Isabelle Crashes Out

This afternoon - 8/3/9 - was a big day: all six grandchildren and all three children were coming at mid-day. Mike was flying his family from NYC, and were going to pick up Alec in Madison on the way, and Laura and her 3 kids were coming about noon. Izzie had taken the week off work to enjoy her family. She shopped early for food, and decided to take a bike ride before Laura arrived, for there'd be little chance to ride for the rest of the week.

This spring she bought a lovely new solo road bike - we'd been riding tandem for several years, and I'd encouraged her to get her own bike. It felt pretty awkward at first, she said, but she enjoyed riding it. We have created several 10-12 mile loops near home, scenic 40-minute rides that wind through the hills or cross the prairie east and south of town.

She started shortly after eleven, so she would be home when Laura and her kids arrived. She rode south on 9th street to the edge of town, then turned east on Tanglewood Drive, what we call the golf club road because it goes past a scenic golf course. It then climbs into the woods for a short bit, and twists and turns over roller-coastery hills for a couple of miles to County J. We usually stop about halfway to rehydrate, at the top of one of the hills.

She crested that hill after a long climb, and sped down. At the bottom is a sharp left-hand corner, turning eastward up another hill. She was going too fast, hit gravel, and tumbled into the deep ditch.

Her breath was knocked out, she had terrible pain in her left chest when she breathed or moved her left arm, her legs were tangled in the handlebars and the bike. She struggled to get her breath back, then cried out in pain, and laid back in the grass. She laid perhaps ten minutes in the hot sun, hurting too much to help herself get out from under the bike, waiting for the pain to decrease so that she could get up again. She wiggled her arms and legs, and decided they weren't hurt.

Her cell phone rang. She was able to get it out of her jersey. It was Mike, who'd landed in Madison to pick up Alec. "Mom, I can't get ahold of Alec. We're here in Madison, and I've left messages on his cell phone. Could you look up his work number so I can try him there?"

"No, I can't. I feel so dumb. I crashed my bike and I'm laying in the ditch and I can't get up."

"Mom, I think you're talking to the wrong person. You should call dad."

I was forty minutes behind, as usual. I'd just finished with my next-to-last patient and had sat in my office chair to look at a phone message. It was 12:08. My cell phone rang. It was Izzie.

"Dan, are you with a patient?"

"No, just between." She sounded strained. "How can I help you?"

"I crashed my bike, and I can't get up. Can you go home and get the pickup truck?"

"Um, sure. Where are you?"

"I'm on the golf club road just past where we stop to drink. I'm pretty far in."

I said to the assistants at the nursing station, "I've got a little emergency with Isabelle. I'll be back in 20 minutes. Tell the next patient I'll be back as soon as I can."

I more or less slid down the balustrade, realizing as I went that there was no point in getting the pickup, it would just waste time and the bike would fit just fine in the trunk, and Izzie would be a lot more comfortable in the car if she were hurt, as she must be.

Meanwhile, back at the ditch, Isabelle didn't want Laura to be inconvenienced in case she got to our house at noon and there was no Mother. She called her. "Laura, where are you?"

"I'm just leaving home."

"Oh, good. I did something stupid and I crashed my bike. I'm in the ditch and I can't get up. I'm waiting for your dad to come and get me."

Poor Laura. She had worked late, and wished she could be there to help.

As I left the clinic, I calculated what would be the quickest way to the crash site, and headed down County J, instead of through town. I did not stay under the speed limit, nor did I come to a full and complete stop at the intersections. I did a little tailgating of a guy who stayed ahead of me onto the golf club road, and he saluted me rudely as he turned into his driveway.

I drove the entire length of the road, carefully looking at the ditches. No Isabelle. I tried to telephone. No answer. Back in town, I wondered if I'd misunderstood what she'd said, or if she'd mis-stated the road. This was a little worrisome. I telephoned again; this time she answered. I asked again were she was. She seemed to use 'north' and 'east' backwards, but it was at least clear she was about where I'd thought. I did a u-turn and drove back, promising to call again when I got close. When I did, I gave a running description of where I was, but she simply sounded confused about my whereabouts. No Isabelle could be seen.

I passed our watering hill, and descended. I came to the left-hand curve, still talking to her, and saw, down in the grass past the curve, a tiny glint of red. "I see you!" I said. The red turned. I could just see her eyes and nose plus the helmet through the grass. No wonder I missed her the first time!

Now we know why we always take a cell phone on our bike rides.

I parked, opened the trunk, and went into the ditch where she was sprawled under the bike. "I thought you were coming the other way," she said. "Where do you hurt?" I asked.

Her legs and arms looked OK, she was awake. It was now about 12:30. I put the bike in the trunk, and helped her up, using her right arm. She stood very gingerly, and climbed slowly out of the ditch to the car.

Laura called. "Hi Dad, did you get mom?" I said, "I'm trying to get her in the car. Just go to the house. You know how to get in. I'm too busy to talk". She said "OK" and hung up, as that was the quickest way to help mom. She had waited 20 minutes to call you thinking that would be enough time. It would have been if Izzie hadn't been out of sight in the ditch. Laura was calling to make sure someone had made it to mom, and if so, how seriously she was hurt (She's no wimp- Laura knew by her tears something was very wrong).

