of the 911 urban gang in Salisbury changes things. Our home is silent. I get the mail, but I can't think of why to stick around in an empty house.
People who know me will perhaps recognize a lack of domestic skills in my background. Or maybe, they might say I have an imperative for entropy.
I have tried the sa-cha chicken, the hunan chicken, and the kung pao chicken at the Hunan Gourmet. The Hunan Gourmet holds a spot between the Nationwide Insurance and the Boston Chicken in the adjunct wing of the Northgate Mall. These storefronts are engines for entrepreneurs.
What strikes me about the Hunan Gourmet is the clientele. It's a men's club. There is a fifty something guy eating in the aisle on the other side of me. There's a thirty something guy across from me. Instead of saying "open", the sign out front should say "hungry bachelor kitchen." It's a pathetic sight.
"Women would stay at home and eat yogurt," says my sister in law.
The process of mourning continues. Susie has been staying in Salisbury for the past week. Having all of the 911 urban gang in Salisbury changes things. Our home is silent. I get the mail, but I can't think of why to stick around in an empty house.
People who know me will perhaps recognize a lack of domestic skills in my background. Or maybe, they might say I have an imperative for entropy.
I have tried the sa-cha chicken, the hunan chicken, and the kung pao chicken at the Hunan Gourmet. The Hunan Gourmet holds a spot between the Nationwide Insurance and the Boston Chicken in the adjunct wing of the Northgate Mall. These storefronts are engines for entrepreneurs.
What strikes me about the Hunan Gourmet is the clientele. It's a men's club. There is a fifty something guy eating in the aisle on the other side of me. There's a thirty something guy across from me. Instead of saying "open", the sign out front should say "hungry bachelor kitchen." It's a pathetic sight.
"Women would stay at home and eat yogurt," says my sister in law.
Friday, March 10, 2006
A box of puppies
RBC Centura has a new advertisement. The ad shows still lifes of things that cost something, even though they are free. A box of puppies. Chocolate on your pillow in a motel room.
Then it has some other still lifes that don't make any sense at all: blocks of cheese laid out for sample consumption at a grocery store. What does that cost? Chiclets. Hmmm.
The ad borrows from the cool blue hues, created by natural morning light, that characterized many pictures in DoubleTake. That was a hip magazine that had its day in the mid to late 90s.
I couldn't enjoy those kind of pictures when they were in DoubleTake. Somehow, it strikes me differently in video. I do not know why.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Rosie crawls
Rosie scaled the quarter length stairwell between Rose's downstairs living room and her upstairs sitting room on Saturday. You can see the focus in her eyes. Rosie takes the cautious path. She grasped the stair rail and stood up. She shifts her weight forward. Then removes her outside hand and finds a place on the next tier. There is no risk, no climbing with feet and hands all at once. How different than her brother.
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