Woody needs to make a confession here: I'm not a big Halloween fan. As holidays go, it's always seemed more of a trumped up excuse to saturate kids' blood with sugar than anything else. Oh, sure, the kids look cute 'n' all in their costumes, but here's a hint to you parents out there: the kids stop looking cute in costume after a certain age. In fact, teenagers in costume just look like teenagers in costume. These days there's very little distinction between what teenagers choose to wear on Halloween and what they choose to wear at school, except perhaps the presence of a bit more blood on Halloween. Also, there's just something pathetic about kids who are old enough to shave running up to doors and looking askance at the pitiful offering you drop in their oversized pillowcases.
Now, admittedly, Woody's kids are still young enough to be in the "cute" category. We'll be having "Trunk or Treat" at the church tonight, and they will be dressed up as a colonial girl and an indian princess. Cute. No; very cute. Right off the Cuteness Scale, truth be told. Daddy will walk them around the parking lot after the ward dinner and games, and remind them to say "thank you" after they get their treats, and then look forward to putting his feet up on the recliner afterward and nursing his sore back. That's Halloween.
In fact, as a teenager myself, I was more interested in passing out candy at the door than I was in dressing up and escorting younger siblings around the block. Not that I was shy about sharing in the bounty, you understand. Even at 47 I'm able to consume up to my weight in sugar in a single night, although at this age I'm also more likely to pay certain, um, consequences later on. Probably while I'm trying to sleep later that night, for instance.
Woody's philosophy on costumes is that, after about age 10, costumes are for stage. It always amazes me when people try to dress up for Halloween at the office. Mostly they just embarrass themselves, as when one gent tried to dress up as a sumo wrestler last year. Had a hard time negotiating through cubicleville with his inflatable body suit. Or a former boss of mine who used to dye his beard brown and dress up like a hippy. He was just dating himself more than anything else.
I grew out of the "scary" phase of Halloween years ago. Time was when I could go trick-or-treating in our neighborhood and visit the house where they always turned their garage into a haunted house. They always grossed me out when I stuck my hand into the bowl of pork and beans that was supposed to represent someone's innards. And, of course, these days Halloween is really just an excuse for networks to trot out their entire collections of every horror film ever made and make sure we get to see previews during commercial breaks for the entire month of October. Thanks, guys.
In the meantime, I have had no desire in the last couple of decades to visit anything like the haunted fun-house type venues that spring up during this time of year. Knott's Berry Farm does one that's supposed to get scarier every year. Why? Seems people like to be scared. I'm not one of them.
I guess I just have a low threshold for Halloween. I'm not really sure why, but I'm always glad when it's over. Then I can get on with anticipating all the turkey goodness of Thanksgiving, and the sights and sounds that represent Christmas beyond that.
On the other hand, Halloween has given me one thing to look forward to every year: Dinner-In-a-Pumpkin. That's become a tradition in the Woody household since the Woodyettes were tiny. Maybe I'll post the recipe here later.
After I recover from tonight.
Bah. Humbug.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
#86 - Sing Along Plug
Last month I wrote a piece on how the telephone can raise your blood pressure with very little effort. I made passing mention of the fact that I've been asked to participate in the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance's second annual Messiah Sing Along, and really didn't think much more about it after I posted it.
Well, apparently someone has been doing WebCrawler searches for the Sing Along, and has surfed to this page looking for it. They wouldn't find it unless they searched through my archived posts, so I've added a link for the Sing Along to my blog roll on the right.
I hadn't realized it before, but there's a photo on the YLAA site that shows yours truly staring intently at his music while performing the tenor solo last year. Can't see my face too well, but the a-frame on which it sits hasn't changed since the concert. Just juxtapose my smirking mug from my profile onto the performance photo, and you get the general idea. Woody at his finest.
If you're in the area on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, feel free to drop by the Nixon Library at 2:00 and listen to (or, better yet, participate in) the Messiah. It's a great way to kick off the holiday.
Well, apparently someone has been doing WebCrawler searches for the Sing Along, and has surfed to this page looking for it. They wouldn't find it unless they searched through my archived posts, so I've added a link for the Sing Along to my blog roll on the right.
I hadn't realized it before, but there's a photo on the YLAA site that shows yours truly staring intently at his music while performing the tenor solo last year. Can't see my face too well, but the a-frame on which it sits hasn't changed since the concert. Just juxtapose my smirking mug from my profile onto the performance photo, and you get the general idea. Woody at his finest.
If you're in the area on the Sunday following Thanksgiving, feel free to drop by the Nixon Library at 2:00 and listen to (or, better yet, participate in) the Messiah. It's a great way to kick off the holiday.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
#85 - Of Sports and Stuff
Note: This is my annual birthday essay. It's a couple of days late, but better late than never. I've done this -- largely for myself -- every year since early adulthood. I can't help myself. It's a little like Congress. Every two years they feel a compulsion to run for office, believing they've done something constructive during their last term. Likewise I like to feel that I've done something of note during the year since my last birthday. Since that's not the case, I get to ruminate on just about any topic I choose. Why I chose this particular one, heaven only knows.
I'm not certain if it was the migraine with which I awoke this morning, or the effects of a hot shower on a fevered brain, but I got to thinking about hockey. Specifically professional hockey. You know: the sport we did without for an entire year. You don't remember that? That's funny... neither does anyone else I know.
Anyway, I never got hockey. Being a lifelong southern Cal boy, I've never really gotten any winter sport. What's the point? Here in the desert (hint to those wishing they lived in California: anywhere south of, say, Sacramento is desert. Just thought you should know) we have to artifically freeze everything, including our snow. Really. Our local mountains don't get real snow until about February, which means that if they want any business during ski season, they need to make their own. With hockey (and, by extension, ice skating related sports) we have to freeze entire swimming pools' worth of water, then run over it with something that sounds like Italian food run amok, then play a sport that only Canada could have dreamt up. It was either the Canucks, or one of our perpetually brain-frozen states like Minnesota or Michigan.
In fact, hockey was probably invented when some Canadians (or Minnesotans, or Michiganians) got wasted in a saloon and decided to have a bar fight outside on the frozen parking lot. Parking lots up there stay frozen pretty much from September through about July, so it's not like they can play baseball or anything. I mean, look at the Twins, for Pete's sake. Anyway, I imagine they were having a grand old time until the saloon's owner got mad and threw one of his overcooked hamburger patties at one of the brawlers, who managed a wonderful slap shot with a pool cue and knocked the burger cleanly into the net of some guy who was ice fishing in a ditch next to the parking lot. The brawling crowd stopped long enough to congratulate the shooter by knocking a few teeth out of his head, then resumed their fight. I believe that pretty much encapsulates the entire sport.
People in the northern climes can enjoy these winter sports by virtue of the fact that they never get sick during the winter. They don't pass winter colds around because every time they sneeze the germs simply freeze in mid-air and fall to the ground. There they (the germs) (also, at times, the people) lie dormant until the first spring thaw in late June. "Do not travel to Minnesota in late June" should be stamped on every tourist brochure. Every cold germ in the state suddenly springs to life and resumes travelling to its destination, which is precisely where you will be standing at that moment; overwhelmed by an attack of every cold germ generated during the previous winter. That's why their ball teams never win games during the summer months. The players are too busy fighting off everyone's winter colds. This also explains Garrison Keillor.
So I'm no fan of hockey. Then again, I'm not a fan of any professional organized sport these days. For one thing, none of these sports really resembles the ones with which I grew up during the 60's and 70's. As a kid, I remember being a die-hard, dedicated fan of the Dodgers. The Angels (then called the "California" Angels) were pretty much a non-entity and, besides, the Dodgers had Vin Scully. In those days a kid could join a team's fan club, send in a dollar or two, and get a packet of neat (cheap, but neat) stuff like a team photo, tacky felt team pennant, and a copy of the team's schedule for that year. You could go to a game with your Dad for a very reasonable price, listen to your Dad swear at all the drivers in the parking lot, and get some cheesy souvenir at the game that you could take home and brag to your friends about for the next six months. I did that exactly once as a boy. I've never forgotten it. I also played a fair amount of sandlot ball in those days, and I got pretty good. I could pitch fairly accurately, although I didn't exactly strike fear into batters' hearts. I was small and wiry, and had pretty good bursts of speed, so I was a better than average base runner. I also made sure to play with guys that a were a year or two younger than myself so I would look better by comparison. Hey, I was no fool.
Of course, in those days professional athletes weren't known by their contract terms. Players tended to be more dedicated to their teams than they were to their vanity clauses, and it was easier to root for the home team and memorize their roster. These days the game is more about salary caps and corporate profit than it is about the game itself. Sportsmanship always takes a back seat to annual salary negotiations, and endorsements are far more important than team loyalty. Also, it was much easier to turn an athlete into a "role model" when you had no clue that he was so tanked up on steroids that his autopsy would reveal gigantic muscles and very little brain.
Maybe this just reflects my age. At 47, I've come to realize that my own accomplishments in this life will never make front page news. This is fine, since I have no desire to be featured in a "Programmer Arrest of the Day" story on the local news anytime soon. Truthfully, at my age I'm glad to be as healthy as I am. I still have at least as many teeth in my head as I have fingers on my hands, and my eyes are still functional even if I do need "progressive" lenses now. Of course, this also means that I spend copious amounts of time trying to get my head into just the right position so I can still read things like this essay without getting major cricks in my neck. My knees are starting to get into that "personal barometer" phase of life where I can tell a storm is coming without ever looking at weather reports on the internet. Athletic achievement for me is climbing the six flights of stairs to my office in the morning (I'm good for one climb every two or three days) instead of taking the elevator. On those rare occasions where I actually have to run (or even trot) for short distances, I now require a full three days to recover, assuming I haven't torn any minor ligaments. A good workout for me involves climbing a stepstool to find out if my wireless gateway is still working properly.
Pathetic? Perhaps. But here's what I can also do: I can, with very little effort, comfort my daughter when she tells me that she saw a scary light in her dark bedroom. I can magically make snacks appear when the kids are dying of hunger, precisely at the moment I was about to tell them to brush their teeth for the night. I can push a vacuum cleaner around with the best of them, and prepare three-course meals in a single skillet for dinner. (My meatloaf's to die for.) I can take a customer's vague and nebulous requirements and produce a web-based tool that wasn't probably what they were expecting but works better than they hoped for. I can help someone find information about an ancestor that they never knew before and help them connect with their past a little better. I know exactly when to say just the right thing to help my wife know that she is the single most important person in my life now and in the eternities to come.
I'd like to see your average steroid-enhanced-egomaniacal-multi-millionaire-whining athlete do that.
I'm not certain if it was the migraine with which I awoke this morning, or the effects of a hot shower on a fevered brain, but I got to thinking about hockey. Specifically professional hockey. You know: the sport we did without for an entire year. You don't remember that? That's funny... neither does anyone else I know.
Anyway, I never got hockey. Being a lifelong southern Cal boy, I've never really gotten any winter sport. What's the point? Here in the desert (hint to those wishing they lived in California: anywhere south of, say, Sacramento is desert. Just thought you should know) we have to artifically freeze everything, including our snow. Really. Our local mountains don't get real snow until about February, which means that if they want any business during ski season, they need to make their own. With hockey (and, by extension, ice skating related sports) we have to freeze entire swimming pools' worth of water, then run over it with something that sounds like Italian food run amok, then play a sport that only Canada could have dreamt up. It was either the Canucks, or one of our perpetually brain-frozen states like Minnesota or Michigan.
In fact, hockey was probably invented when some Canadians (or Minnesotans, or Michiganians) got wasted in a saloon and decided to have a bar fight outside on the frozen parking lot. Parking lots up there stay frozen pretty much from September through about July, so it's not like they can play baseball or anything. I mean, look at the Twins, for Pete's sake. Anyway, I imagine they were having a grand old time until the saloon's owner got mad and threw one of his overcooked hamburger patties at one of the brawlers, who managed a wonderful slap shot with a pool cue and knocked the burger cleanly into the net of some guy who was ice fishing in a ditch next to the parking lot. The brawling crowd stopped long enough to congratulate the shooter by knocking a few teeth out of his head, then resumed their fight. I believe that pretty much encapsulates the entire sport.
People in the northern climes can enjoy these winter sports by virtue of the fact that they never get sick during the winter. They don't pass winter colds around because every time they sneeze the germs simply freeze in mid-air and fall to the ground. There they (the germs) (also, at times, the people) lie dormant until the first spring thaw in late June. "Do not travel to Minnesota in late June" should be stamped on every tourist brochure. Every cold germ in the state suddenly springs to life and resumes travelling to its destination, which is precisely where you will be standing at that moment; overwhelmed by an attack of every cold germ generated during the previous winter. That's why their ball teams never win games during the summer months. The players are too busy fighting off everyone's winter colds. This also explains Garrison Keillor.
So I'm no fan of hockey. Then again, I'm not a fan of any professional organized sport these days. For one thing, none of these sports really resembles the ones with which I grew up during the 60's and 70's. As a kid, I remember being a die-hard, dedicated fan of the Dodgers. The Angels (then called the "California" Angels) were pretty much a non-entity and, besides, the Dodgers had Vin Scully. In those days a kid could join a team's fan club, send in a dollar or two, and get a packet of neat (cheap, but neat) stuff like a team photo, tacky felt team pennant, and a copy of the team's schedule for that year. You could go to a game with your Dad for a very reasonable price, listen to your Dad swear at all the drivers in the parking lot, and get some cheesy souvenir at the game that you could take home and brag to your friends about for the next six months. I did that exactly once as a boy. I've never forgotten it. I also played a fair amount of sandlot ball in those days, and I got pretty good. I could pitch fairly accurately, although I didn't exactly strike fear into batters' hearts. I was small and wiry, and had pretty good bursts of speed, so I was a better than average base runner. I also made sure to play with guys that a were a year or two younger than myself so I would look better by comparison. Hey, I was no fool.
Of course, in those days professional athletes weren't known by their contract terms. Players tended to be more dedicated to their teams than they were to their vanity clauses, and it was easier to root for the home team and memorize their roster. These days the game is more about salary caps and corporate profit than it is about the game itself. Sportsmanship always takes a back seat to annual salary negotiations, and endorsements are far more important than team loyalty. Also, it was much easier to turn an athlete into a "role model" when you had no clue that he was so tanked up on steroids that his autopsy would reveal gigantic muscles and very little brain.
Maybe this just reflects my age. At 47, I've come to realize that my own accomplishments in this life will never make front page news. This is fine, since I have no desire to be featured in a "Programmer Arrest of the Day" story on the local news anytime soon. Truthfully, at my age I'm glad to be as healthy as I am. I still have at least as many teeth in my head as I have fingers on my hands, and my eyes are still functional even if I do need "progressive" lenses now. Of course, this also means that I spend copious amounts of time trying to get my head into just the right position so I can still read things like this essay without getting major cricks in my neck. My knees are starting to get into that "personal barometer" phase of life where I can tell a storm is coming without ever looking at weather reports on the internet. Athletic achievement for me is climbing the six flights of stairs to my office in the morning (I'm good for one climb every two or three days) instead of taking the elevator. On those rare occasions where I actually have to run (or even trot) for short distances, I now require a full three days to recover, assuming I haven't torn any minor ligaments. A good workout for me involves climbing a stepstool to find out if my wireless gateway is still working properly.