At the car, I opened the door and she sat gingerly on the seat. I lifted her legs over the sill. She relaxed slightly. "Shall I fasten your seat belt?"

She chuckled. "I guess you'd better."

I drove carefully away. "Let's just go home," she said.

"No."

We drove for a couple of miles. She said, "I guess it's OK to go there."

"Fine."

We drove another mile. She spoke again. "I hope Marek isn't in the ER."

"If he is, I can take handle it."

I pulled into the ambulance garage, ignoring the 'AMBULANCES ONLY' sign, and walked into the ER. Joe was on call. This is good. I got a wheelchair, and we put her in it. I left Izzie with the ER nurse, drove the car straight home to hang her bike up. Then I noticed the right handlebar was terribly bent. I drove straight to the bike shop, and left the bike to be fixed. Then I hurried back to the clinic to see my last morning patient, less than 15 mph over the limit. A city-owned tan SUV suddenly pulled out in front of me. It was hit him or pass him across the double line. I passed him. It was an unmarked police car. I did not have my seat belt fastened, I was going 38 a 25, I had just passed him illegally. I slowed to 30, waited. He had failed to yield the right of way, so I though I might negotiate mutual forgiveness if he stopped me.

He blipped his siren. But no lights were flashing. I went exactly 30 and waited. Nothing. Two blocks before the hospital, I turned left to take the shortcut to the back corner of the lot, He didn't follow. A forgiving man.

I went to see my last morning patient, a 92 year old man with an early boil on his left south pole. It was 12:58. I took him to the on-call surgeon, and went back to the ER.

The first afternoon patient was roomed already. I looked at the schedule with my nurse, and saw that none of the afternoon patients was sick. We decided to cancel them. I saw the one patient and wandered down to the ER. Five broken ribs, left #3 through #7. Some pain was involved. I was sent for prescriptions and dictated my charts. I called Laura and assigned her the duty of meeting Mike and Alec. Then I went back to ER to collect Izzie and take her to meet the North Carolina grandchildren at the airport.

Flightaware.com was saying that Mike and his passengers would be arriving at the airport at 3:07. It was 2:59. Izzie was done, in her opinion, with the ER. The ER nurse was understanding, but did insist on she sign two pieces of paper, and no, we would not be removing the IV at home.

Mike had just pulled up to the gas pumps when we got there. Laura and her kids had been there to meet him. Kim and Laura were talking, their kids swarming around like little bees. The kids were commanded not to hug Gramma, and Izzie sat quietly in the car with the door closed, safe from hug-aggressive grand-chickens. Everyone seemed as happy as possible under the circumstances.

Laura and Kim took care of hospitality, my nurse canceled the rest of my patients, and we all tried to take care of The Lady Isabelle, who is now propped in bed, enduring bravely the exquisite pain, enjoying her grandchildren in a somewhat different way than she'd planned. The can cuddle but not hug...

I could have been worse. God is good.

The Grandchildren Walk the Dog

I suppose it was my daughter's sly sense of humor that led her to name her younger children Aaron and Miriam, but that's not today's subject. Aaron will be 5 in August, Miriam is 2.5, and they came to our house on Friday, for a week, with their big sister Analise, who was 7 in April, and who is slightly burdened by these younger sibs. Especially Aaron, who is fully a boy, and is as intrusive as young boys are at this age, on the cusp between unabated curiousity and self-actualization not yet mitigated by self-consciousness or shame.

Friday afternoon I was telephoned and asked me to walk my friend's white German shepherd Cabal, and it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to take all 3 grands and NOT exhausted Izzie. Izzie protested weakly, but I took all three, in their car seats, on a tour of the south of Menomonie, and then past the strawberry field at Irvington, to see if we could pick this morning. We could, and they had 2 buckets of fresh strawberries still to sell, so I bought one. $15, a bargain.

The chickens snacked on strawberries while we went to the dog. They like dogs, but Miriam was a bit spooked by this dog who is taller at the withers than her shoulders.

My friend's property is adjoined to the Valley of Gilbert Creek, a lovely wooded valley cut into clay bluffs, between which trickles, runs, or tumbles (depending on the wetness of the season (dramatic pause) Gilbert Creek. He has caused long paths to be created and maintained through the valley and along the creek, a lovely place to walk. Along the creek is a suspension footbridge, and near the west end of the paths, a glade with 4 bee hives.

The expeditionary force set off: a 7 year old self-assured girl, her distractable, interruptible small brother, and the geezer in loafers and shorts, carrying a timid little girl in his right arm and holding a purple leash in his left hand, being towed down the steep slippery hill behind the garage by the white German shepherd. We made it. Cabal, by the way, was the name of King Arthur's once and future dog.

The suspension footbridge was discovered and played upon. It's quite fun to jump up and down while crossing it, though for two of them to jump dys-synchronously creates risk for both of them, above the rushing waters. I was stuck on shore, holding the dog's leash in one hand and Miriam upon the other arm, making cautionary bleatings.

Eventually Miriam *had* to cross it by herself. She did allow Analise to guide her, and Aaron thankfully did not jump on it while she crossed (though he more than thought about it).

A board had come loose at the near end of the bridge, which captured the attention of the Young Engineer. He knelt to see if he could repair it's position. He knelt, grabbed one end, and in about three seconds, he suddenly was upended, his legs and feet flashing straight up, his head and shoulders down in the missing board's slot.

