Ending an hiatus should be a happy time. A return to normalcy marked by being refreshed and invigorated. The stress of the move has subsided and we are unabashedly happy about being able to get on with our plans. But in the time since this hiatus was declared...
So much happened. So little has changed. Three months have ticked away. Another mass shooting where regular folks doing their daily work perished - this time in the nation’s capitol and on a Naval installation. The callouses of repetition have rendered such events so close to commonplace that this one could barely sustain commentary through two news cycles. In that same city, Congress exudes wanton disregard for the people it serves - appearing to be motivated by dogmatic voices that divide and demean rather than listening to Lincoln who said to bind up wounds with malice toward none and charity for all.
So much happened. So little has changed. Three months have ticked away. Another mass shooting where regular folks doing their daily work perished - this time in the nation’s capitol and on a Naval installation. The callouses of repetition have rendered such events so close to commonplace that this one could barely sustain commentary through two news cycles. In that same city, Congress exudes wanton disregard for the people it serves - appearing to be motivated by dogmatic voices that divide and demean rather than listening to Lincoln who said to bind up wounds with malice toward none and charity for all.
The usual August is a time when breezes blow like jet exhaust. This August threw off her normal demeanor and gave us temperatures closer to my desired golf score. We took a break for six days in August to enjoy a visit from my Japanese foreign exchange student brother who lived with us 45 years ago. He brought along his youngest daughter who smiled with her eyes and walked with the carefree happy gait of an adventurous young woman. My eye moistened a bit as Masashi placed flowers at the graves of my parents, our parents. For more than a minute, he bowed humbly before them in deferential honor. Their gift was choosing to make him one of their sons. On this visit, we used the quiet time to talk as brothers, as fathers and grandfathers with hope and concern for the troubled world we’re leaving to our children and grandchildren.
In Stockholm scientists have concluded that all the junk spewed into the air is contributing to climate change but Nobel laureates lack sufficient stature to end the dispute about whether our collective actions have global consequences. The smog and soot floating above our cities and irritating our nasal linings; stronger hurricanes; tempestuous tornados and tsunamis; the brownish-yellow water coursing through our streams are treated as inadmissible evidence. Sadly, the same scientists opined that babies born today may be alive when the tipping point teeters - the point when the power to alter course and affect the final chapter will have dissipated.
The Kansas City Royals weren’t mathematically eliminated from the pennant race until 158 games of the 2013 season had been played. Forty percent of the local population wasn’t born when the boys in blue last lit the torch for civic pride. Perhaps their winning ways helped motivate the Kansas City school district to improve their performance by leaps and bounds. Even though too few students are educated to proficiency, the tone of the central office has focused on kids for the first time since the courts sallied into the waters of education governance and the Royals were in the World Series.
With the first phase of the move behind us, we’re adapting to apartment life - life more suited to the carefree young than to the crotchety curmudgeon. Lots of stairs to walk and noises to understand and tolerate. Horns and sirens punctuate the night, every night. The back-up alarm on the garbage truck starts its charming tune every morning like a rooster riled by first light. There are sounds of romance or physical encounters emanating close enough to form a cacophonous chorus accompanied by the tipsy tones rolling up from revelers on the street below. With little regard for terrain or the distance from our door, Eva lets us know her preferred site for taking care of business. The best is when she makes a deposit in the shadow of the shuttlecocks adorning the lawn leading to the Nelson. Yet, with a little imagination, on a sunlit cool autumn afternoon, a stroll along Brush Creek to the Plaza can be as romantic as a walk along the canals of Venice or as inspiring as time beside the Thames or siting silent beside the Seine.
The government is closed but, with this post, the cigar box lid is lifted at least a little bit. So much noise bombards us every day that perhaps it is time for less words and more thought, more reflection, more empathy. But there are still stories to tell as time, memory and perception permit. Some opinions are stronger unsaid but some will slither in when not intended; some will stand starkly in the center though that’s not the purpose of this cigar box.
The hiatus is halted. There will be more posted here - I can’t say what, I won’t say when.
--td
In Stockholm scientists have concluded that all the junk spewed into the air is contributing to climate change but Nobel laureates lack sufficient stature to end the dispute about whether our collective actions have global consequences. The smog and soot floating above our cities and irritating our nasal linings; stronger hurricanes; tempestuous tornados and tsunamis; the brownish-yellow water coursing through our streams are treated as inadmissible evidence. Sadly, the same scientists opined that babies born today may be alive when the tipping point teeters - the point when the power to alter course and affect the final chapter will have dissipated.
The Kansas City Royals weren’t mathematically eliminated from the pennant race until 158 games of the 2013 season had been played. Forty percent of the local population wasn’t born when the boys in blue last lit the torch for civic pride. Perhaps their winning ways helped motivate the Kansas City school district to improve their performance by leaps and bounds. Even though too few students are educated to proficiency, the tone of the central office has focused on kids for the first time since the courts sallied into the waters of education governance and the Royals were in the World Series.
With the first phase of the move behind us, we’re adapting to apartment life - life more suited to the carefree young than to the crotchety curmudgeon. Lots of stairs to walk and noises to understand and tolerate. Horns and sirens punctuate the night, every night. The back-up alarm on the garbage truck starts its charming tune every morning like a rooster riled by first light. There are sounds of romance or physical encounters emanating close enough to form a cacophonous chorus accompanied by the tipsy tones rolling up from revelers on the street below. With little regard for terrain or the distance from our door, Eva lets us know her preferred site for taking care of business. The best is when she makes a deposit in the shadow of the shuttlecocks adorning the lawn leading to the Nelson. Yet, with a little imagination, on a sunlit cool autumn afternoon, a stroll along Brush Creek to the Plaza can be as romantic as a walk along the canals of Venice or as inspiring as time beside the Thames or siting silent beside the Seine.
The government is closed but, with this post, the cigar box lid is lifted at least a little bit. So much noise bombards us every day that perhaps it is time for less words and more thought, more reflection, more empathy. But there are still stories to tell as time, memory and perception permit. Some opinions are stronger unsaid but some will slither in when not intended; some will stand starkly in the center though that’s not the purpose of this cigar box.
The hiatus is halted. There will be more posted here - I can’t say what, I won’t say when.
--td
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