Pathetic? Perhaps. But here's what I can also do: I can, with very little effort, comfort my daughter when she tells me that she saw a scary light in her dark bedroom. I can magically make snacks appear when the kids are dying of hunger, precisely at the moment I was about to tell them to brush their teeth for the night. I can push a vacuum cleaner around with the best of them, and prepare three-course meals in a single skillet for dinner. (My meatloaf's to die for.) I can take a customer's vague and nebulous requirements and produce a web-based tool that wasn't probably what they were expecting but works better than they hoped for. I can help someone find information about an ancestor that they never knew before and help them connect with their past a little better. I know exactly when to say just the right thing to help my wife know that she is the single most important person in my life now and in the eternities to come.
I'd like to see your average steroid-enhanced-egomaniacal-multi-millionaire-whining athlete do that.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
#84 - Getting Ants-y
Ok, I get it now. I didn't before, because this seems to be something of a regional problem down here in Orange County, but I finally understand the ant problem.
Regular readers (all three of you!) will remember my long-running feud with these tiny black marauders. I have worn out so many cans of so-called "poison free" ant spray this summer that our local stores no longer carry them. I've been reduced to begging to find enough mint-essenced bug killer to wipe these things out, and still they keep coming. It appeared that my cooking was simply too good to ignore, and the critters had hung "Chez Woody" signs at strategic entrances to our house.
But now I get it.
Ants are related to salmon. Really. There can be no other viable explanation.
I've visited the locks on the Columbia river a few times over the years, and been on the tours. I've seen the salmon ladders that allow these retentive fish to return to their breeding waters in order to reproduce and die (if they don't get eaten by bears, caught in trawler nets, or fished by native Americans along the way first). I know these things because I've seen just about every National Geographic special, Disney True Life Adventure, and Bill Nye the Science Guy episode ever written on this topic. These fish are a programmer's dream: No matter what anomalies you throw at them, they keep doing what they're programmed to do over and over and over again. Without debugging! Even if, as humans have been wont to do whenever we crowd wildlife out of their natural element, their spawning grounds disappear, the fish will keep trying to get back to them to do what Nature programmed them to do.
So it is with the ants. Now, I'll grant you there are a few differences. Ants have way more legs than your average salmon, and even a salmon fingerling could probably devour an entire colony of ants in a single meal, if the ants would cooperate and drive themselves into the river, thus saving me the trouble of having to eradicate a new generation roughly every two days or so. (Sorry... I seem to be somewhat single-minded about this!) Also, the fact that fish live in the water, while ants live in my kitchen is one more difference that some snooty scientists might label "significant."
But having observed salmon in their natural habitat (my television), I can now state with authority that ants are related to salmon. And the blame for my infestations rests squarely on the shoulders of Orange County's first Spanish settlers.
I really can't blame the native Americans for this problem. For one thing, I can't afford the legal fees. But, truthfully, they at least had the sense to pack up their homes and move them to another location if the ant problem got too bad. The Spaniards, on the other hand, tended to be permanent. They built serviceable homes out of adobe and built ranchos on which they raised cattle and cheap tequila. What they didn't realize was, they were building their adobe dwellings directly on top of the world's largest ant spawning grounds. Had they been truthful, "Santa Ana" would have been named "Hormigaville," and property values would have remained in the basement until the Mafia figured out how to turn every ant hill into a gambling venture.
Once I made this connection, other fascinating aspects of early California culture became more easily explained. The colorful folk dances of the Spanish settlers, for instance. Sissy anthropologists will tell you that the dances have their roots in ancient tribal rituals. This is only partly true. They leave out the part that those rituals involved the stamping out of ants that had once again invaded la cocina, and some clown who was six sheets to the wind on cheap tequila decided to put it to music. He had to be drunk because he invented marimbas to accompany it. It explains everything.
So, year after year, the ant colonies return to their pre-programmed spawning grounds to breed several new generations of ants, and my kitchen floor happens to rest on top of one such ground.
So now I understand my ant problem. This is why they will likely never be completely eradicated while we live here. My best bet is to make some sort of peace offering to them. Perhaps keep a piece of rancid meat in my garbage can outside so they'll have something to eat and maybe skip my pantry.
In the meantime, I need to go have a conversation with Mrs. Woody about why she refuses to let me teach science and history to the Woodyettes.
Regular readers (all three of you!) will remember my long-running feud with these tiny black marauders. I have worn out so many cans of so-called "poison free" ant spray this summer that our local stores no longer carry them. I've been reduced to begging to find enough mint-essenced bug killer to wipe these things out, and still they keep coming. It appeared that my cooking was simply too good to ignore, and the critters had hung "Chez Woody" signs at strategic entrances to our house.
But now I get it.
Ants are related to salmon. Really. There can be no other viable explanation.
I've visited the locks on the Columbia river a few times over the years, and been on the tours. I've seen the salmon ladders that allow these retentive fish to return to their breeding waters in order to reproduce and die (if they don't get eaten by bears, caught in trawler nets, or fished by native Americans along the way first). I know these things because I've seen just about every National Geographic special, Disney True Life Adventure, and Bill Nye the Science Guy episode ever written on this topic. These fish are a programmer's dream: No matter what anomalies you throw at them, they keep doing what they're programmed to do over and over and over again. Without debugging! Even if, as humans have been wont to do whenever we crowd wildlife out of their natural element, their spawning grounds disappear, the fish will keep trying to get back to them to do what Nature programmed them to do.
So it is with the ants. Now, I'll grant you there are a few differences. Ants have way more legs than your average salmon, and even a salmon fingerling could probably devour an entire colony of ants in a single meal, if the ants would cooperate and drive themselves into the river, thus saving me the trouble of having to eradicate a new generation roughly every two days or so. (Sorry... I seem to be somewhat single-minded about this!) Also, the fact that fish live in the water, while ants live in my kitchen is one more difference that some snooty scientists might label "significant."
But having observed salmon in their natural habitat (my television), I can now state with authority that ants are related to salmon. And the blame for my infestations rests squarely on the shoulders of Orange County's first Spanish settlers.
I really can't blame the native Americans for this problem. For one thing, I can't afford the legal fees. But, truthfully, they at least had the sense to pack up their homes and move them to another location if the ant problem got too bad. The Spaniards, on the other hand, tended to be permanent. They built serviceable homes out of adobe and built ranchos on which they raised cattle and cheap tequila. What they didn't realize was, they were building their adobe dwellings directly on top of the world's largest ant spawning grounds. Had they been truthful, "Santa Ana" would have been named "Hormigaville," and property values would have remained in the basement until the Mafia figured out how to turn every ant hill into a gambling venture.
Once I made this connection, other fascinating aspects of early California culture became more easily explained. The colorful folk dances of the Spanish settlers, for instance. Sissy anthropologists will tell you that the dances have their roots in ancient tribal rituals. This is only partly true. They leave out the part that those rituals involved the stamping out of ants that had once again invaded la cocina, and some clown who was six sheets to the wind on cheap tequila decided to put it to music. He had to be drunk because he invented marimbas to accompany it. It explains everything.
So, year after year, the ant colonies return to their pre-programmed spawning grounds to breed several new generations of ants, and my kitchen floor happens to rest on top of one such ground.
So now I understand my ant problem. This is why they will likely never be completely eradicated while we live here. My best bet is to make some sort of peace offering to them. Perhaps keep a piece of rancid meat in my garbage can outside so they'll have something to eat and maybe skip my pantry.
In the meantime, I need to go have a conversation with Mrs. Woody about why she refuses to let me teach science and history to the Woodyettes.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
#83 - Look Ma! I'm a Demographic!
For several years now I have taken some comfort in the knowledge that, stodgy though I be, I still qualify for inclusion in one of the "key demographics" that television marketers use to sell their advertising. They always seem to quote the "all important adults aged 18 to 49 bracket" when they show to what lengths advertisers will go in order to sell their products. The fact that my warranty is only a couple of years shy of expiration hasn't really bothered me.
It's the bracket that bothers me. See, when I was a younger man - closer to the 18 end of the scale - I generally bought into the images portrayed in that advertising. I had the boundless energy of youth and figured I would go forever. Like the Energizer Bunny™ but with shorter ears. In fact, the older I get the more I relate to my old solar-powered calculator. I can still do the math, but I'm getting slower. It could be worse, of course. In a couple of years I'll be in the next bracket ("Geezers") and will be targeted by advertising for hemorrhoid creams and overpriced funeral insurance.
With age comes a unique perspective. There was a day when the presence of a beautiful woman in a commercial would gain my instant attention. Some commercials over the years caused whiplash of the eyeballs as I tried to ogle the talent without alerting anyone else who may have been in the room with me. The truth is, I haven't really been part of that demographic for over a decade now. Actually, if you were to try to define my demographics, they would look something like this:
18-24 - Free and easy
25-36 - Married but still immature
37-now - Remarried and happy
It's that last demographic that advertisers have trouble with. Happy older males are bad for marketers. If we're happy, we're not spending money. Think about it: all the consumer goods targeted to "my" age bracket are designed for people "on the go." SUVs are targeted (irrespective of where they actually end up) for active people who will ultimately use them for climbing all over mountainous terrain to have outdoorsy adventures involving trees and bears. Whereas I would buy an SUV only for self-defense. The closest it would get to a mountain would involve an interstate.
Beer commercials are another example. I don't drink beer. In fact, I once received an invitation to join the Beer Drinkers of America and turned them down with a letter that would probably surface if I ever ran for public office and would show my extreme prejudices, so don't look for me to run for City Council any time soon. That said, beer commercials are obviously meant to show that only young people drink beer. This is because if they ever showed what people actually look like after three or four decades of drinking the stuff, beer manufacturers would never sponsor another sporting event. Ever. I don't belong to a demographic that thinks beer drinkers are studly men. I belong to a demographic that believes beer drinkers are perpetually one can short of a six-pack.
Shaving commercials always crack me up. It doesn't matter what I smear my face with, or how many blades are in my razor. If a woman ever stroked my face like that today, she'd better have tremendous medical insurance, because my sweet wife would likely send her to the nearest emergency room. (Actually, my sweet wife is exactly that: sweet. The worst she would ever do is use her patented Death Ray Stare™ which would shrivel the woman's hand and cause her to hide from public view for the rest of her life. Thought I'd better correct that perception right away.) Besides, I no longer care what other women think of me. I have this luxury now because I am already married to the only woman whose attention I crave, and she happens to enjoy my current mix of LectricShave and Norelco shaver. Take that, Madison Avenue!
No, I'm afraid the marketers have no idea how to handle my bracket. Truth be told, I like it that way. When Mrs. Woody and I watch TV nowadays, we simply mute the commercials until the show resumes. This means I see a lot of beer commercials, but I have no idea what they're singing anymore. Used to be bullfrogs or some such nonsense. Could be opera now, for all I care.
If I'm ever interested enough, I'll just ask someone in the next lower bracket. You know... a kid.
It's the bracket that bothers me. See, when I was a younger man - closer to the 18 end of the scale - I generally bought into the images portrayed in that advertising. I had the boundless energy of youth and figured I would go forever. Like the Energizer Bunny™ but with shorter ears. In fact, the older I get the more I relate to my old solar-powered calculator. I can still do the math, but I'm getting slower. It could be worse, of course. In a couple of years I'll be in the next bracket ("Geezers") and will be targeted by advertising for hemorrhoid creams and overpriced funeral insurance.
With age comes a unique perspective. There was a day when the presence of a beautiful woman in a commercial would gain my instant attention. Some commercials over the years caused whiplash of the eyeballs as I tried to ogle the talent without alerting anyone else who may have been in the room with me. The truth is, I haven't really been part of that demographic for over a decade now. Actually, if you were to try to define my demographics, they would look something like this:
18-24 - Free and easy
25-36 - Married but still immature
37-now - Remarried and happy
It's that last demographic that advertisers have trouble with. Happy older males are bad for marketers. If we're happy, we're not spending money. Think about it: all the consumer goods targeted to "my" age bracket are designed for people "on the go." SUVs are targeted (irrespective of where they actually end up) for active people who will ultimately use them for climbing all over mountainous terrain to have outdoorsy adventures involving trees and bears. Whereas I would buy an SUV only for self-defense. The closest it would get to a mountain would involve an interstate.
Beer commercials are another example. I don't drink beer. In fact, I once received an invitation to join the Beer Drinkers of America and turned them down with a letter that would probably surface if I ever ran for public office and would show my extreme prejudices, so don't look for me to run for City Council any time soon. That said, beer commercials are obviously meant to show that only young people drink beer. This is because if they ever showed what people actually look like after three or four decades of drinking the stuff, beer manufacturers would never sponsor another sporting event. Ever. I don't belong to a demographic that thinks beer drinkers are studly men. I belong to a demographic that believes beer drinkers are perpetually one can short of a six-pack.
Shaving commercials always crack me up. It doesn't matter what I smear my face with, or how many blades are in my razor. If a woman ever stroked my face like that today, she'd better have tremendous medical insurance, because my sweet wife would likely send her to the nearest emergency room. (Actually, my sweet wife is exactly that: sweet. The worst she would ever do is use her patented Death Ray Stare™ which would shrivel the woman's hand and cause her to hide from public view for the rest of her life. Thought I'd better correct that perception right away.) Besides, I no longer care what other women think of me. I have this luxury now because I am already married to the only woman whose attention I crave, and she happens to enjoy my current mix of LectricShave and Norelco shaver. Take that, Madison Avenue!
No, I'm afraid the marketers have no idea how to handle my bracket. Truth be told, I like it that way. When Mrs. Woody and I watch TV nowadays, we simply mute the commercials until the show resumes. This means I see a lot of beer commercials, but I have no idea what they're singing anymore. Used to be bullfrogs or some such nonsense. Could be opera now, for all I care.
If I'm ever interested enough, I'll just ask someone in the next lower bracket. You know... a kid.
Friday, October 07, 2005
#82 - Color Me Two-Toned
It's finally time for me to come out of whatever closet holds such things and admit that I am a vehicular schizophrenic. I say this with all due respect and apologies to those who have to deal with the real thing. I would submit, however, that most of us are "closet" schizos in one respect or another, and my dual personality just happens to manifest itself in the car.
Those of you old enough to remember actually sitting as a family on Sunday evenings to watch "Wonderful World of Disney" will remember that terrific cartoon (“Motor Mania” – 1950) of Goofy who transforms from a mild-mannered CPA (Mr. Walker) into the Road Demon from Heck (Mr. Wheeler) the moment he gets behind the wheel. Even in the sixties this disease was known to medical science. And since no sitting president has ever taken on this issue, I feel it my duty to at least go public with it and try to increase social awareness of this insidious malady.
For the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly even-headed individual. I am both a fiscal and social conservative, which means that I try to practice moderation in most aspects of my life. There are exceptions, of course. I am a sometime actor which indicates an ability to enjoy making a complete fool of myself every once in awhile. I only do this every few years or so, and this last stretch has actually lasted about five years now. Also, I don't mind singing in front of an audience. At least, I don't mind it if I've been asked well in advance, and there's a piano (with pianist!) handy.
But other than those quirks, I feel fairly conservative in my habits. I'm a teetotaler, I've never inhaled anything more dangerous than local Los Angeles air, and I've never met a needle that wasn't attached at the other end to a medical personnel.
I am also, however, an Orange County driver. [Begin theme from "Jaws."]