Fortunately, the gap was over the steep bank at the near end, so he didn't fall in the water, just tumbled a few inches onto a log. He was pretty startled, but crawled back up onto the bridge with minimal help from his big sister.

We had a long, desultory walk after that. Grampa finally got tired of carrying the Young Lady on one arm or the other, and discovered everyone was happier and more comfortable with her on his shoulders.

The only wrinkle during the rest of the long walk occurred when the Young Engineer, who'd been stoic about his tumble through the bridge, brushed his knee on a nettle, and spent the next five minutes noisily weeping. But 2 hours later, when he told Gramma about the trip, he said that the tumble "hurt really bad" and forgot to mention the nettle. :)

This seems to have started a love affair with the dog for the little-est urchin. "Walk Cabal?" she says every few hours. So Saturday we surprised the friend's teenage daughter and her comrades by showing up at 6. We took a short walk, to the swinging bridge and the bee glade.

Sunday, only the two younger ones wanted to go. Miriam wanted to start the walk on my shoulders, and away we went, down past the barn, through the valley, along the corn field, Cabal towing me hard, because I was lagging so as not to lose sight of Aaron. For all his hyperactivity, he does stop to smell the flowers. We went slowly through the former bee-glade, and down the hill along the rope. Aaron was trailing all the way, and at the bottom I took a risk.

"Aaron. Would you like to hold the leash?"

Yes of course! So I showed him to put the loop around his shoulder and hold the plastic handle with both hands, and bated my breath to see how fast Cabal would tow him, and whether he'd be able to stay afoot.

Amazing! Cabal walked slowly, gently, hardly pulling. They walked together to the southeast end of the universe, and back to the swinging bridge, almost 40 minutes at Aaron's pace. We crossed the bridge, including Miriam ("My own self!!"), who managed to get over and back without falling through or off.

This triumph complete, she decided it was time to hold the leash herself. I confess that I did not trust Cabal to sense what was right for her, and he was acting more frisky now that we were west of the bridge (perhaps there was bear scent earlier, who knows? I am not counting on Cabal to defend me from the bear, based on his kind demeanor).

So... I hooked a finger under Cabal's collar, and we all walked at *Miriam's* pace - extremely slowly - onward to the bee-glade, and past, I was getting a little tired, so I said cheerfully, "Shall we take Cabal to his house?" The little lady said, "No, house!" At about this time, the children discovered, with slight adult help, that if they said "sit" and gently laid a hand on Cabal's haunches, he would sit. They enjoyed this for awhile, and then discovered that they also needed to learn how to get him to un-sit. This was an easy problem to solve.

And so it came to pass that we crept along the alternate path through the woods, past the swinging bridge, to the steep ascend to the house.

We had been walking over an hour now, and I was tired if the kids were not. I suggested taking Cabal to his house. "No, house" said Miriam. So I resorted to deceit. "Shall we climb the hill?"

She smiled and nodded. "Climb hill! Stairs!" she said. And so, she holding the leash, and I with a finger still hooked in Cabal's collar, we climbed the hill and the stairs "my own self", with a little boost from Grampa at the taller steps. She does not object to being helped with difficult things, as long as she's allowed to give an unimpeded try herself.

We took Cabal into the house, and found rice and chicken, though not in tupperware, and fed him. The children patiently squatted by him while he ate, carefully observing and commenting on his progress until he was quite finished.

After that, we played with Cabal for the space of about half an hour, at which point Isabelle telephoned to ask if we were going to come home for supper before bedtime. The little lady said, "No, home!" but was gently overruled, and tried to kiss Cabal goodbye. He didn't quite understand what she wanted, and I didn't know how to guide him to a proper response.

August 5, 2009 - The Other Granchildren Also Walk...

Today I took the day off work and play, and spent it with the North Carolina grandchildren.

First we crossed the big ditch by my house and explored the tall corn, to a child standing as sequoias thick and green, and mysteriously in rows in which you could get lost from sight, but not from turning around and going back.

Then we walked down to the lake and stirred sticks in the soupy algae. This has inordinate fascination for children and ex-children.

Next, we went in the van to Cabal's house and said hello to Mary and her dog, and took Cabal for a walk along The Path of Gilbert Creek Vale. Cabal again kept pace with whomever was holding his lead, slowly and gently when the littlest one was behind (except forgetting himself and running if an older child raced ahead), pulling v-e-r-y hard when this geezer held the lead.

Cabal is the loveliest excuse for a walk! Especially with grandchildren, to whom he's fascinating.

We did not go to The End of the Earth today because Luke, 2 1/2, needed to be carried by his mother much of the time, and this was taxing to her. We did wade in the creek. Getting one's feet wet is obligatory when near clear lively water.

I saved The Swinging Bridge for the last part of the walk, so that the journey toward the End of the Earth would not seem anticlimactic. They delightedly spent a great deal of time on it.

We spent more than an hour and a half, until noon, on the walk, and the children seemed completely content. It was about ten minutes too long, a good thing in that no one complained when we emerged by the garage onto the lawn.

Then we went to Sweetland Farms for milk and cream, and to the Farmers' Market for raspberries and blueberries, and then we all came home for lunch and Grampa had a nap.

Grandma could not attend because of her injuries. She is up and walking today. She really does well with a low continuous narcotic aboard. We have kept a sitter handy at all times to hinder her from lifting and doing other actual work. This has been only partially successful.

What Really Exists?

What fundamental things actually exist? An *ontology* answers this question. It analyzes what kinds of things these are. We can ask why we would pursue this: What difference does it make to discern their characteristics? Every intellectual inquiry -- whether scientific or philosophical -- must presuppose at least implicitly an ontology. This ontology shapes the nature of the understanding achieved by an intellectual inquiry.

Consider the most elemental realities: What exists? Each of us can say, 'myself' and 'my surroundings'.

How do you know that your surroundings are distinct from yourself? Because you must explore, physically and intellectually, and are repeatedly surprised. Even if we invent mentally a complex world, our perceptions of things which are external continually clash with our imagination. This process, which psychiatrists call 'reality testing' because it's the key to sanity, causes us to quickly learn that are surroundings have existence independent of ourselves, in which events occur and objects are discovered that are unexpected from prior experience.

In this exploration, as toddlers we learn in a similar way that other people are distinct from us because they disagree with us and with each other. They do and say things that we have not anticipated: surprise is convincing evidence that their existence is independent.

As we explore our surroundings, we discover 3 types of objects: non-living (non-reproducing) things, living things ("plants" and "animals"), and products. Products are evidence of cognitive activity, and include such categories as tools, useful objects, decorative objects, and products of abstract expression - music, art, and literature.

Importantly, there are many kinds of non-perceived objects, whose existence is implied from their effects.

We gradually learn that our surroundings have verifiable existence independent of ourselves and are complex, and most objects are evidently transient. This existence, and transience requires a question: what are their origins? We discover that our surroundings existed before us, and realize that we had an individual beginning, implying the parallel question: What are *my* origins?

This implies that all things that exist -- which we call the cosmos -- have at some time, in some way, have come into being, and we ask, What began the beginning? Was the cosmos self-starting, or was it started by an external influence?

Let us call this first cause the originator, as if it were an entity. Yet, we fail to encounter this entity as we explore our surroundings. Hence this originator must belong to the class of non-perceived objects.

We must then ask, What effects exist might imply or reveal the existence or nature of the originator, especially including whether it is distinct from all things?

There are two classes of effects: one class is the cosmos itself, which includes human beings. It is reasonable to ask whether humans' unique ability for abstract expression, essential need for social connection and interaction, and universal moral sensibility, might not imply that the originator is an entity characterized by abstract expression, social need, and moral sensibility.

The other class of effects is in product objects, the most important of which, for the Christian, is Scripture - for it explicitly proclaims the existence of God, as a social triad of spiritual individuals that is characterized by abstract expression (logos) and moral accountability (both from and toward humans). We must either reject this claim or explore its validity and implications.

Scripture clearly and explicitly identifies God as the originator, and is the basis for belief that the originator is the God of the Christian scriptures. Our project is to understand how this reality blends with scientific descriptions, observations, and syntheses of the cosmos (including humans) that is external to scripture.

Thus, the persistent background issue for Christian theorists is this:
What might a Biblically-informed ontology usefully contain, undergirding the study of physical science; of mathematics; of consciousness?

In other words, what might be a possible, integrating connection between the Biblical doctrines of Christology and Creation, and the concepts and presuppositions of (1) physical science...

From here, read Dr. Schultz's book.
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/what-really-exists-a-dynamic-christian-ontology/7256528

The Joys of the Subway

The subway is what makes Manhattan fun and functional. Trains run frequently during the day and they run fast. One hears about stoppages as one hears of other rare natural disasters like earthquakes and tornadoes. There's the 7-day unlimited pass for $25 that is a tremendous bargain, while taxi rides are each $5-10 around town.

The routes do take some getting used to. To correlate the subway map and the surface street map, and the 'house' numbers, requires two maps and some asking for help. The stations are 2 blocks long, minimum, and where routes cross, the stations are connected in ways that are topologically interesting and not always predictable. Signage is designed for the cognoscenti. One quickly learns that "uptown" means more or less north, or away from Wall Street, and "downtown" is of course toward the southern tip of Manhattan. It is possible to get slightly lost in these stations. Asking for directions is usually but not always helpful.

Google is useful, but so are the people on the street. Someone wearing work clothes and toting a work-related container generally knows the neighborhood.

So we take a subway map and a street map, and consult them often. It makes transfers easy, and makes the travel efficient. It's great fun to figure out efficient connections. Still, there are moments.

Such as when we are standing in the Times Square station at 11 pm waiting for a B train that will take us straight home. There's a sign saying "no B trains 12:30-5:30 am." We wait. At 11:25 it dawns on us that the times on the sign are approximate; maybe the last B train has to be in the barn way out in Queens by 12:30, and it's already gone past. So we trudge over to the other side of the station and take a 1 train, which comes in 4 minutes, as usual. In 6 more minutes we're walking along the sidewalks toward home.

Or when we are descending into a new station. The signage is slightly unclear here, and we are heading for the E train. I say to a man, "Is this the way to the uptown train?" "Yes," he says, "down these stairs and to the left." We stand peacefully on the platform; an E arrives, we get on it. But the station names don't fit the sequence on the map.