I can't be the only commuter in the country who goes through this same routine every day. Every morning I get in my car and silently swear to myself that I will not be in any kind of hurry to get to work. Gone for me are the days when I had to beat the timeclock or incur the wrath of my supervisor. These days I can stroll in pretty much whenever I get there, because my boss (who is on a telecon at home and hasn't yet shown up himself) knows that he will likely see me log on later that evening to work on whatever I didn't complete that day. Instant Messaging is both a blessing and a curse. My point is that I have no need to hurry in to work. I can take my time.
Mentally I know that I traverse parts of three freeways to get to work. If I manage to leave the house before 6:00 in the morning, my commute will almost always be relatively smooth. I can hit all three freeways with only minimal slowing at junctions, and arrive at the office less than half an hour after leaving my driveway. This includes the 22 Freeway which is currently undergoing widening that will probably not be completed before I retire in another 20 years or so. During construction, officials have lowered the speed limit to 55. Veteran drivers know that this is what Dave Barry used to call the "national pretend speed limit." This is precisely how all but three Orange County commuters choose to handle this speed limit. Oh, we tried. We really did. It took a full two months before most commuters even noticed that they had lowered the speed limit. Then for, oh, about three weeks everyone slowed down to about 67 out of deference to the construction crews. Then - you know how it is with these guys - some dude in a jacked-up pickup that sits taller than a pilot in a 747 decided he'd had enough of this mamby-pamby 67 miles per hour and whizzed by everyone on the left shoulder doing a solid 85. It's been business as usual ever since.
I have mentioned before that I drive two of the most gutless vehicles ever created. The Honda was not created gutless. But after more than 200,000 miles, I'd wanna go a little slower, too. The Saturn, on the other hand, was not built for Gran Prix racing. It was built to give beginning roller skaters a run for their money. I suffer mightily in this car because it doesn't understand my disease. (You thought I'd forgotten about my disease, didn't you?)
If I happen to leave after 6:00 in the morning, which happens frequently, my thought processes go something like this:
By the time I get to work, I am once again full of virtuous thoughts. Those crazy OC drivers need to calm down. They really do.
Those of you old enough to remember actually sitting as a family on Sunday evenings to watch "Wonderful World of Disney" will remember that terrific cartoon (“Motor Mania” – 1950) of Goofy who transforms from a mild-mannered CPA (Mr. Walker) into the Road Demon from Heck (Mr. Wheeler) the moment he gets behind the wheel. Even in the sixties this disease was known to medical science. And since no sitting president has ever taken on this issue, I feel it my duty to at least go public with it and try to increase social awareness of this insidious malady.
For the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly even-headed individual. I am both a fiscal and social conservative, which means that I try to practice moderation in most aspects of my life. There are exceptions, of course. I am a sometime actor which indicates an ability to enjoy making a complete fool of myself every once in awhile. I only do this every few years or so, and this last stretch has actually lasted about five years now. Also, I don't mind singing in front of an audience. At least, I don't mind it if I've been asked well in advance, and there's a piano (with pianist!) handy.
But other than those quirks, I feel fairly conservative in my habits. I'm a teetotaler, I've never inhaled anything more dangerous than local Los Angeles air, and I've never met a needle that wasn't attached at the other end to a medical personnel.
I am also, however, an Orange County driver. [Begin theme from "Jaws."]
I can't be the only commuter in the country who goes through this same routine every day. Every morning I get in my car and silently swear to myself that I will not be in any kind of hurry to get to work. Gone for me are the days when I had to beat the timeclock or incur the wrath of my supervisor. These days I can stroll in pretty much whenever I get there, because my boss (who is on a telecon at home and hasn't yet shown up himself) knows that he will likely see me log on later that evening to work on whatever I didn't complete that day. Instant Messaging is both a blessing and a curse. My point is that I have no need to hurry in to work. I can take my time.
Mentally I know that I traverse parts of three freeways to get to work. If I manage to leave the house before 6:00 in the morning, my commute will almost always be relatively smooth. I can hit all three freeways with only minimal slowing at junctions, and arrive at the office less than half an hour after leaving my driveway. This includes the 22 Freeway which is currently undergoing widening that will probably not be completed before I retire in another 20 years or so. During construction, officials have lowered the speed limit to 55. Veteran drivers know that this is what Dave Barry used to call the "national pretend speed limit." This is precisely how all but three Orange County commuters choose to handle this speed limit. Oh, we tried. We really did. It took a full two months before most commuters even noticed that they had lowered the speed limit. Then for, oh, about three weeks everyone slowed down to about 67 out of deference to the construction crews. Then - you know how it is with these guys - some dude in a jacked-up pickup that sits taller than a pilot in a 747 decided he'd had enough of this mamby-pamby 67 miles per hour and whizzed by everyone on the left shoulder doing a solid 85. It's been business as usual ever since.
I have mentioned before that I drive two of the most gutless vehicles ever created. The Honda was not created gutless. But after more than 200,000 miles, I'd wanna go a little slower, too. The Saturn, on the other hand, was not built for Gran Prix racing. It was built to give beginning roller skaters a run for their money. I suffer mightily in this car because it doesn't understand my disease. (You thought I'd forgotten about my disease, didn't you?)
If I happen to leave after 6:00 in the morning, which happens frequently, my thought processes go something like this:
Hm. 91 looks chokey this morning. Better take the canyon and get on the 55 that way. Hey! Not fair! That was my idea! Go back to the rodeo, you stinkin' pickup, and go ride a bull! Oh, sure... get in front of me and hit the brakes. That's nice. And why don't you hang up that cell phone while you're at it?
[At this point, the disease has fully manifested itself, and I will devote the entire rest of my time on the canyon road jockeying for position with this turnip-brained redneck.]
Finally. The 55. Looks about normal. Nice transition from the on-ramp. Seems to be moving along fairly... Hey! Where'd that garbage hauler come from?? Doggone it, I can't get around. No one will open up and let me into the next lane!
[By this time I am in a funk that will not lift until the Second Coming.]
Okay, 22 is moving along at a crisp 70+. I’ll just keep it at 70.
[Here I am making at least an attempt to fight the disease. I will fail miserably.]
Hey! Why do you idiots think you can just jump in front of me and drive like little old ladies from Pasadena? Now you force me to show you how disgusted I am!
[Jump into the next lane and kick out of overdrive so I can “blaze” past, which almost immediately traps me behind some landscaper whose truck has not gone faster than 45 since it was manufactured in Yugoslavia.]
By the time I get to work, I am once again full of virtuous thoughts. Those crazy OC drivers need to calm down. They really do.
Monday, October 03, 2005
#81 - General Conference
We have satellite at Hacienda Woody, which means we can pull down BYU-TV. And that means we get to watch General Conference in our living room, except for the Priesthood session. This ability is a real boon for anyone with children who just aren't ready for sitting through 8 hours of religious instruction over the course of two days at a local church building. (Note: Woodyettes don't attend Priesthood sessions, so I have an advantage over dads with sons in that respect.)
It was a wonderful conference in my opinion, made better by the fact that our newly baptized Woodyette actually sat through at least one hour each day. Contiguously, I might add. Then, of course, her fanny springs couldn't take it anymore, and she resumed bouncing all over the house. Once the kids have been unleashed, all we can do is try to contain them down at the other end of the house so Mommy and Daddy at least can listen to the speakers.
One highlight for the girls was when the Tab Choir ended one session with "I Believe in Christ." "I know that one!" they chorused. Indeed, they've been singing that hymn every morning as part of their school devotional (if only the first verse) and they were thrilled to pieces to hear it on TV. Also, even though the younger Woodyette didn't sit through anywhere near an hour (combined!) of Conference, she still managed to pick up on scripture stories that were quoted by several speakers. Both girls have that wonderful capacity for hearing things that we (The Parents) are absolutely certain they weren't listening to. They'll sit with that glazed expression of one who can't believe how long this talk is lasting, only to spring to life and say, "The Liahona was the compass that Nephi used, huh, Daddy?" Aha. They do listen.
Speaking of music for the Conference, one highlight for me was the new arrangement of "The Iron Rod." I didn't see who the arranger was, but it wouldn't surprise me at all to see Mack Wilberg's name attached to it. What I enjoyed about it, however, is that it was based on a melody that I have loved for years and always wished someone would do something choral with: a passage from Holst's "The Planets," found during the movement entitled "Jupiter." I hear this will be performed again during the bicentennial celebration of Joseph Smith's birth. I must have a recording of it.
As Conferences go, this one was, for me, more comforting than previous ones. It's not that the other Conferences didn't contain words of comfort, especially from Pres. Hinckley. This one just seemed to have more talks in it that seemed to be directed at me and my family, and nearly every one of them contained a message of hope, love, or comfort. I was, for example, particularly affected by Pres. Faust's address in the first session. It was, I remarked to Mrs. Woody, the most animated I believe I've ever seen Pres. Faust in all his years as a General Authority. He exuded the warmth and kindliness of a grandfather addressing his family over the dinner table. His talk about having the light of the Spirit in our eyes was very inspirational to me.
Pres. Hinckley's story of the woman who not only forgave but helped the young teenager who put her through multiple surgeries because of a careless act during the commission of a crime; this is the stuff of true Latter-day Saints. These are the examples that we not only need, but should crave in our lives.
Many stories and testimonies were, of course, borne in support of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr. I found my own testimony being strengthened as I understood exactly how and why the Lord chooses the humble through which to build his Kingdom on earth. I needed these talks as well.
In fact, I heard nothing in this Conference that caused me any distress. On the contrary, all of the talks reminded me that even though I am imperfect, yet I have the opportunity to improve myself on a daily basis. I need to give more heed to the counsel of the Brethren. I need to be more supportive of my wife and family. (Mrs. Woody may argue that one with me, but I think I always have room for improvement!) I need to be more dilligent in my family history responsibilities. I need to do more to prepare myself and my family for coming calamities.
Most of all, I need to be on my knees more.
P.S. Yeah, I know several cable outlets offer BYU-TV now. But our local cable company, the one we are forced to use if we want cable, the one that has a hard time keeping its executives out of jail, does not. So I got satellite because it does. Neener, neener.
It was a wonderful conference in my opinion, made better by the fact that our newly baptized Woodyette actually sat through at least one hour each day. Contiguously, I might add. Then, of course, her fanny springs couldn't take it anymore, and she resumed bouncing all over the house. Once the kids have been unleashed, all we can do is try to contain them down at the other end of the house so Mommy and Daddy at least can listen to the speakers.
One highlight for the girls was when the Tab Choir ended one session with "I Believe in Christ." "I know that one!" they chorused. Indeed, they've been singing that hymn every morning as part of their school devotional (if only the first verse) and they were thrilled to pieces to hear it on TV. Also, even though the younger Woodyette didn't sit through anywhere near an hour (combined!) of Conference, she still managed to pick up on scripture stories that were quoted by several speakers. Both girls have that wonderful capacity for hearing things that we (The Parents) are absolutely certain they weren't listening to. They'll sit with that glazed expression of one who can't believe how long this talk is lasting, only to spring to life and say, "The Liahona was the compass that Nephi used, huh, Daddy?" Aha. They do listen.
Speaking of music for the Conference, one highlight for me was the new arrangement of "The Iron Rod." I didn't see who the arranger was, but it wouldn't surprise me at all to see Mack Wilberg's name attached to it. What I enjoyed about it, however, is that it was based on a melody that I have loved for years and always wished someone would do something choral with: a passage from Holst's "The Planets," found during the movement entitled "Jupiter." I hear this will be performed again during the bicentennial celebration of Joseph Smith's birth. I must have a recording of it.
As Conferences go, this one was, for me, more comforting than previous ones. It's not that the other Conferences didn't contain words of comfort, especially from Pres. Hinckley. This one just seemed to have more talks in it that seemed to be directed at me and my family, and nearly every one of them contained a message of hope, love, or comfort. I was, for example, particularly affected by Pres. Faust's address in the first session. It was, I remarked to Mrs. Woody, the most animated I believe I've ever seen Pres. Faust in all his years as a General Authority. He exuded the warmth and kindliness of a grandfather addressing his family over the dinner table. His talk about having the light of the Spirit in our eyes was very inspirational to me.
Pres. Hinckley's story of the woman who not only forgave but helped the young teenager who put her through multiple surgeries because of a careless act during the commission of a crime; this is the stuff of true Latter-day Saints. These are the examples that we not only need, but should crave in our lives.
Many stories and testimonies were, of course, borne in support of the Prophet Joseph Smith, Jr. I found my own testimony being strengthened as I understood exactly how and why the Lord chooses the humble through which to build his Kingdom on earth. I needed these talks as well.
In fact, I heard nothing in this Conference that caused me any distress. On the contrary, all of the talks reminded me that even though I am imperfect, yet I have the opportunity to improve myself on a daily basis. I need to give more heed to the counsel of the Brethren. I need to be more supportive of my wife and family. (Mrs. Woody may argue that one with me, but I think I always have room for improvement!) I need to be more dilligent in my family history responsibilities. I need to do more to prepare myself and my family for coming calamities.
Most of all, I need to be on my knees more.
P.S. Yeah, I know several cable outlets offer BYU-TV now. But our local cable company, the one we are forced to use if we want cable, the one that has a hard time keeping its executives out of jail, does not. So I got satellite because it does. Neener, neener.
Monday, September 26, 2005
#80 - "Girls Walking Along Pier with Grandpa"
It is a scene worthy of the great Impressionist masters. Two little girls walking along a sunny pier with their Grandpa. They alternate between skipping merrily ahead, or stopping to examine the latest in seagull graffiti. One little head bobs over the railing of the pier, while the top of the other is barely visible. Beyond them the ocean stretches for incomprehensible miles to the distant horizon. Here and there a boat skims along the surface in the distance, moving cargo to a remote port or stopping to let down lines and sinkers. A cool breeze wafts lazily over the beach where Mommy and Daddy rest, chatting with Grandpa's wife. They've only been married for a few years, but she fits comfortably within the family's dynamic, and conversation comes easily.
Mommy tries to capture the idyllic scene with her digitally enhanced zoom, but they're just too far away. Ah, well. The memory will linger.
Santa Barbara is a home away from home for the Woodys. Poppa is the primary draw, but we'd come here with or without such an excuse. Mrs. Woody lived here for a few brief years before striking out on her own, and the place holds a special appeal. We both love all things nautical, and the theme permeates our home decor. The sky is nearly always fresh and clear - certainly far more so than it is in Los Angeles or Orange County. Even when it's gray and foggy it's a retreat that we crave. If it weren't for the long drive home we'd probably just melt in place and stay for as long as we could get away with. As it is, the visits are all too brief, and before we know it it's time to hop in the car and turn southeast.
While we're at the beach, however, no one rushes through the routine. The pier walk is Poppa's special time with his granddaughters. He loves them dearly, and they love him, too. He loves to direct their attention to various wonders: egrets wading in a nearby marsh; a large pile of driftwood that Mrs. Woody remarks is just begging for someone to set ablaze, A&M bonfire-style. The driftwood yields two Woodyette-sized walking sticks that they can keep for a memento of the day. They probably won't last beyond the coming winter, but they'll serve well to the inevitable end. Jelly also grabs a few more treasured rocks from the beach. Her "collection" is burgeoning (I know not where to keep them!), but they fascinate her and she'll continue to collect for the foreseeable future. Doodle just loves the walk. Poppa fascinates her, and her spongelike mind absorbs nearly everything he points out to her.
For the Mom and Dad this is also therapeutic. The salt air combined with the peaceful beach and beautiful vista invigorate us when nothing else can. We don't need to be running in the sand; we just like the view. As with good art the picture draws us in and makes us a part of it. It may be that it appeals to our inner romantics. Or, it may just be that we've both had a lifelong fascination with the sea and it's many wonders. We see the hand of the great Master Painter himself in every breaking wave, and in every grain of sand. We feel at home here.