I inspect the map. We took a downtown train, and are 3 stations into Brooklyn. But the solution is simple. We leave the train at that stop, cross the platform, and take the next E in the 'tother direction. We lose ten minutes and have no appointments to keep, except with our stomachs in a nice inexpensive restaurant.

Another day, we are hurrying to get to the Cloisters, so we walk up to the express stop at 96th to take the train to 168th, another express stop, where we can transfer to the A, up to 190th. At the 96th St. station, we arrive at precisely the right moment. On our left, there's an express train, on the right a local. I jump on the express, gloating a bit at our good fortune. Izzie tags along. The doors close, both trains accelerate.

I look up at the lighted route board above the windows. Oops. This express route turns east into Queens. It's a long five minutes to the next stop, Central Park North. We cross the platform there and catch the next train back to 96th, where we wait for another 1 train. I am feeling more constricted on time and less in a hurry, if you get my drift.

But when it works well, it really works. We're on the upper West Side at the Guggenheim, and want to go to Chinatown. The express 4 at 86th takes us down to Canal Street in about 12 minutes. When done there, we walk over the Ground Zero, then take the E to West Greenwich Village for lunch, then take the local C back home. Fast, efficient, no traffic jams, short waits for trains. It's a weekday in NYC.

On the other hand, if you want to go across town, the taxi is much faster and always less that $10. Unless it's raining. Then they're all full.

The Cabaret Geezerette Sings

We attended, somewhat expensively, Barbara Cook's gig 5/30 with the New York Philharmonic.

Pre-concert, we got some extra entertainment up in the peanut gallery. At 8:05, one minute before the conductor came on stage, a man came down the aisle, scrutinizing his ticket, then glancing at the rows (there are 5 in the top level). He said to the folks just ahead of us, "Where's my seat? There's no one back here to help." They replied, "We're in D."

He stepped down a row. There were 2 women on the aisle, then an empty seat. He looked again at his ticket. "You're in my seat," he said. "Now move!" The women looked at each other.

The usher stepped down. The man said, "These women are in my seat, and they won't move!" The usher checked his stub, asked the women quietly for theirs. They shifted over, the man sat down. The usher turned and climbed the stairs. "Jesus!" he said.

A woman just ahead of us, just behind the women who had moved, convulsed giggling. I said to her, "Feel like you got your money's worth?" She nodded vigorously.

As a lapsed trombonist, it did my heart good to hear the orchestra bang out '76 Trombones' before Ms. Cook came on stage. Though the trombone is a much-loved and longed-for solo instrument, it has been mysteriously neglected by symphonic composers in favor of the horn and strings. But tonight the section declared itself, however briefly.

Ms. Cook is 80. Her vocal cords are 80. This was strikingly evident in her opening song, the title of which I have suppressed. Her voice was thin, her intonation approximate -- though she showed remarkably good judgment on whether to slide it back to pitch when she missed. She tended to be about an eighth of a step flat when going toward the top of her range.

She sang for 1 hour 20 minutes, remarkable stamina for a Rubinesque old blonde. She is a great musician, voice or no voice. This reminds me of hearing Louie Armstrong sing in the 1950's, when I was in grade school. I then had the strong bias that singing should be beautiful. Then I heard Armstrong. I was at first shocked that they let him sing, yet this cracked open my narrow brain, to ever after look for things other than sweetness in music, an important step in my education.

At the end of the concert, her voice seemed that of a different person. It had timbre, resonance, and pitch. As encore, she sang 'What a Wonderful World' with no microphone. She didn't fill the hall, but even we in the peanut gallery could hear her, and her voice was free of the subtle distortions of amplified sound.

A great concert by a great old musician.

Human Trafficking at the Ballet

We saw the ballet, Le Corsaire, at the Metropolitan Opera 5/30; a lovely, lively production. The dancers are amazingly athletic. The choreography is not as spartan as the New York City Ballet's Balanchine style; there's a lot more acting, for example. But as always, the dancers are basically performing beautiful and graceful movements that are actually impossible for ordinary human beings, especially those of us twice thirty. It's a wonderful production.

The plot is vaguely based on Lord Byron's poem, The Corsair. ...The plot is much different, actually. Let's entertain ourselves by reviewing the plot from the radical feminist POV...

The ballet opens with a slave market. Two groups of women are bound and guarded, to be sold. To whom? The corsairs are on the left, the Pasha is on the right, the women are dancing. The slave trader, Lankendem, is dancing, too. The Pasha is wearing a fat suit and waddles (as much as a dancer can waddle). What are we celebrating in music and dance? Women cursed with beauty.

What is her choice? On the left, the criminals, the pirates, the corsairs. What mercies can a beautiful woman expect from them? What will life be like for her if she becomes the pirate's slave? Perhaps it will be very much like being his wife, which is not to say it will be better for her than the plain girl nearby who wasn't taken to be sold, who at least might be chosen by a man for who she is instead of what she looks like, who might be able to yet live among family and friends, to toil in the fields and haul water and chop limbs and tend fires and work at the hard labor of childbirth and nurturance. (Oh, wait! They're pirates! It would be against their principles to actually buy them outright! It will be so much more satisfying to steal them.)