As brief as are the visits, the benefits are (fortunately) longer lasting. We found another idea for decorating our yard that will be in keeping with our nautical theme, and we can't wait to get our hands on it. A lighthouse for our front planter is just the ticket, and Mrs. Woody is already thinking about finding other sea-related goodies to go with it. Perhaps the Woodyettes will be interested in doing a little scavenging with Mom and Dad over the next few weeks.
With a few more strokes of the brush, the scene is committed to canvas. Our minds will be able to recall this scene over and over for the next several weeks until we once again make the trek north and west. Poppa will once again play tour guide to his knowledge-thirsting granddaughters, and Mrs. Woody and I will once again soak up sun and memories.
It's a heady mixture.
Mommy tries to capture the idyllic scene with her digitally enhanced zoom, but they're just too far away. Ah, well. The memory will linger.
Santa Barbara is a home away from home for the Woodys. Poppa is the primary draw, but we'd come here with or without such an excuse. Mrs. Woody lived here for a few brief years before striking out on her own, and the place holds a special appeal. We both love all things nautical, and the theme permeates our home decor. The sky is nearly always fresh and clear - certainly far more so than it is in Los Angeles or Orange County. Even when it's gray and foggy it's a retreat that we crave. If it weren't for the long drive home we'd probably just melt in place and stay for as long as we could get away with. As it is, the visits are all too brief, and before we know it it's time to hop in the car and turn southeast.
While we're at the beach, however, no one rushes through the routine. The pier walk is Poppa's special time with his granddaughters. He loves them dearly, and they love him, too. He loves to direct their attention to various wonders: egrets wading in a nearby marsh; a large pile of driftwood that Mrs. Woody remarks is just begging for someone to set ablaze, A&M bonfire-style. The driftwood yields two Woodyette-sized walking sticks that they can keep for a memento of the day. They probably won't last beyond the coming winter, but they'll serve well to the inevitable end. Jelly also grabs a few more treasured rocks from the beach. Her "collection" is burgeoning (I know not where to keep them!), but they fascinate her and she'll continue to collect for the foreseeable future. Doodle just loves the walk. Poppa fascinates her, and her spongelike mind absorbs nearly everything he points out to her.
For the Mom and Dad this is also therapeutic. The salt air combined with the peaceful beach and beautiful vista invigorate us when nothing else can. We don't need to be running in the sand; we just like the view. As with good art the picture draws us in and makes us a part of it. It may be that it appeals to our inner romantics. Or, it may just be that we've both had a lifelong fascination with the sea and it's many wonders. We see the hand of the great Master Painter himself in every breaking wave, and in every grain of sand. We feel at home here.
As brief as are the visits, the benefits are (fortunately) longer lasting. We found another idea for decorating our yard that will be in keeping with our nautical theme, and we can't wait to get our hands on it. A lighthouse for our front planter is just the ticket, and Mrs. Woody is already thinking about finding other sea-related goodies to go with it. Perhaps the Woodyettes will be interested in doing a little scavenging with Mom and Dad over the next few weeks.
With a few more strokes of the brush, the scene is committed to canvas. Our minds will be able to recall this scene over and over for the next several weeks until we once again make the trek north and west. Poppa will once again play tour guide to his knowledge-thirsting granddaughters, and Mrs. Woody and I will once again soak up sun and memories.
It's a heady mixture.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
#79 - Baby Sis Has an Interesting Day
Heh.
This is too good to merely leave comments on. My youngest sister has three boys, all under age six. In the interests of science we are assured there will be no more than the three. In the interests of my sister's sanity I hope she's correct.
Actually, these are three of the sweetest, most loving boys you'll ever find anywhere. It's simply a problem of critical mass: when two or more bodies of equal energy occupy the same physical space, fission occurs.
I'm certain she counts this as payback for all the grief she gave her parents (although I would never dare speak for Mother... she's finally managed to sublimate all the activities that made us kids so darn'd interesting when we were growing up). On the other hand, maybe her Loving Husband carries at least some blame. Like I would know.
So, on the list of Woody's Must-Reads for Today, I refer you first to "Aaaaaaand Scene!" This particular story is made all the funnier because of another (true) family anecdote involving yours truly and my brother. I had been giving him a lot of grief one particular day, and Dad had called us down for family prayer. This was significant because a) we were not the most consistent of families when it came to family prayer, and b) it was my brother's turn. Being all of, oh, nine or ten years old, reverence was not generally foremost in my brother's heart at times like this. As I recall, the prayer started off just fine, but somewhere in the middle there was a (probably somewhat sincere) plea to "please kill Woody." It was one of those moments where Dad needed to be furious and use his patented Death Ray Stare®, but instead ended up twitching like a politician who's just been offered inside dirt on his opponent. The rest of us just busted up. It was too funny to let go to waste.
(Ma? Sublimated that one, too, right?)
The second Must-Read is "The Boy With All the Answers." Joshua is their middle child. I love this boy because I sense in him a kindred spirit. He has a specific agenda, even if he's not always keen on letting anyone else know what it is. He is also, I strongly suspect, brilliant. Misunderstood, but brilliant. Now we see the beginnings of the Woody Family Hambone running deep in his young psyche.
My Sis is in biiiiiiig trouble.
I repeat: Heh.
This is too good to merely leave comments on. My youngest sister has three boys, all under age six. In the interests of science we are assured there will be no more than the three. In the interests of my sister's sanity I hope she's correct.
Actually, these are three of the sweetest, most loving boys you'll ever find anywhere. It's simply a problem of critical mass: when two or more bodies of equal energy occupy the same physical space, fission occurs.
I'm certain she counts this as payback for all the grief she gave her parents (although I would never dare speak for Mother... she's finally managed to sublimate all the activities that made us kids so darn'd interesting when we were growing up). On the other hand, maybe her Loving Husband carries at least some blame. Like I would know.
So, on the list of Woody's Must-Reads for Today, I refer you first to "Aaaaaaand Scene!" This particular story is made all the funnier because of another (true) family anecdote involving yours truly and my brother. I had been giving him a lot of grief one particular day, and Dad had called us down for family prayer. This was significant because a) we were not the most consistent of families when it came to family prayer, and b) it was my brother's turn. Being all of, oh, nine or ten years old, reverence was not generally foremost in my brother's heart at times like this. As I recall, the prayer started off just fine, but somewhere in the middle there was a (probably somewhat sincere) plea to "please kill Woody." It was one of those moments where Dad needed to be furious and use his patented Death Ray Stare®, but instead ended up twitching like a politician who's just been offered inside dirt on his opponent. The rest of us just busted up. It was too funny to let go to waste.
(Ma? Sublimated that one, too, right?)
The second Must-Read is "The Boy With All the Answers." Joshua is their middle child. I love this boy because I sense in him a kindred spirit. He has a specific agenda, even if he's not always keen on letting anyone else know what it is. He is also, I strongly suspect, brilliant. Misunderstood, but brilliant. Now we see the beginnings of the Woody Family Hambone running deep in his young psyche.
My Sis is in biiiiiiig trouble.
I repeat: Heh.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
#78 - Telephonic Tumult
[Updated to reflect the proper name of the YL Arts Alliance and a link to their Messiah Sing Along web page]
It's amazing how much power a single phone call can generate. In the last few days, we've had a couple of phone calls that demonstrate this principle, and are interesting because of the reactions they generated.
In the past I have received phone calls from choirs or repertory companies offering me a chance to sing or act for some special occasion. These calls never come at a convenient time. That is, the gig is never planned for a convenient day on my calendar. Just as frequently, the offer will come during an incredibly busy period for our family, and I decline in order to preserve some small amount of sanity.
Mrs. Woody answered the phone first the other day. When she announced that the caller was from the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance I had two immediate reactions: First was, "Aw, nuts. Now what?" Then, microseconds later, "Ooh. Wait. It must be that time of year."
That time of year, of course, is Christmas. Now, I realize that Christmas doesn't officially arrive until after Thanksgiving, but no one seems to have notified the retailers this year. Our local Costco had their Christmas stuff on the floor before Labor Day this year. I can still remember a time when we were scandalized that our local stores put Christmas stuff on the shelves as soon as Halloween was merely a "passing" memory. [Insert your own intestinal fortitude joke here.] Next year I fully expect to see Christmas merchandise on the shelves on July 5th. But I digress...
The beginning of the school year has always been associated with Christmas for me because I am a choir boy. From the time I was able to read music, I have started rehearsing Christmas music almost as soon as school was in session. This drives Mrs. Woody crazy, because I always want to get my Christmas music collections out and start listening to them in September, while she would prefer to wait until after Thanksgiving. And I mean, one minute past midnight on the Friday following Thanksgiving. Two minutes after that, she will expect the Christmas tree to be assembled and decorated. But my digression deepens...
What the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance called for was to invite me back to do the tenor solo for this year's Messiah Sing Along at the Nixon Library. This is deeply flattering to me, and I of course said yes. They had asked me to do this last year for their "first annual" Sing Along, and apparently the lack of bad reviews meant I must have done okay. There's talk of "full Baroque costume" for this one, but I'm not taking that seriously yet.
The second phone call of note came just this evening. In the Church, phone calls from priesthood leaders saying that they would like to "visit with you for a few minutes" are generally about as welcome as hearing from your friendly neighborhood IRS auditor. This generally means that someone is about to receive some new calling that will take you out of your comfort zone, in the sense that Torquemada would like to give you a little stretch on his new rack. When the caller insists on visiting with you that very evening ("Would it be inconvenient if I came by in, say, the next 15 minutes?") the tension level rises accordingly.
I actually fielded this one. The phone rang, and I was late getting it. As I listened to the voice message, I shot a "boy, are YOU in trouble" smirk at Mrs. Woody. When I told her that a High Councilor was wanting her to call him back as soon as possible, her sweat glands began working overtime. (I know, I know... ladies never sweat. Then why am I constantly purchasing deodorant for mine?)
Turns out this was not for a calling. In some ways, this was worse. In just three weeks there will be a 20 year anniversary celebration for our Stake, and the current presidency wants to give the two previous presidents each a scrapbook as a memento. Mrs. Woody's name came up as an expert in this field, and they wanted her to take the job. I say worse, because putting together a good quality scrapbook is not generally something you can just slam together in a few short weeks. Still, Mrs. Woody was relieved that she wouldn't have to give up any of her current callings, and accepted the job.
Mrs. Woody has a wonderfully artistic eye, and it shows in nearly everything she does. She actually studied graphic arts briefly in college before settling on education, and has been asked to create posters in just about every ward she's ever lived in. Now she's becoming known for her prowess as a scrapper, and I couldn't be prouder.
Still, one has to marvel at the ability of a relatively simple piece of technology to cause such a gamut of emotions in a short amount of time. The phone, as annoying as it often becomes (even with no-call laws on the books), can be a harbinger of joy or doom. It can either make your day, or ruin it. It can cause tremendous fear, or generate feelings of absolute elation.
No wonder my Dad always wanted to rip it out of the wall.
It's amazing how much power a single phone call can generate. In the last few days, we've had a couple of phone calls that demonstrate this principle, and are interesting because of the reactions they generated.
In the past I have received phone calls from choirs or repertory companies offering me a chance to sing or act for some special occasion. These calls never come at a convenient time. That is, the gig is never planned for a convenient day on my calendar. Just as frequently, the offer will come during an incredibly busy period for our family, and I decline in order to preserve some small amount of sanity.
Mrs. Woody answered the phone first the other day. When she announced that the caller was from the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance I had two immediate reactions: First was, "Aw, nuts. Now what?" Then, microseconds later, "Ooh. Wait. It must be that time of year."
That time of year, of course, is Christmas. Now, I realize that Christmas doesn't officially arrive until after Thanksgiving, but no one seems to have notified the retailers this year. Our local Costco had their Christmas stuff on the floor before Labor Day this year. I can still remember a time when we were scandalized that our local stores put Christmas stuff on the shelves as soon as Halloween was merely a "passing" memory. [Insert your own intestinal fortitude joke here.] Next year I fully expect to see Christmas merchandise on the shelves on July 5th. But I digress...
The beginning of the school year has always been associated with Christmas for me because I am a choir boy. From the time I was able to read music, I have started rehearsing Christmas music almost as soon as school was in session. This drives Mrs. Woody crazy, because I always want to get my Christmas music collections out and start listening to them in September, while she would prefer to wait until after Thanksgiving. And I mean, one minute past midnight on the Friday following Thanksgiving. Two minutes after that, she will expect the Christmas tree to be assembled and decorated. But my digression deepens...
What the Yorba Linda Arts Alliance called for was to invite me back to do the tenor solo for this year's Messiah Sing Along at the Nixon Library. This is deeply flattering to me, and I of course said yes. They had asked me to do this last year for their "first annual" Sing Along, and apparently the lack of bad reviews meant I must have done okay. There's talk of "full Baroque costume" for this one, but I'm not taking that seriously yet.
The second phone call of note came just this evening. In the Church, phone calls from priesthood leaders saying that they would like to "visit with you for a few minutes" are generally about as welcome as hearing from your friendly neighborhood IRS auditor. This generally means that someone is about to receive some new calling that will take you out of your comfort zone, in the sense that Torquemada would like to give you a little stretch on his new rack. When the caller insists on visiting with you that very evening ("Would it be inconvenient if I came by in, say, the next 15 minutes?") the tension level rises accordingly.
I actually fielded this one. The phone rang, and I was late getting it. As I listened to the voice message, I shot a "boy, are YOU in trouble" smirk at Mrs. Woody. When I told her that a High Councilor was wanting her to call him back as soon as possible, her sweat glands began working overtime. (I know, I know... ladies never sweat. Then why am I constantly purchasing deodorant for mine?)
Turns out this was not for a calling. In some ways, this was worse. In just three weeks there will be a 20 year anniversary celebration for our Stake, and the current presidency wants to give the two previous presidents each a scrapbook as a memento. Mrs. Woody's name came up as an expert in this field, and they wanted her to take the job. I say worse, because putting together a good quality scrapbook is not generally something you can just slam together in a few short weeks. Still, Mrs. Woody was relieved that she wouldn't have to give up any of her current callings, and accepted the job.
Mrs. Woody has a wonderfully artistic eye, and it shows in nearly everything she does. She actually studied graphic arts briefly in college before settling on education, and has been asked to create posters in just about every ward she's ever lived in. Now she's becoming known for her prowess as a scrapper, and I couldn't be prouder.
Still, one has to marvel at the ability of a relatively simple piece of technology to cause such a gamut of emotions in a short amount of time. The phone, as annoying as it often becomes (even with no-call laws on the books), can be a harbinger of joy or doom. It can either make your day, or ruin it. It can cause tremendous fear, or generate feelings of absolute elation.
No wonder my Dad always wanted to rip it out of the wall.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
#77 - Support HONDA (Hint: Not the Car!)
Hat Tip: Mrs. Woody
Remember these numbers: S1691 and HR3753. Legislation has finally been introduced at a federal level that will help alleviate (note I do not say "guarantee a lack of") discrimination against homeschoolers. Fronted by Senator Larry Craig (R-ID), and Rep. Marilyn Musgrave (R-CO), these bills are designed to "clarify" already existing federal law regarding public schools that have a negative impact on homeschoolers.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about this. If you've been reading the Woundup recently, you know how I feel about the federal government's involvement in education to begin with. I'm no fan of "No Child Left Behind" because it smacks of "Children Shall Learn at Our Dictated Pace." Furthermore, education was supposed to be publicly supported, not government guaranteed. There's a difference.
In spite of those feelings, however, I'm glad to see this legislation become part of the national debate. If, that is, Congress will give it the time of day. That's a long way from being a done deal. There will be, of course, numerous committee meetings to refine the initial proposals, then conference meetings to hash out differences, and that's only if each chamber's leaders allow the bills to go to committee in the first place. I can understand the Home School Legal Defense Association (HSLDA) getting excited about it (they are, after all, a bunch of lawyers), but my own enthusiasm is tempered by my perception that Congress is traditionally adverse to considering any legislation that makes sense.
Still...
In simple terms, discrimination is really just the manifestation of someone trying to assume control over something that should never be controlled in the first place. In its most heinous forms, you get racial discrimination and all the ugliness that accompanies it. In other forms, it takes well-meaning attempts to make something happen and turns them into unintended violations of basic rights. Control of education is one such violation.
No one argues that children need to receive a certain level of education, and that certain subjects need to be taught. Where we receive the greatest threat, however, is from those who would dictate how we are to teach. That level of control has no place in my home from anyone other than myself and Mrs. Woody. We have the responsibility to see to it that our girls are educated, and we alone will determine how that is to be achieved.
This legislation may help. Assuming it is implemented more or less as currently written, it should provide a federal mandate that may finally help us get local school districts to see us as less of an enemy. This assumes, of course, that we can get the professional educators unions to shut up and quit whining about all the money that homeschoolers take away from them every year. Since that's not likely to happen, no matter what federal (or even state) laws exist, I don't look for an elimination of discrimination.
I just hope it'll get better.
Remember these numbers: S1691 and HR3753. Legislation has finally been introduced at a federal level that will help alleviate (note I do not say "guarantee a lack of") discrimination against homeschoolers. Fronted by Senator Larry Craig (R-ID), and Rep. Marilyn Musgrave (R-CO), these bills are designed to "clarify" already existing federal law regarding public schools that have a negative impact on homeschoolers.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about this. If you've been reading the Woundup recently, you know how I feel about the federal government's involvement in education to begin with. I'm no fan of "No Child Left Behind" because it smacks of "Children Shall Learn at Our Dictated Pace." Furthermore, education was supposed to be publicly supported, not government guaranteed. There's a difference.
In spite of those feelings, however, I'm glad to see this legislation become part of the national debate. If, that is, Congress will give it the time of day. That's a long way from being a done deal. There will be, of course, numerous committee meetings to refine the initial proposals, then conference meetings to hash out differences, and that's only if each chamber's leaders allow the bills to go to committee in the first place. I can understand the Home School Legal Defense Association (HSLDA) getting excited about it (they are, after all, a bunch of lawyers), but my own enthusiasm is tempered by my perception that Congress is traditionally adverse to considering any legislation that makes sense.
Still...
In simple terms, discrimination is really just the manifestation of someone trying to assume control over something that should never be controlled in the first place. In its most heinous forms, you get racial discrimination and all the ugliness that accompanies it. In other forms, it takes well-meaning attempts to make something happen and turns them into unintended violations of basic rights. Control of education is one such violation.
No one argues that children need to receive a certain level of education, and that certain subjects need to be taught. Where we receive the greatest threat, however, is from those who would dictate how we are to teach. That level of control has no place in my home from anyone other than myself and Mrs. Woody. We have the responsibility to see to it that our girls are educated, and we alone will determine how that is to be achieved.
This legislation may help. Assuming it is implemented more or less as currently written, it should provide a federal mandate that may finally help us get local school districts to see us as less of an enemy. This assumes, of course, that we can get the professional educators unions to shut up and quit whining about all the money that homeschoolers take away from them every year. Since that's not likely to happen, no matter what federal (or even state) laws exist, I don't look for an elimination of discrimination.
I just hope it'll get better.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
#76 - Why We Have Bouncers
Hacienda Woody has bouncers. This does not mean that if you arrive at the Hacienda on any given Saturday night you might expect to find lines of hangers-on and wannabes waiting for a chance to enter our exclusive night club. No, this means that on any given day or night, if you entered Hacienda Woody you would run the risk of being bowled over by one of my bouncing Woodyettes.
We have a big yellow ball. It's meant, of course, to be a playground ball, but the nearest playground is a bit of hike. Consequently, the ball sees way more indoor action than I would otherwise care for. Size-wise it's about the height of any given dining table chair. Unless you sit on it. It squishes down a considerable amount, so that if you attempt to sit at the table (which, you may have guessed, the Woodyettes do), your chin rests comfortably on your lunch.
Jelly Woodyette discovered this phenomenon. She is, by nature, a bouncy child. I have long suspected that she is, in fact, part Tigger; she has never successfully sat in any given seat for longer than, say, five minutes without jumping up as if her derriere were ablaze. This makes for interesting meals at the table, and even more interesting (read: frustrating) sessions in school. Mom and Dad spend inordinate amounts of time asking her to please park her fanny and [insert desired activity here].
Then she discovered that by applying her considerable bouncing talent to the big yellow ball, she could propel herself to virtually any region of the house. It is a wonder to see how she bounces, and at the apex of her bounce, manages to push the ball forward with one hand (in a sort of cowboy, haunch-slapping kind of motion), thus achieving locomotion.
That's when Mommy had the brainstorm.
Being a teacher both by inclination as well as by training, Mrs. Woody figured that rather than see the ball-bouncing as a threat to our inhouse law and order, she would instead use it to her advantage. I happened to stay home the other day to work (ah, the Virtual Age!), and witnessed my Jelly Woodyette bouncing, literally, at the table when she was supposed to be doing her schoolwork. I actually said something about her needing to get into her chair (traditionalist!) when Mrs. Woody stopped me. Relax, she said. This is actually helping. Sure enough, rather than jumping up out of her seat every five minutes and needing to be called back to the table, Jelly could bounce to her heart's content and still manage to get her work done. Some of her drawings might get a little shaky, but she tends to stop bouncing whenever she's focused on such a task anyway.
I was impressed.
So, now, instead of seeing the ball as another threat to my sense of order, the Bouncing Woodyettes have the run of the house. Doodle doesn't do it as frequently as Jelly does, but there are a couple of reasons for this. She's not as inclined to bounce as constantly as is her sister. She has a greater capacity for sitting in one place for greater lengths of time, so bouncing is not a need for her; it's a diversion. On the other hand, Jelly has declared the ball her vehicle of choice, and getting it away from her long enough to indulge in a fun bounce is a hit-or-miss proposition.
I'm not saying that Jelly does nothing but bounce, by any means. She's still a world-class reader, and one does not read while bouncing on a big yellow ball. Indeed, this is the same child that gets car-sick if she reads too much on the road. No, reading demands sitting in one place for as long as it takes to get her fill. I often marvel how this hyperkinetic child can drape herself, cat like, on any piece of floor or furniture and read for a solid two hours at a stretch. My entire immediate family has this ability, although at my age, "draping" myself on any piece of furniture generally means sitting in the most comfortable chair I can find. When I was Jelly's age, though, I could read upside down if the mood struck me. And it frequently did.
So, should you ever visit Hacienda Woody and see a sign warning you about our bouncers, just understand that I'm really more concerned for your safety than my own. I'm pretty sure my insurance will cover being run over by a small child on a big yellow ball.
We have a big yellow ball. It's meant, of course, to be a playground ball, but the nearest playground is a bit of hike. Consequently, the ball sees way more indoor action than I would otherwise care for. Size-wise it's about the height of any given dining table chair. Unless you sit on it. It squishes down a considerable amount, so that if you attempt to sit at the table (which, you may have guessed, the Woodyettes do), your chin rests comfortably on your lunch.
Jelly Woodyette discovered this phenomenon. She is, by nature, a bouncy child. I have long suspected that she is, in fact, part Tigger; she has never successfully sat in any given seat for longer than, say, five minutes without jumping up as if her derriere were ablaze. This makes for interesting meals at the table, and even more interesting (read: frustrating) sessions in school. Mom and Dad spend inordinate amounts of time asking her to please park her fanny and [insert desired activity here].
Then she discovered that by applying her considerable bouncing talent to the big yellow ball, she could propel herself to virtually any region of the house. It is a wonder to see how she bounces, and at the apex of her bounce, manages to push the ball forward with one hand (in a sort of cowboy, haunch-slapping kind of motion), thus achieving locomotion.
That's when Mommy had the brainstorm.
Being a teacher both by inclination as well as by training, Mrs. Woody figured that rather than see the ball-bouncing as a threat to our inhouse law and order, she would instead use it to her advantage. I happened to stay home the other day to work (ah, the Virtual Age!), and witnessed my Jelly Woodyette bouncing, literally, at the table when she was supposed to be doing her schoolwork. I actually said something about her needing to get into her chair (traditionalist!) when Mrs. Woody stopped me. Relax, she said. This is actually helping. Sure enough, rather than jumping up out of her seat every five minutes and needing to be called back to the table, Jelly could bounce to her heart's content and still manage to get her work done. Some of her drawings might get a little shaky, but she tends to stop bouncing whenever she's focused on such a task anyway.
I was impressed.
So, now, instead of seeing the ball as another threat to my sense of order, the Bouncing Woodyettes have the run of the house. Doodle doesn't do it as frequently as Jelly does, but there are a couple of reasons for this. She's not as inclined to bounce as constantly as is her sister. She has a greater capacity for sitting in one place for greater lengths of time, so bouncing is not a need for her; it's a diversion. On the other hand, Jelly has declared the ball her vehicle of choice, and getting it away from her long enough to indulge in a fun bounce is a hit-or-miss proposition.
I'm not saying that Jelly does nothing but bounce, by any means. She's still a world-class reader, and one does not read while bouncing on a big yellow ball. Indeed, this is the same child that gets car-sick if she reads too much on the road. No, reading demands sitting in one place for as long as it takes to get her fill. I often marvel how this hyperkinetic child can drape herself, cat like, on any piece of floor or furniture and read for a solid two hours at a stretch. My entire immediate family has this ability, although at my age, "draping" myself on any piece of furniture generally means sitting in the most comfortable chair I can find. When I was Jelly's age, though, I could read upside down if the mood struck me. And it frequently did.
So, should you ever visit Hacienda Woody and see a sign warning you about our bouncers, just understand that I'm really more concerned for your safety than my own. I'm pretty sure my insurance will cover being run over by a small child on a big yellow ball.
Friday, September 09, 2005
#75 - A New House for the Woodyettes
One of the great side-effects of the Move From Hades® is the constant state of wonder in which our Woodyettes find themselves. When we rearranged Mommy and Daddy's room, for instance, they both wanted to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed for the next several nights, simply out of a sense of adventure. I used to experience similar adventures as a youngster any time we could finagle Dad into letting us sleep in a tent pitched in the backyard. It's that sense of anticipation that you're experiencing something different. It doesn't matter what, just that it's different.
Likewise the family room. Before the TV got moved there, it was just a sitting room; a place where Mommy and Daddy could entertain guests, or read a book relatively undisturbed by sub-8-year-old interference. Now it is the gathering place for the whole family, and the girls are just as likely to play out there as anywhere else.
Now the Wonderwood Room© is taking shape, and a whole plethora of material previously unseen by our Junior Woodchucks is visible to them. There are, you see, books. Lots and lots of books.
I finished stocking those shelves just three hours ago. Since that time, the Woodyettes have spent quite awhile picking up random interesting books and reading them to each other. Mrs. Woody gets excited because the Woodyettes have fresh material to use and learn from. The Woodyettes are excited because there are books; a whole lot of them and, as far as they're concerned, they are brand spanking new.
In coming days, they will spend hours in here of their own volition. Oh, sure, Mrs. Woody will herd them in here for school starting Monday. (School, I must clarify, has been in session for a month already, but that was in the old, ramshackle schoolhouse built during the Reconstruction that nearly burned down during the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 and which also serves as our dining room. Monday they move into the sleek, modern, new schoolhouse which was built with your tax dollars. Thank you.) But the Woodyettes will gravitate here, after the school bell rings, to explore the world through new sets of eyes.
Home may be where the heart is. But for the Woodyettes, Wonderwood is where the universe is brought into sharper focus.
Likewise the family room. Before the TV got moved there, it was just a sitting room; a place where Mommy and Daddy could entertain guests, or read a book relatively undisturbed by sub-8-year-old interference. Now it is the gathering place for the whole family, and the girls are just as likely to play out there as anywhere else.
Now the Wonderwood Room© is taking shape, and a whole plethora of material previously unseen by our Junior Woodchucks is visible to them. There are, you see, books. Lots and lots of books.
I finished stocking those shelves just three hours ago. Since that time, the Woodyettes have spent quite awhile picking up random interesting books and reading them to each other. Mrs. Woody gets excited because the Woodyettes have fresh material to use and learn from. The Woodyettes are excited because there are books; a whole lot of them and, as far as they're concerned, they are brand spanking new.
In coming days, they will spend hours in here of their own volition. Oh, sure, Mrs. Woody will herd them in here for school starting Monday. (School, I must clarify, has been in session for a month already, but that was in the old, ramshackle schoolhouse built during the Reconstruction that nearly burned down during the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 and which also serves as our dining room. Monday they move into the sleek, modern, new schoolhouse which was built with your tax dollars. Thank you.) But the Woodyettes will gravitate here, after the school bell rings, to explore the world through new sets of eyes.
Home may be where the heart is. But for the Woodyettes, Wonderwood is where the universe is brought into sharper focus.
#74 - Move From Hades™ Update
Boy, am I sore. It's that bone-deep Ben-Gay kind of sore that requires several Swedish masseuses to aid in recovery. And I mean the kind with arms bigger around than my legs. That kind of sore.
I have designs on the bathtub tonight. Make the water hot enough to make lobsters scream, take a good book, and soak, soak, soak. Get a good night's sleep, and start all over again.
My position at work allows me to work a modified 9-80 shift. This means I work my 80 hours over the course of 9 days, and get a day off every other week. We've come to rely heavily on these days off, and today was no exception. As our longish weekend approached, Mrs. Woody's first question was, "So, whatcha gonna do on your Friday off?" This was not an innocent "will you be putzing around the house?" kind of question. This was a "so how much furniture are you planning to move?" question.
By way of update, prior to today we had pretty much successfully rearranged our living/family room and our master bedroom. Portions of the school/office/scrapbooking room (now called "Wonderwood") had been rearranged, and I knew that the next step was the one I'd been dreading since we decided to do this project. In our current office - the one earmarked for our Jelly Woodyette - we had bought and put together several storage-type units of varying shapes and designs. They all have two pieces that sit one on top of the other, and they're all heavy. I was not looking forward to moving these behemoths. Especially single-handed. They are, of course, the cornerstone of Mrs. Woody's new empire, and the lynch-pin of my entire moving project.
Unfortunately, this is not the sort of project that you can simply call a few friends, invite them over for beer, and have them heft some furniture around with you. For one thing, I don't drink beer [Note to GoogleAds: Please don't assume that this means I want ads for brew-it-yourself beer!] and I don't have any friends that do. Not that are friendly enough to come move furniture, anyway. For another thing, I have to empty out each piece, stage the stuff somewhere long enough to move the furniture, then meticulously put all the stuff back in its new home. There's no way to predict how long each step will take, so I hate the idea of bringing someone over just so they can sit around waiting for me to get everything ready to actually move.