On the right, the Pasha. With his wealth, he may choose whom he may among them. If he is not a cruel man, life among the harem might actually be tolerable. Financial security, the comforts of home, the companionship of women in the same boat. If there are enough of them, perhaps the sexual servitude won't be too frequent. And this Pasha looks old and fat and clumsy – perhaps he's only able to keep women for show, keep them selfishly away from other men simply to flex his power. Life could be worse, for example with the corsairs. On the other hand, he may be for all she knows a cruel tyrant, willing to make her suffer or even kill her if his whims find her displeasing for any cryptic reason. Life could be better, for example with the corsairs. Sigh.

Might she have been to have been born ugly, to have no man, to work as a nurse or maid or weaver among her own kin, unburdened by a despot? Life could be worse. Do not envy mindlessly those who seem more blessed. What a curse beauty is for a woman, who by this becomes an object to be admired; to be captured and bought and owned, a man's property but not his friend. A trophy.

One of the captives, the beautiful Medora, while being paraded by the slave vendor Lankendem, spots a handsome man and throws him a flower. The dramatic devices imply that this is love, a tragedy if not requited, that purchase by the Pasha means despair. But she doesn't know who he is. This impulsive toss of a flower tips the first domino of a long, winding row. We make so many small or impulsive choices in life that have unforeseeable consequences, that much later simply multiply regret. A beautiful woman who throws a flower and a smile to a handsome stranger may end up living with a sociopath or a narcissist – a man would be a poor pirate captain if he's not both.

The pirate captain is Conrad. His slave Ali and friend Birbanto see the situation and maneuver to help him. We will see later in the ballet that Birbanto is borderline (characterized by unstable personal relationships, unstable self-image, and inappropriate behaviors). Not the best person for Medora to share her fate with.

Three women dance and are rejected by the Pasha. Another dances, Gulnare, and pleases him, and is purchased. Then Medora dances, and the Pasha is smitten as badly as Conrad. After all, she's got form and substance, and moves well. He gives Lankendem two bags of gold, and everyone dances happily. Wait! Nobody asked Medora how she felt about this! As she dances, she casts yearning glances at Conrad. No man with normal testosterone levels, especially one who feels powerful, can resist the invitation of the yearning glance. Yet while the opinions of women do matter, (hypothetically) men in general -- tyrants and pirates in particular -- cannot imagine that a woman might prefer someone else.

After this, the ballet zips gracefully along the human-trafficking path. Conrad has very logically decided that if a beautiful woman has thrown him a flower, then he should kill a few guards and steal her. He is following the logic of the yearning glance and the tradition of rapine which feels so proper and normal to him. The dancing suggests that Medora agrees he should. How can the audience empathize with the obese, awkward, greedy pasha. Instead, we empathize with the slender, graceful, handsome, randy corsair. We miss the thought that Medora has taken leave of her senses. The pirates kidnap her and the slave seller, Lankendem, closing Act I with a change of ownership for Medora and the reject clutch of slave women. We assume she's happy.

Act II pretty much shows men at our most macho. Back at the pirates' cave, a dance shows that Medora is infatuated with the pirate captain, Conrad, and he with her. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone? But it's a ballet: we simply continue to dance with precision, athleticism, and grace. It's really a wonderful show.

Did I mention why you haven't heard of the composer of this 19th-century ballet? It's because it was composed by committee – five composers plus re-orchestration. One of the finer committee efforts, actually, in the history of committees.

Back to human trafficking and the attitude of men toward women. Medora notices that Conrad is all google-eyed, and gets him to release all the captured slave women. This does not please the pirates, who were rather hoping for a little pussy on their own. They are not happy with their addled captain. But the girls have all run away, so they have to be satisfied with expressing their frustration by having a mutiny.

(We point out at this juncture that no one has asked whether it seems good to the girls to be doled out to the pirates, nor have we considered whether it's actually a favor to simply turn loose the poor girls, with neither a voc rehab program or a letter of safe passage.) What was Conrad thinking? (Wait, he's a man, with scrotal logic.)

Conrad's friend Birbanto, who seems to have a hard on for the pasha's “liberated” slaves (especially Gulnare, who has not yet been stolen), is very, very, disappointed in Conrad. Remember, Birbanto seems to be borderline as well as sociopathic. (The thought of “liberation” might have escaped the minds of these half-dozen young beautiful women who have been stolen from imprisonment in a harem into being roped together in a cave with lascivious, horny pirates.)

Conrad single-handedly defeats the mutiny. This seems to impress Medora, who is already pretty smitten.

Birbanto is so disappointed that he decides it would be best to kill Conrad. Remember, he's a sociopath, and the ballet is already past half way. If he doesn't stir his butt, the ballet's time slot will run down and he'll still be in his dressing room. He heads for Conrad, who's asleep, with a knife, but he's headed off by Ali, Conrad's faithful slave. (This is one of many reasons why it pays dividends to be good to your slave, the other being a willingness to help when help is actually needed.) Birbanto doses a flower with an powerful inhalation anesthetic, and forces the captive slaver Lankendem to give it to Medora to pass to Conrad. Despite poor handling of the flower, only Conrad is made comatose.

Lankendem grabs Medora, who's stolen for the third time (not that women mind being stolen, it seems), and heads back for the Pasha, where he demands a reward.