This morning I was determined to move the Big Four (as I think of them), and I predicted that it would take the better part of the day. I was correct.
The good news is that they are all moved, and Mrs. Woody is thrilled. She can now find see and find things she hasn't seen in (literally, in some cases) years. They're all right at her fingertips in the same room where she will begin teaching the Woodyettes, hopefully this coming Monday. All I have left to do is move one desk into the room recently freed up, and move Mrs. Woody's bookcases from the dining room into the new school room. Then we get to buy her a 30x60 folding table for her classroom, and all is in readiness. She's like a kid at Christmas now. The room not only looks the way she was envisioning it, but will also be able to do her scrapbooking in a more comfortable setting. Fun galore!
Woody, meanwhile, will be in traction.
I have designs on the bathtub tonight. Make the water hot enough to make lobsters scream, take a good book, and soak, soak, soak. Get a good night's sleep, and start all over again.
My position at work allows me to work a modified 9-80 shift. This means I work my 80 hours over the course of 9 days, and get a day off every other week. We've come to rely heavily on these days off, and today was no exception. As our longish weekend approached, Mrs. Woody's first question was, "So, whatcha gonna do on your Friday off?" This was not an innocent "will you be putzing around the house?" kind of question. This was a "so how much furniture are you planning to move?" question.
By way of update, prior to today we had pretty much successfully rearranged our living/family room and our master bedroom. Portions of the school/office/scrapbooking room (now called "Wonderwood") had been rearranged, and I knew that the next step was the one I'd been dreading since we decided to do this project. In our current office - the one earmarked for our Jelly Woodyette - we had bought and put together several storage-type units of varying shapes and designs. They all have two pieces that sit one on top of the other, and they're all heavy. I was not looking forward to moving these behemoths. Especially single-handed. They are, of course, the cornerstone of Mrs. Woody's new empire, and the lynch-pin of my entire moving project.
Unfortunately, this is not the sort of project that you can simply call a few friends, invite them over for beer, and have them heft some furniture around with you. For one thing, I don't drink beer [Note to GoogleAds: Please don't assume that this means I want ads for brew-it-yourself beer!] and I don't have any friends that do. Not that are friendly enough to come move furniture, anyway. For another thing, I have to empty out each piece, stage the stuff somewhere long enough to move the furniture, then meticulously put all the stuff back in its new home. There's no way to predict how long each step will take, so I hate the idea of bringing someone over just so they can sit around waiting for me to get everything ready to actually move.
This morning I was determined to move the Big Four (as I think of them), and I predicted that it would take the better part of the day. I was correct.
The good news is that they are all moved, and Mrs. Woody is thrilled. She can now find see and find things she hasn't seen in (literally, in some cases) years. They're all right at her fingertips in the same room where she will begin teaching the Woodyettes, hopefully this coming Monday. All I have left to do is move one desk into the room recently freed up, and move Mrs. Woody's bookcases from the dining room into the new school room. Then we get to buy her a 30x60 folding table for her classroom, and all is in readiness. She's like a kid at Christmas now. The room not only looks the way she was envisioning it, but will also be able to do her scrapbooking in a more comfortable setting. Fun galore!
Woody, meanwhile, will be in traction.
Monday, September 05, 2005
#73 - A Little Nitrous, Please?
I had no idea I needed to laugh.
Yesterday was actually a pretty fair Sabbath, as Sundays go. Nice day at Church; lots of good thoughts about the flood victims and suggestions for how to help; kids were able to be with friends in Primary; Daddy got to do some Family History consulting during second hour. No rush in the morning, either. I was up at a reasonable hour, and had the Woodyettes' church clothes picked out by the time Mrs. Woody was done with her morning routine. Everyone was showered, bathed, dressed, and otherwise ready to go well before our usual departure time, and it was nice.
On the other hand, there was work to be done. We were expecting company for today and the house is... um... well, you know. I was spending time in the Woodyettes' dungeon trying to get things better organized, and failing miserably. It truly is a case where a bulldozer would be more efficient, if I could just figure out a way to get it into the house.
After dinner, Mrs. Woody announced that she wanted a movie. She didn't say so, but the clear implication was that my attendance was required. The girls were ensconced in their CalTrans pit with a movie of their own, and we settled down to "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." We enjoy "Greek Wedding" because it requires only minimal editing and hits all our funny bones. By the end of the movie we were both pretty relaxed and I was able to go back into the Den of Condemnation to continue with thereorganization exercise in futility.
It was my wife's parting line as I announced my departure for the Crusades. I mentioned that I always enjoy that particular movie (I probably always say this), and Mrs. Woody rejoined, "Me, too. But I needed to hear you laugh."
Oh? Had my laughter been so absent of late?
As interesting as this question was, I didn't pursue it. Some things require no real explanation. Mrs. Woody has always told me that she loves to hear me laugh. I have taken that to mean that my laughter has a sort of tonic effect on her. It must be a signal that things are right with the world in general. Sure, there is suffering and misery elsewhere, and we are and will do our part to help. But in our immediate world, things are well. And when Daddy laughs, things couldn't really be any better.
I can appreciate that feeling. In my childhood, if Dad was laughing, no one was in trouble. There were five of us kids, and someone was always in trouble. Except for the Baby. The Baby was never in trouble. (She denies this. She contends that we had all left the house by the time she got into trouble, but we don't believe her.) The bottom line was: if Dad wasn't growling at someone, it was a good day. If Dad was laughing, we all laughed with him.
As I sat in the Pit of Woody's Despair sorting through about a kazillion Kelly Doll accessories, I pondered the significance of Daddy's laughter. My native sense of humor is my strongest personality attribute. When I was a punk kid, it manifested itself as biting sarcasm; a trait I haven't completely left behind, you may have noticed. But as I have aged (or, like a good sausage, cured) I have realized that my sense of humor can be a tremendous disarmer. I have the ability to defuse tense situations by finding a way to reveal some small element of humor.
If that's true, then I do my family and loved ones a disservice when I fail to laugh for them. Let's face it, laughter is generally infectious. It always was for me when my Dad laughed. Now, granted, that may partly have been out of relief that I wasn't about to be executed for yet another lousy report card. But when Dad laughed, I nearly always laughed with him.
When I laugh, my Woodyettes can be themselves and have fun. They can be silly without annoying Daddy. When I don't feel like laughing, their silliness can act like a hot poker inside my head. I might snap and raise my voice. Then everyone - Mrs. Woody included - is on edge. What fun is that?
I had no idea I needed to laugh. But I know it now.
Yesterday was actually a pretty fair Sabbath, as Sundays go. Nice day at Church; lots of good thoughts about the flood victims and suggestions for how to help; kids were able to be with friends in Primary; Daddy got to do some Family History consulting during second hour. No rush in the morning, either. I was up at a reasonable hour, and had the Woodyettes' church clothes picked out by the time Mrs. Woody was done with her morning routine. Everyone was showered, bathed, dressed, and otherwise ready to go well before our usual departure time, and it was nice.
On the other hand, there was work to be done. We were expecting company for today and the house is... um... well, you know. I was spending time in the Woodyettes' dungeon trying to get things better organized, and failing miserably. It truly is a case where a bulldozer would be more efficient, if I could just figure out a way to get it into the house.
After dinner, Mrs. Woody announced that she wanted a movie. She didn't say so, but the clear implication was that my attendance was required. The girls were ensconced in their CalTrans pit with a movie of their own, and we settled down to "My Big Fat Greek Wedding." We enjoy "Greek Wedding" because it requires only minimal editing and hits all our funny bones. By the end of the movie we were both pretty relaxed and I was able to go back into the Den of Condemnation to continue with the
It was my wife's parting line as I announced my departure for the Crusades. I mentioned that I always enjoy that particular movie (I probably always say this), and Mrs. Woody rejoined, "Me, too. But I needed to hear you laugh."
Oh? Had my laughter been so absent of late?
As interesting as this question was, I didn't pursue it. Some things require no real explanation. Mrs. Woody has always told me that she loves to hear me laugh. I have taken that to mean that my laughter has a sort of tonic effect on her. It must be a signal that things are right with the world in general. Sure, there is suffering and misery elsewhere, and we are and will do our part to help. But in our immediate world, things are well. And when Daddy laughs, things couldn't really be any better.
I can appreciate that feeling. In my childhood, if Dad was laughing, no one was in trouble. There were five of us kids, and someone was always in trouble. Except for the Baby. The Baby was never in trouble. (She denies this. She contends that we had all left the house by the time she got into trouble, but we don't believe her.) The bottom line was: if Dad wasn't growling at someone, it was a good day. If Dad was laughing, we all laughed with him.
As I sat in the Pit of Woody's Despair sorting through about a kazillion Kelly Doll accessories, I pondered the significance of Daddy's laughter. My native sense of humor is my strongest personality attribute. When I was a punk kid, it manifested itself as biting sarcasm; a trait I haven't completely left behind, you may have noticed. But as I have aged (or, like a good sausage, cured) I have realized that my sense of humor can be a tremendous disarmer. I have the ability to defuse tense situations by finding a way to reveal some small element of humor.
If that's true, then I do my family and loved ones a disservice when I fail to laugh for them. Let's face it, laughter is generally infectious. It always was for me when my Dad laughed. Now, granted, that may partly have been out of relief that I wasn't about to be executed for yet another lousy report card. But when Dad laughed, I nearly always laughed with him.
When I laugh, my Woodyettes can be themselves and have fun. They can be silly without annoying Daddy. When I don't feel like laughing, their silliness can act like a hot poker inside my head. I might snap and raise my voice. Then everyone - Mrs. Woody included - is on edge. What fun is that?
I had no idea I needed to laugh. But I know it now.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
#72 - Prepare Ye
Some thoughts about preparedness:
We in the LDS Church are continually (if not consistently) counselled to be prepared for disaster of any kind. I believe it's a rare General Conference that does not bring at least one mention of having, at a minimum, a 72 hour kit available for minor emergencies, and a full year's supply of food, clothing, and other necessaries in the event of a full-scale disaster such as Hurricane Katrina.
Talk is cheap, though, and countless members of the Church have far less supply than would be considered prudent for their potential needs.
Even Woody.
I have (foolishly, perhaps) prided myself on the amount of storage that I currently have. Then I projected myself into a Katrina-like situation and realized: my storage is vulnerable. We live near a flood-control wash which once was the Santa Ana river. I'm not certain, but I believe the entire river channel is now concrete and probably has been for several decades. During the monsoon-like rains of last winter, that channel got dangerously high. Although my family and I were never in true danger, had the rains lasted just a few more weeks, we could well have been under a foot or so of water.
The thing is, we live in a manufactured home. Like many parks, ours has a limit on the amount of external storage space you can have, and I happen to have a fairly decent shed built next to the house. That shed is jam-packed with the usual assortment of garage-like items, and also houses our not-quite year's supply of food, and our 10-year's supply of hand-me-down clothing. (That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.)
If, heaven forbid, we should ever experience a Katrina-like flood, I would likely lose most if not all of that supply and be no different from so many other victims of Katrina. It's a very sobering thought.
Are there differences? Certainly. I would have been one to leave town as soon as it appeared that the storm was as dangerous as Katrina was forecast to be. I would have had the means because I've been blessed with a good job that allows me to get in a vehicle and move my family to safety. Yet, even in this land of wonder called Southern California, how many are there who are in precisely the same condition as those in New Orleans who were unable to leave a doomed city? I doubt if our own local officials have enough data to make even an educated guess.
We don't get hurricanes out here, but this is hardly a disaster-free zone. We have earthquakes. We build homes on hills that are found, after a good, hard rain, to be completely unstable. One dry fire season can put literally thousands of people out of their homes. We have not yet experienced "the Big One" that seismologists have been warning us about since I was a lad. We've come close, as with the Northridge quake of '94, but that one huge, well-placed shaker will make a laughing stock of all the seismic preparations we've made in this concrete jungle we've created out here.
Am I prepared for a "big one?" Of course not. No one can truly ever say they are completely prepared for such a thing. There's no way of knowing whether I live in a relatively safe zone, or whether my home sits on top of a hitherto unknown fault that happens to be key tributary of the dreaded San Andreas. They're discovering new ones all the time.
This is where the principle of obedience comes into play. Through his servants, the Lord counsels us to prepare. We've lived in this area long enough to know, generally, what we prepare for. If a large earthquake hits our area, we will hopefully at least be able to dig through the rubble of our little shed and avail ourselves of our storage. We would probably feel a need to share those supplies with others, some of whom would likely have little or no storage of their own. And that's the way the Lord intends it to work. If I have been obedient to the call for preparedness, my family will be cared for. Even if, for some reason, my own storage were inaccessible, our obedience would mean we would be cared for by others. We would then rebuild our own stores in preparation for the next event, where we would hopefully be on the giving end, rather than the receiving end.
I cannot sit in judgement of how any given area responds to a disaster like Katrina. Certainly there appear to be egregious mistakes in leadership, and thouands of families and individuals simply were not in a position to prepare themselves for what is now expected to be a months-long evacuation. But from the warmth and safety of my home today, this is arm-chair quarterbacking at its worst. My duty as a fellow human is to do what my family and I can do for the victims, and try to provide for their relief. Somehow. I applaud those who will take the initiative to physically go and help. My own family's needs and challenges prevent me from doing that. But we can (and will) still help.
We will donate to a fund as we will be directed - probably today - by our Church leaders. I trust the Church's humanitarian system because they always deliver. I will then present myself and my veins to the American Red Cross at one of their blood collection centers, or at a blood drive that very likely will be organized by our local Church leadership. I will continue to pray and donate as much as I am able until those people are, at least, out of harm's way.
Then, and only then, will I return to a discussion of what happened, what went wrong, and how to fix it. In the meantime I need to re-inventory my storage. I'm probably short.
We in the LDS Church are continually (if not consistently) counselled to be prepared for disaster of any kind. I believe it's a rare General Conference that does not bring at least one mention of having, at a minimum, a 72 hour kit available for minor emergencies, and a full year's supply of food, clothing, and other necessaries in the event of a full-scale disaster such as Hurricane Katrina.
Talk is cheap, though, and countless members of the Church have far less supply than would be considered prudent for their potential needs.
Even Woody.
I have (foolishly, perhaps) prided myself on the amount of storage that I currently have. Then I projected myself into a Katrina-like situation and realized: my storage is vulnerable. We live near a flood-control wash which once was the Santa Ana river. I'm not certain, but I believe the entire river channel is now concrete and probably has been for several decades. During the monsoon-like rains of last winter, that channel got dangerously high. Although my family and I were never in true danger, had the rains lasted just a few more weeks, we could well have been under a foot or so of water.
The thing is, we live in a manufactured home. Like many parks, ours has a limit on the amount of external storage space you can have, and I happen to have a fairly decent shed built next to the house. That shed is jam-packed with the usual assortment of garage-like items, and also houses our not-quite year's supply of food, and our 10-year's supply of hand-me-down clothing. (That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.)
If, heaven forbid, we should ever experience a Katrina-like flood, I would likely lose most if not all of that supply and be no different from so many other victims of Katrina. It's a very sobering thought.
Are there differences? Certainly. I would have been one to leave town as soon as it appeared that the storm was as dangerous as Katrina was forecast to be. I would have had the means because I've been blessed with a good job that allows me to get in a vehicle and move my family to safety. Yet, even in this land of wonder called Southern California, how many are there who are in precisely the same condition as those in New Orleans who were unable to leave a doomed city? I doubt if our own local officials have enough data to make even an educated guess.
We don't get hurricanes out here, but this is hardly a disaster-free zone. We have earthquakes. We build homes on hills that are found, after a good, hard rain, to be completely unstable. One dry fire season can put literally thousands of people out of their homes. We have not yet experienced "the Big One" that seismologists have been warning us about since I was a lad. We've come close, as with the Northridge quake of '94, but that one huge, well-placed shaker will make a laughing stock of all the seismic preparations we've made in this concrete jungle we've created out here.
Am I prepared for a "big one?" Of course not. No one can truly ever say they are completely prepared for such a thing. There's no way of knowing whether I live in a relatively safe zone, or whether my home sits on top of a hitherto unknown fault that happens to be key tributary of the dreaded San Andreas. They're discovering new ones all the time.
This is where the principle of obedience comes into play. Through his servants, the Lord counsels us to prepare. We've lived in this area long enough to know, generally, what we prepare for. If a large earthquake hits our area, we will hopefully at least be able to dig through the rubble of our little shed and avail ourselves of our storage. We would probably feel a need to share those supplies with others, some of whom would likely have little or no storage of their own. And that's the way the Lord intends it to work. If I have been obedient to the call for preparedness, my family will be cared for. Even if, for some reason, my own storage were inaccessible, our obedience would mean we would be cared for by others. We would then rebuild our own stores in preparation for the next event, where we would hopefully be on the giving end, rather than the receiving end.
I cannot sit in judgement of how any given area responds to a disaster like Katrina. Certainly there appear to be egregious mistakes in leadership, and thouands of families and individuals simply were not in a position to prepare themselves for what is now expected to be a months-long evacuation. But from the warmth and safety of my home today, this is arm-chair quarterbacking at its worst. My duty as a fellow human is to do what my family and I can do for the victims, and try to provide for their relief. Somehow. I applaud those who will take the initiative to physically go and help. My own family's needs and challenges prevent me from doing that. But we can (and will) still help.
We will donate to a fund as we will be directed - probably today - by our Church leaders. I trust the Church's humanitarian system because they always deliver. I will then present myself and my veins to the American Red Cross at one of their blood collection centers, or at a blood drive that very likely will be organized by our local Church leadership. I will continue to pray and donate as much as I am able until those people are, at least, out of harm's way.
Then, and only then, will I return to a discussion of what happened, what went wrong, and how to fix it. In the meantime I need to re-inventory my storage. I'm probably short.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
#71 - Mrs. Woody Blogs!
Daddy is so happy! Mrs. Woody now joins the family in blogdom. She has created her first post here, and if I do say so, she has a wonderful writing style. Refreshing if you've been reading my tripe all this time.
Check out Mrs. Woody's Wonders, and drop her a line.
Check out Mrs. Woody's Wonders, and drop her a line.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
#70 - Hosanna!
The Newport Beach Temple - the one hundred twenty second operating temple in the world as of today - was dedicated in four sessions, presided over by President Gordon B. Hinckley. I got to stand no more than ten feet away from him.
Earlier this summer I received a letter from the Temple Committee stating that I had been selected to participate in one of the dedicatory choirs. It would have been a tremendous honor to participate in the dedication as an usher. To sing in one of the sessions was something I never in a million years expected to experience.
Because of the size of the temple (small) and the fact that the sessions are conducted in the Celestial Room (even smaller!), the choir also needed to be (small). There were, in fact, eighteen of us, plus two alternates who would be called upon to sing if one of us was unable for any reason. The conductor I know well. She conducts a local group called the Anaheim Mormon Chorale, one of relatively few standing LDS choirs in Southern California. We would be honored to perform for the fourth and final dedicatory session.
From the beginning of rehearsals, this was obviously a unique experience. It is never far from one's mind that temple dedications have been the scene of some of the most spiritual experiences one may have in this life. Indeed, angels were seen by many at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple, and countless anecdotes of equal significance have accompanied every dedication since. And so, even with the friendly and cheerful banter that often accompanies these rehearsals, there was also the pall of tremendous responsibility that we felt from our first session together.
Musically, this performance was not overly taxing. The hardest part was, perhaps, having to memorize the pieces. Unless you count having to end the "Hosanna Anthem" on a note right on my break. Could have done without that.
Although I was thrilled to be able to perform in this dedication, it was even more important for me that I got to share the experience with my wonderful Mrs. Woody. We both were privileged to be in the temple, albeit in different rooms, for the service.
I wish I were somehow capable of describing the emotions I felt during the service. Although I was only in the presence of the prophet while we were singing (we sat in one of the sealing rooms in between), it was wonderful to feel his infectious testimony fill the meeting. Every speaker - brothers and sisters with fervent testimonies and dedication to the Lord - bore solemn witness to the blessing of having a temple in our midst. President Faust, who accompanied the prophet, bore his testimony of the atonement. He made particular emphasis of the idea that the atonement means we receive the blessings after all that we can do. (Emphasis, Pres. Faust)
President Hinckley is, of course, one of the greatest stump speakers I've ever heard. At one point he could not, for the life of him, remember what the name of the temple was. He finally had to turn and ask the Seventy. He then sheepishly reminded us that this is one of the signs of old age. He mentioned that Sis. Hinckley had something on their refrigerator once that said, "I'm the same age as President Reagan. I wonder if he ever goes into the Oval Office and forgets what he went there for?" He then proceeded to bear powerful testimony of the temple and its blessings. He made particular mention of the great work of family history and the opportunities we have to do that work for our ancestors.
Then came the great dedicatory prayer. It is said that the prophet takes special care to prepare the prayer in advance. It must convey not only the priesthood authority under which we dedicate this edifice, but also the hopes and desires of all who will enter the temple to perform this work. Immediately following the prayer is the Hosanna Shout which has been performed since ancient times. Then the choir sings the Hosanna Anthem, accompanied by the congregation singing "The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning." I can only say that after all the spirit felt immediately preceding the song, getting through it without losing control of my tear ducts was a real feat.
Mrs. Woody and I compared notes as we drove home. It was, for both of us, exactly what it needed to be; a chance to renew our commitment to the temple work, and an opportunity to share this experience together. Mrs. Woody could just as easily have attended the ceremony via the satellite broadcasts to our Stake Center, but she was allowed to come to the temple instead. With me. Another memory to seal in our hearts for eternity.
We will return. Often. And it will always be "our" temple.
Earlier this summer I received a letter from the Temple Committee stating that I had been selected to participate in one of the dedicatory choirs. It would have been a tremendous honor to participate in the dedication as an usher. To sing in one of the sessions was something I never in a million years expected to experience.
Because of the size of the temple (small) and the fact that the sessions are conducted in the Celestial Room (even smaller!), the choir also needed to be (small). There were, in fact, eighteen of us, plus two alternates who would be called upon to sing if one of us was unable for any reason. The conductor I know well. She conducts a local group called the Anaheim Mormon Chorale, one of relatively few standing LDS choirs in Southern California. We would be honored to perform for the fourth and final dedicatory session.
From the beginning of rehearsals, this was obviously a unique experience. It is never far from one's mind that temple dedications have been the scene of some of the most spiritual experiences one may have in this life. Indeed, angels were seen by many at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple, and countless anecdotes of equal significance have accompanied every dedication since. And so, even with the friendly and cheerful banter that often accompanies these rehearsals, there was also the pall of tremendous responsibility that we felt from our first session together.
Musically, this performance was not overly taxing. The hardest part was, perhaps, having to memorize the pieces. Unless you count having to end the "Hosanna Anthem" on a note right on my break. Could have done without that.
Although I was thrilled to be able to perform in this dedication, it was even more important for me that I got to share the experience with my wonderful Mrs. Woody. We both were privileged to be in the temple, albeit in different rooms, for the service.
I wish I were somehow capable of describing the emotions I felt during the service. Although I was only in the presence of the prophet while we were singing (we sat in one of the sealing rooms in between), it was wonderful to feel his infectious testimony fill the meeting. Every speaker - brothers and sisters with fervent testimonies and dedication to the Lord - bore solemn witness to the blessing of having a temple in our midst. President Faust, who accompanied the prophet, bore his testimony of the atonement. He made particular emphasis of the idea that the atonement means we receive the blessings after all that we can do. (Emphasis, Pres. Faust)
President Hinckley is, of course, one of the greatest stump speakers I've ever heard. At one point he could not, for the life of him, remember what the name of the temple was. He finally had to turn and ask the Seventy. He then sheepishly reminded us that this is one of the signs of old age. He mentioned that Sis. Hinckley had something on their refrigerator once that said, "I'm the same age as President Reagan. I wonder if he ever goes into the Oval Office and forgets what he went there for?" He then proceeded to bear powerful testimony of the temple and its blessings. He made particular mention of the great work of family history and the opportunities we have to do that work for our ancestors.
Then came the great dedicatory prayer. It is said that the prophet takes special care to prepare the prayer in advance. It must convey not only the priesthood authority under which we dedicate this edifice, but also the hopes and desires of all who will enter the temple to perform this work. Immediately following the prayer is the Hosanna Shout which has been performed since ancient times. Then the choir sings the Hosanna Anthem, accompanied by the congregation singing "The Spirit of God Like a Fire is Burning." I can only say that after all the spirit felt immediately preceding the song, getting through it without losing control of my tear ducts was a real feat.
Mrs. Woody and I compared notes as we drove home. It was, for both of us, exactly what it needed to be; a chance to renew our commitment to the temple work, and an opportunity to share this experience together. Mrs. Woody could just as easily have attended the ceremony via the satellite broadcasts to our Stake Center, but she was allowed to come to the temple instead. With me. Another memory to seal in our hearts for eternity.
We will return. Often. And it will always be "our" temple.
#69 - Sleep? Who Needs It?
In the twenty five or so years it has taken me to become one, I've learned that the requirements for being a "responsible adult" appear to include some sort of sleep deprivation.
This is difficult for me because I have no small amount of laziness in my psyche. If, for example, you show me a lawn mower and a yard full of towering grass, weeds, and assorted flotsam and jetsam, then tell me to decide whether to do yard work or read a book, I have no compunction whatsoever in choosing to read a book. Or take a nap. Or read a book and simply look like I'm taking a nap. Meanwhile, the yard continues to grow, Blob-like, until it consumes Steve McQueen.
This laziness goes waaaaaay back to when I was a rather young Woody and gave my parents fits whenever they tried to get me out of bed. My brother took this to an artistic level reserved for Rembrandt, but the legacy is mine. I learned early on how to ignore alarm clocks. The reason for this, of course, was refusing to get to bed anytime before the sun came up in the morning. I just couldn't do it. Not without brute force, anyway. I don't believe my parents ever resorted to lashing me into my bed with ropes or chains, but I'll bet they considered it.
As a teenager it only got worse. My nighttime habits stayed just as slovenly as before, thanks in part to my addiction to late night movies. Or, rather, my Dad's addiction to those movies. He loved them. I wasn't all that impressed with them, but it became a sort of bonding thing with us. We never talked. In fact, NO ONE spoke when Dad was watching a movie. That was the Kiss of Death in our home. But we could enjoy companionable silence with Dad if we shut up and watched.
Somewhere around midnight, Dad would cock one eye in my direction and say, "You have seminary in the morning." For the uninitiated, "seminary" is an opportunity for young people in the LDS church to wake up before the crack of dawn, drive or be driven to the church building, and fall asleep in a class where we were supposed to be learning about the Gospel. At least, that's how I handled it. My wife actually stayed awake through those classes. Those wimps in Utah have it much easier. They get to go to "release-time" seminary, which makes it part of their school day.
Anyway, Dad never pressed the point. He knew that it wouldn't work. I would tough out the movie, then make great noise about going up to bed, then sit up and read for about another hour. When the alarm would begin going off at 5:30, I knew Dad wouldn't be far behind. "Getcher butt outta that bed!" he would snarl. "Mmnmnn," I would mumble in response, then hit the snooze button. The invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks is another reason why the United States lags behind the rest of the world in productivity.
Dad operated on a "three strikes" principle. We got two snarls' worth of time to get out of bed and ready for school. The implied third strike would have meant Dad coming physically in to our rooms, risking his life on our cluttered floors, and yanking us out of our beds. We were always intimidated enough by Dad not to risk the third strike. This did NOT mean we were going to take defeat graciously. You never saw a surlier bunch of teenagers who were not addicted to recreational pharmaceuticals. We'd glower, snarl, crank, and otherwise torment our parents for having the nerve to make us get up and face the world. Dad, who was born responsible (according to his mother) and had gotten cheerfully out of bed before the crack of dawn every day of his mortal existence, would merely smirk at us and threaten to tell us how easy we had it compared to his own youth. This generally shut us up. He never actually used the "walking uphill both ways in the snow" line on us, but we have vivid recollections of dirt roads being called "Idaho superhighways," and other such nonsense.
Learning how to drive did not improve my inherent laziness. Where seminary was concerned, it only made things worse. They could get my sorry fanny out of bed at 0-dark-hundred; they could even make me drive myself to seminary. But they could NOT make me actually attend seminary. I spent the entire last two years of seminary sleeping in my car. Come to think of it, I believe I spent my last two years of high school the same way. Not that I'm proud of this.
Things started to improve when I went on my mission. In the field, you're expected to get up early, do your studying and have your prayers, then hit the "pavement" as soon as local custom allowed. This was one of the keys of success. Ironically, "pavement" in my mission looked suspiciously like "Idaho superhighways" in my Dad's day.
I might very well have lapsed back into my pre-mission laziness forever when I returned, had it not been for money. I needed a job, and employers get into this snit about having their employees show up on time. My first post-mission job was working in the stock room of a local jewelry store chain. I was to be among the first there in the morning so I could vacuum the red carpet in front of the store before it officially opened. I worked in North Hollywood, which was about a 45 minute commute from Simi Valley, and required my getting up before 7:00 every morning. What a wrench! (You veteran commuters are snorting into your caffeinated beverages with bitterness. 7:00! What you wouldn't give to sleep in until 7:00! Just wait.)
My next job, working at a factory where they made metal office furniture, began at 7:00, effectively moving my wake-up call to 6:00. I had discovered personal hygiene by that time, but could still do the whole thing in 15 minutes, thus making it out the door by 6:15. However, because of my laziness genes I had also begun to realize that I needed at least a half hour of wake up time, which meant having the alarm begin to go off (remember the snooze button?) at 5:30. The fact that I was getting into bed around 1:00 AM didn't faze me. I was an adult, I was earning money, and I could do what I darn'd well pleased!
Then I got married.
Snooze buttons are no match for a crazed half-Mexican half-Italian wife who isn't getting enough sleep herself because her deadbeat husband refuses to hear the blankety-blank alarm in the morning. Our bed suddenly seemed to acquire an ejection button. Her foot would get planted in the small of my back and -- ZINGO! -- I would find myself catapulted out onto the cold floor, ready to begin my day.
I had, by this time, acquired a desire to get to bed at a more reasonable hour every night. I was finally beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation that I had so carefully cultivated in my youth, and I actually began to see midnight as late, if you can imagine. Most unfortunately, my first wife, an inveterate talker, saw midnight as the perfect opportunity to discuss the pressing issues of our life together, and expected me to be awake for these sessions. (Note: this is NOT why my marriage to her dissolved. I'm not that shallow!) This wasn't too bad while we still lived less than an hour from my work. But when we moved to another town and I had to commute 70 miles one way every day, sleep began to take on a special significance. Now my alarm was going off at 4:00 in the morning, and my snooze buttons were decreasing. I was probably late far more often than would be strictly prudent, but that sense of "responsibility" was quickly overtaking me.