So now we are about through with the middle act. The slave women have been "freed" to run around helplessly in a strange land, the pirates have mutinied on account of acute prostatic congestion, the pirate's friend has betrayed him (oh, right. Sorry. These are pirates), and the pasha is not feeling happy about his personal situation.

Act III begins with the Pasha at home, receiving back the miserable Medora. His reaction to seeing Medora is to swoon, which helps us understand the lack of children around the palace. While he's post-ictal, the harem, 18 beautiful women, dance gracefully and with great precision and athleticism for a very long time. It's not so bad, apparently, to be a sex slave for a man who goes to sleep at the mere thought. Life could be worse, for example living with the pirate criminals, making meals of stolen stale food over a fire of dried camel dung on the dirt floor of a dank cave. (Or back home in the fields. Being captured and sold has to be compared with the alternatives, doesn't it?)

The kind, caring, altruistic pirates seem to have reconciled with their addled, aggressive captain, still bent on ownership of women, disguise themselves as hooded monks and visit the Pasha. They fool everyone except Medora, who for unimaginable reasons seems happy to see Conrad. There's no explaining hormones. Or impulse disorder, for that matter.

The pirates doff their gowns and attack the Pasha's soldiers and re-capture the harem, who may be getting a bit worn out by this game, but dance well anyway. Conrad recaptures Medora (who's willing) and Birbanto captures Gulnare (who is understandably reluctant – living with a borderline is not a nice experience). While Birbanto chases Gulnare (very gracefully, with great athleticism and careful rhythm – this is a ballet), Medora whispers his betrayal to Conrad, who (he's a sociopath, remember; simply shoots Birbanto dead). Conrad and his men go back to the ship with the women. It is unclear why Gulnare is willing to trek off into the pirate's world, though she is a friend with Medora. She dances quite cheerfully, another example of an impulse decision that turns out badly in hindsight.

A storm strikes and sinks the ship. All the pirates and trafficked women presumably drown, including the unfortunate Gulnare, for the ballet ends with no more dancing. As the curtain falls, Conrad and Medora lie high and damp on a seaside rock.<

We are waiting for the sequel.

Perhaps Conrad decides to give up pirating, having lost his ship and crew and his cargo, and he and Medora become sheep farmers. I wish I could say they live happily ever after, but the truth is that a narcissistic sociopath male and a woman with impulse control disorder now have to get along cooperatively. This does not turn out well in real life, possibly a reason the plot was not developed further. A good thing, as it's not a pretty sight. Though they stayed on this island, and herded sheep and raised vegetables and had children, they did not live happily ever after. No, when a woman partners up with a sociopathic, narcissistic man, life will never be good. And when a man partners up with an impulsive woman with poor judgment, life will always be tiresome.

The Pasha? His whose harem pretty much defunct, we presume he had an acute myocardial infarction and his little kingdom to a nephew.

Poor navigation to the Cloisters

We decided Saturday morning that we should visit the medieval-art museum of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Cloisters is atop a picturesque hill at the north tip of Manhattan, purpose-built for the architectural treasures it contains.

But we were somewhat delayed... After breakfast we descended into the 96th street subway station, and had the blessing of 2 trains stopping simultaneously, the express #2 on the left and the local #1 on the right. I said, "Hey, let's take the express to 168th!"

We hopped on. The doors always close within 20 seconds or so, and both trains glided noisily north. I glanced at the route board above the window. What a nice thing this is: it shows all the stops on the line; scheduled stops are lit, past and non-stops are unlit. The first thing I noticed was that 168th street was not on the board. Duh. Wrong train. So we got off at 110th street after the train turned east, and went back to 96th and took the #1 as we should have. Isabelle was polite...

The travel advice was to take #1 to 168th street and there to transfer to the A train, which crosses over the #1, take the A train to Fort George Park, then walk 10 minutes to The Cloisters. I was sorely tempted to simply take the #1 up to Dyckman Street, slightly north of The Cloisters, and obviously closer than walking through the park.

But having made one seriously wrong decision already, I decided to take the road more traveled by, and that made all the difference: we actually got to the Cloisters, and found the walk through the park atop the Hudson River bluffs to be spectacularly beautiful. While we bought tickets at the museum, I asked the clerk if it wouldn't be faster simply to take the #1 from Dyckman Street, with no transfers, when we were done. He strongly opposed this, saying blandly, "It's a long walk on a winding path down the hill, and it's several blocks on streets at the bottom -- not very interesting." One presumes that there's a sinister subtext to "not very interesting" such as "your age and clothing and lack of skin pigmentation are not appropriate for the neighborhood."

It was a beautiful walk back through the park to the subway. We were going to Lincoln Cneter, but decided not to transfer at 168th street to the #1, so we took the A train to Columbus Circle and walked 4 blocks back. A good decision: a nice day for a walk, and we arrived at Columbus Circle, 130 blocks south, 45 minutes after thinking about leaving the Cloisters and 29 minutes after stepping into the elevator for the #1 train.

Oh, yes. The Cloisters. Go if you can. It's a marvelous place in and of itself: For tGeorge Park and the Hudson River Valley and then the architectural details and the statuary and ancient stained glass windows and the paintings and carvings and tapestries and ancient goblets.

Joe Turner's Come and Gone

The Belasco Theatre has been showing August Wilson's play for some years; Mr. Wilson died in 2003, I believe, and I hear his estate reluctantly permitted a white man to continue as director after his death, against his explicit desires. But the show was successful as it was, and royalty income is hard to pass by....