Jump ahead to a new life. New wife, new kids, old job. I'm back to commuting about 22 miles one way every day, and my alarm is back to 4:30. But my snoozes generally take me to about 5:00. I willingly choose to go into work early every day, because that allows me to come home that much earlier. My wife, bless her heart, has learned how to sleep through most of the snoozes. Because we have kids, we never get to go to bed when we want to, but we nearly always get to bed before midnight every night. I have at least that much going for me now.
These days I can rarely sleep beyond 7:00 in the morning on my off days. Either my bladder or my lower back just won't permit it. This morning I slept in until 9:00. Mom-in-law, who has been visiting with us this weekend, remarked that I slept longer than she was expecting. I replied that I was trying to make up for some of the sleep deprivation that I still have. Her comment back was, "I don't think you can ever make it up."
"I know that," I said. "I just don't think my body knows it."
This is difficult for me because I have no small amount of laziness in my psyche. If, for example, you show me a lawn mower and a yard full of towering grass, weeds, and assorted flotsam and jetsam, then tell me to decide whether to do yard work or read a book, I have no compunction whatsoever in choosing to read a book. Or take a nap. Or read a book and simply look like I'm taking a nap. Meanwhile, the yard continues to grow, Blob-like, until it consumes Steve McQueen.
This laziness goes waaaaaay back to when I was a rather young Woody and gave my parents fits whenever they tried to get me out of bed. My brother took this to an artistic level reserved for Rembrandt, but the legacy is mine. I learned early on how to ignore alarm clocks. The reason for this, of course, was refusing to get to bed anytime before the sun came up in the morning. I just couldn't do it. Not without brute force, anyway. I don't believe my parents ever resorted to lashing me into my bed with ropes or chains, but I'll bet they considered it.
As a teenager it only got worse. My nighttime habits stayed just as slovenly as before, thanks in part to my addiction to late night movies. Or, rather, my Dad's addiction to those movies. He loved them. I wasn't all that impressed with them, but it became a sort of bonding thing with us. We never talked. In fact, NO ONE spoke when Dad was watching a movie. That was the Kiss of Death in our home. But we could enjoy companionable silence with Dad if we shut up and watched.
Somewhere around midnight, Dad would cock one eye in my direction and say, "You have seminary in the morning." For the uninitiated, "seminary" is an opportunity for young people in the LDS church to wake up before the crack of dawn, drive or be driven to the church building, and fall asleep in a class where we were supposed to be learning about the Gospel. At least, that's how I handled it. My wife actually stayed awake through those classes. Those wimps in Utah have it much easier. They get to go to "release-time" seminary, which makes it part of their school day.
Anyway, Dad never pressed the point. He knew that it wouldn't work. I would tough out the movie, then make great noise about going up to bed, then sit up and read for about another hour. When the alarm would begin going off at 5:30, I knew Dad wouldn't be far behind. "Getcher butt outta that bed!" he would snarl. "Mmnmnn," I would mumble in response, then hit the snooze button. The invention of the snooze button on alarm clocks is another reason why the United States lags behind the rest of the world in productivity.
Dad operated on a "three strikes" principle. We got two snarls' worth of time to get out of bed and ready for school. The implied third strike would have meant Dad coming physically in to our rooms, risking his life on our cluttered floors, and yanking us out of our beds. We were always intimidated enough by Dad not to risk the third strike. This did NOT mean we were going to take defeat graciously. You never saw a surlier bunch of teenagers who were not addicted to recreational pharmaceuticals. We'd glower, snarl, crank, and otherwise torment our parents for having the nerve to make us get up and face the world. Dad, who was born responsible (according to his mother) and had gotten cheerfully out of bed before the crack of dawn every day of his mortal existence, would merely smirk at us and threaten to tell us how easy we had it compared to his own youth. This generally shut us up. He never actually used the "walking uphill both ways in the snow" line on us, but we have vivid recollections of dirt roads being called "Idaho superhighways," and other such nonsense.
Learning how to drive did not improve my inherent laziness. Where seminary was concerned, it only made things worse. They could get my sorry fanny out of bed at 0-dark-hundred; they could even make me drive myself to seminary. But they could NOT make me actually attend seminary. I spent the entire last two years of seminary sleeping in my car. Come to think of it, I believe I spent my last two years of high school the same way. Not that I'm proud of this.
Things started to improve when I went on my mission. In the field, you're expected to get up early, do your studying and have your prayers, then hit the "pavement" as soon as local custom allowed. This was one of the keys of success. Ironically, "pavement" in my mission looked suspiciously like "Idaho superhighways" in my Dad's day.
I might very well have lapsed back into my pre-mission laziness forever when I returned, had it not been for money. I needed a job, and employers get into this snit about having their employees show up on time. My first post-mission job was working in the stock room of a local jewelry store chain. I was to be among the first there in the morning so I could vacuum the red carpet in front of the store before it officially opened. I worked in North Hollywood, which was about a 45 minute commute from Simi Valley, and required my getting up before 7:00 every morning. What a wrench! (You veteran commuters are snorting into your caffeinated beverages with bitterness. 7:00! What you wouldn't give to sleep in until 7:00! Just wait.)
My next job, working at a factory where they made metal office furniture, began at 7:00, effectively moving my wake-up call to 6:00. I had discovered personal hygiene by that time, but could still do the whole thing in 15 minutes, thus making it out the door by 6:15. However, because of my laziness genes I had also begun to realize that I needed at least a half hour of wake up time, which meant having the alarm begin to go off (remember the snooze button?) at 5:30. The fact that I was getting into bed around 1:00 AM didn't faze me. I was an adult, I was earning money, and I could do what I darn'd well pleased!
Then I got married.
Snooze buttons are no match for a crazed half-Mexican half-Italian wife who isn't getting enough sleep herself because her deadbeat husband refuses to hear the blankety-blank alarm in the morning. Our bed suddenly seemed to acquire an ejection button. Her foot would get planted in the small of my back and -- ZINGO! -- I would find myself catapulted out onto the cold floor, ready to begin my day.
I had, by this time, acquired a desire to get to bed at a more reasonable hour every night. I was finally beginning to feel the effects of the sleep deprivation that I had so carefully cultivated in my youth, and I actually began to see midnight as late, if you can imagine. Most unfortunately, my first wife, an inveterate talker, saw midnight as the perfect opportunity to discuss the pressing issues of our life together, and expected me to be awake for these sessions. (Note: this is NOT why my marriage to her dissolved. I'm not that shallow!) This wasn't too bad while we still lived less than an hour from my work. But when we moved to another town and I had to commute 70 miles one way every day, sleep began to take on a special significance. Now my alarm was going off at 4:00 in the morning, and my snooze buttons were decreasing. I was probably late far more often than would be strictly prudent, but that sense of "responsibility" was quickly overtaking me.
Jump ahead to a new life. New wife, new kids, old job. I'm back to commuting about 22 miles one way every day, and my alarm is back to 4:30. But my snoozes generally take me to about 5:00. I willingly choose to go into work early every day, because that allows me to come home that much earlier. My wife, bless her heart, has learned how to sleep through most of the snoozes. Because we have kids, we never get to go to bed when we want to, but we nearly always get to bed before midnight every night. I have at least that much going for me now.
These days I can rarely sleep beyond 7:00 in the morning on my off days. Either my bladder or my lower back just won't permit it. This morning I slept in until 9:00. Mom-in-law, who has been visiting with us this weekend, remarked that I slept longer than she was expecting. I replied that I was trying to make up for some of the sleep deprivation that I still have. Her comment back was, "I don't think you can ever make it up."
"I know that," I said. "I just don't think my body knows it."
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
#68 - Lost and Found. May I Help You?
"Hello? I'd like to report my summer missing."
"Ok, sir, just calm down. Let's start with your name..."
"Woody."
"Woody?"
"Yes."
"Just Woody?"
"Um, yes. Just Woody."
"Ok, 'Woody,' what can we do for you?"
"Well, as I was explaining, my summer is missing."
"Your summer is missing."
"That's right! I know I started out with it, but after vacation was over I noticed that it was gone!"
"Ooooookay. Missing summer... I don't suppose you can describe it?"
"Oh. Well, I've never tried to describe it before... this may come out a little weird..."
"That's ok. Try me."
"Ok. Um, where to begin? Well, it looks nearly the same every year. Lots of sunshine and hot, hot days. Sweaty yardwork. Backaches and allergies, of course. Oh, and lots of visits to family! Can't forget those!"
"I see. And you say you last saw it during your vacation?"
"Yeah... the details are a little fuzzy. You know how it is... I'm certain I saw it right up through the July 4th celebrations. After that it must have slipped out and I haven't seen it since."
"So your vacation was during the 4th holiday?"
"Yeah. Right around it. We took a train up to Washington, stayed with some friends... you know, that sort of thing."
"And when you came home, your summer was missing?"
"Exactly!"
"Ah, Mr. Woody, please don't take this wrong, but... what have you been doing since your vacation? That was a good month and a half ago..."
"I see your point. Well, let me think... Ok, we got sick a lot. Mrs. Woody had pneumonia for a couple of weeks, then one of my Woodyettes..."
"'Woodyettes?' You have 'Woodyettes?'"
"Yes. My daughters. Anyway, one of them got the flu, then I ended up with it. Then there's the move..."
"You moved?"
"Well, we're moving. Furniture, I mean. Like, the entire house, y'know?"
"And there's a reason for this?"
"Well, sure. We need to give the girls separate rooms now, and we can't lose our school room, so I needed to move our scrapbook cupboard into our bedroom so we could move the TV cab..."
"Spare me the details, Mr. Woody. So, this is what you've been doing with your time?"
"Pretty much. Oh! And preparing for our Temple dedication! I get to sing in one of the choirs, so I've been rehearsing a bit..."
"Ok, ok. I get the picture. Look, I'm not sure I know quite how to break this to you, Mr. Woody..."
"Just give it to me straight, officer."
"Right. Well, Mr. Woody, what you have here is your classic runaway."
"Runaway?"
"Yes, sir. Here's what happens: Summers like to be the center of everything. They expect people to go to the beach, right? I mean, all that warm weather and all those beaches you got out here. It's just natural, you know? Then, of course, there's the barbeques..."
"Barbeques?"
"Yeah! You know: firing up the ol' grill and charcoaling a few steaks or hot dogs. You done any of that this year?"
"Gee, no... I guess I haven't had time!"
"Well, there you go! And don't forget... summer can be pretty moody, too! Why, just last year, I forgot to waste one of my Saturdays at a golf tournament and actually did some yard work instead! Boy, summer didn't talk to me for nearly a week after that. You do play golf, don't you?"
"Um, no. Not really. No."
"Oh, dear. Well, look, Mr. Woody. I'll be blunt. If you don't pay attention to your summer, summer just isn't going to hang around. It's got enough to do without waiting for you to snap out of it and start paying attention. It simply went looking for someone else to play with."
"Man, that's brutal. I guess I didn't expect... Well, look, officer, I appreciate your time. I guess all I can do is try to salvage what summer I have left, huh?"
"That's right, Mr. Woody. Just try relaxing a bit and see if summer doesn't come sneaking back in. Heck, it's probably hiding right outside your front door right now. Hang up, go take a nice soothing shower, dress in some grubbies, and go have some fun. You'll feel much better."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! Gosh, thanks, officer! You've been a big help!"
"No problem, sir. Always here to help. Thanks for calling."
[sigh]
"Hey, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"I think it's time to retire the Lost and Found number. It's getting weird out there."
"Yeah."
"Ok, sir, just calm down. Let's start with your name..."
"Woody."
"Woody?"
"Yes."
"Just Woody?"
"Um, yes. Just Woody."
"Ok, 'Woody,' what can we do for you?"
"Well, as I was explaining, my summer is missing."
"Your summer is missing."
"That's right! I know I started out with it, but after vacation was over I noticed that it was gone!"
"Ooooookay. Missing summer... I don't suppose you can describe it?"
"Oh. Well, I've never tried to describe it before... this may come out a little weird..."
"That's ok. Try me."
"Ok. Um, where to begin? Well, it looks nearly the same every year. Lots of sunshine and hot, hot days. Sweaty yardwork. Backaches and allergies, of course. Oh, and lots of visits to family! Can't forget those!"
"I see. And you say you last saw it during your vacation?"
"Yeah... the details are a little fuzzy. You know how it is... I'm certain I saw it right up through the July 4th celebrations. After that it must have slipped out and I haven't seen it since."
"So your vacation was during the 4th holiday?"
"Yeah. Right around it. We took a train up to Washington, stayed with some friends... you know, that sort of thing."
"And when you came home, your summer was missing?"
"Exactly!"
"Ah, Mr. Woody, please don't take this wrong, but... what have you been doing since your vacation? That was a good month and a half ago..."
"I see your point. Well, let me think... Ok, we got sick a lot. Mrs. Woody had pneumonia for a couple of weeks, then one of my Woodyettes..."
"'Woodyettes?' You have 'Woodyettes?'"
"Yes. My daughters. Anyway, one of them got the flu, then I ended up with it. Then there's the move..."
"You moved?"
"Well, we're moving. Furniture, I mean. Like, the entire house, y'know?"
"And there's a reason for this?"
"Well, sure. We need to give the girls separate rooms now, and we can't lose our school room, so I needed to move our scrapbook cupboard into our bedroom so we could move the TV cab..."
"Spare me the details, Mr. Woody. So, this is what you've been doing with your time?"
"Pretty much. Oh! And preparing for our Temple dedication! I get to sing in one of the choirs, so I've been rehearsing a bit..."
"Ok, ok. I get the picture. Look, I'm not sure I know quite how to break this to you, Mr. Woody..."
"Just give it to me straight, officer."
"Right. Well, Mr. Woody, what you have here is your classic runaway."
"Runaway?"
"Yes, sir. Here's what happens: Summers like to be the center of everything. They expect people to go to the beach, right? I mean, all that warm weather and all those beaches you got out here. It's just natural, you know? Then, of course, there's the barbeques..."
"Barbeques?"
"Yeah! You know: firing up the ol' grill and charcoaling a few steaks or hot dogs. You done any of that this year?"
"Gee, no... I guess I haven't had time!"
"Well, there you go! And don't forget... summer can be pretty moody, too! Why, just last year, I forgot to waste one of my Saturdays at a golf tournament and actually did some yard work instead! Boy, summer didn't talk to me for nearly a week after that. You do play golf, don't you?"
"Um, no. Not really. No."
"Oh, dear. Well, look, Mr. Woody. I'll be blunt. If you don't pay attention to your summer, summer just isn't going to hang around. It's got enough to do without waiting for you to snap out of it and start paying attention. It simply went looking for someone else to play with."
"Man, that's brutal. I guess I didn't expect... Well, look, officer, I appreciate your time. I guess all I can do is try to salvage what summer I have left, huh?"
"That's right, Mr. Woody. Just try relaxing a bit and see if summer doesn't come sneaking back in. Heck, it's probably hiding right outside your front door right now. Hang up, go take a nice soothing shower, dress in some grubbies, and go have some fun. You'll feel much better."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can do that! Gosh, thanks, officer! You've been a big help!"
"No problem, sir. Always here to help. Thanks for calling."
[sigh]
"Hey, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"I think it's time to retire the Lost and Found number. It's getting weird out there."
"Yeah."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)