This play concerns the aftermath, fifty years on, of slavery and liberation. It essentially shows that injustice and oppression cause persistent emotional damage of a nature that hinders its recipients from having effective, comfortable interpersonal relationships.

The specific injustices shown in this play are the continuing unfairnesses that accompany racism and the consequence to one couple and their daughter of the father having been impressed into forced labor for seven years.

It would be a misconception to think that these consequences are purely limited to racism...

H & H Bagels Closure

More than fifteen years ago I jogged down from 90th and Central Park West to 80th and Broadway and bought a dozen hot fresh bagels from H & H Bagels, then took a taxi to La Guardia. There was still some warmth in the bag when I landed in Minneapolis, and Isabelle seemed grateful for the gift when I got home an hour and a half later.

Friday, we decided to walk down there instead of going to Tal Bagels to break our fast. I delayed us with some writing and then some research on what to do that night, so we didn't get there until nearly 11 am.

As we hurried up to the door, I noticed three men, two in uniform, standing in the vestibule. The one not in uniform was working on replacing the lock. Inside was vacant except three stocky young men at the counter staring disconsolately at the floor behind the glass cases of bagels.

There was a square red notice pasted to the inside of the glass door: "This property seized for non-payment of taxes."

A small collection of salmon stopped swimming upstream: the dam was too high to jump. "What?!?" said a woman. "Closed?!"

We caught a taxi and went across to the Upper East Side to the Neue Gallery, an Austrian/German art museum that has a wonderful Austrian restaurant and had foreign food.

That H & H store was apparently closed for only 3 hours, but the news articles hint that not all is well. The economic downturn began in 2007, and that's apparently when the company began to have trouble paying its taxes. Bankruptcy is next, one fears.

Coraline musical

We saw Coraline off-Broadway at the Lucille Lortel Theatre in Greenwich Village this evening.

It's been fascinating to see this little story in different clothing. First the early drafts, then the finished novel, then the stop-action animated 3-D movie this winter, and now the play.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coraline
http://www.playbill.com/news/article/129569-Coraline_Extends_Engagement_at_Off-Broadway%27s_Lucille_Lortel_Theatre

I had imagined the story as being not difficult to make into a movie, and very challenging to make into a play.

This musical is delightfully unorthodox, and the delightfully strange casting seems to have been aimed partly at putting excellent, versatile actors in the parts, happily without any regard whatever to type-casting for age, sex, or race. This musical is the telling of a story by a young girl, enhanced continually by skits and songs and inventive musical and stage business.

We had a plump geezerette playing a young girl -- and a very good job she did, too, with voice and mannerisms -- and the gross mismatch of age and form seems to release the imagination, so that what goes on in one's head is greater than the wonderfulness of the acting, music, and staging.

We had the male playwright as the "other mother" and several bit parts. A middle-aged man playing a woman, especially as the alter ego of a young woman who is also on stage is pleasantly jarring, and frees one to attend to the story, makes the staging more in the ancient traditions of drama, and frees us from being towed along with rings in our noses as happens when realism is used.

We had a man playing an eccentric east European man and a tall girl; another man playing a female actress, a winged girl, Coraline's true father, and bit parts.

The only actor who played only a single role was the protagonist, and she was on stage continuously.

The scenery was essentially built of pianos small and large, real and toy, at least 4 of which were actually playable, plus several keyboards and the skeleton of a grand. 2 pianos were the orchestra, played by a skilled young woman, who not only played in the standard way, but plucked strings, rubbed a bar over the string, drew a cord across the strings, and in general was as versatile and entertaining as the drama.

Speaking of which, there was a lot of subtle humor...

And the music itself was as strange as the staging.

All in all, a wonderful evening. Mr. Gaiman was there, and had not told the cast he would be. They were surprised and thrilled to see him after the performance. He said it was even better than he expected.

The George Balanchine Living Museum

Saw the NYC Ballet this evening at Lincoln Center. It was most interesting to discover that this company seems in large part to be devoted to maintaining the legacy of George Ballanchine.

The first long piece was a one-act version of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. It was lovely, and the dance was classical in every nuance. Tremendously simple and clear and smooth. It must take tremendous strength and stamina and precision to dance so simply.

The second long piece was a setting of Prokofiev's Violin Concerto #1 in D, Arturo Delmoni soloing. It's a lovely violin piece, titled The Dreamer. This also was a museum piece, using choreography by Jerome Robbins. He also used a spare, elemental style but one dramatically different from Balanchine. Brilliant and satisfying music and dance.

The last long piece was a collection of classic Vienna Waltzes choreographed by Balanchine. It's an amazing thing to see ballet dancers doing the waltz, and deviating creatively from its standard movements and gestures. The intermission speaker said that Ballanchine was derogated for bringing the waltz to dancers; he argued that it would help them be graceful and smooth. The choreography proved Ballanchine correct.

The whole evening was a lesson in classical ballet tradition, a very instructive one.

The Lincoln-Douglas Debates

Saw 'The Rivalry' at the Irish Repertory Theatre this afternoon. It is a short (2-act) dramatization of the Lincoln-Douglas debates in August-October, 1858. The whole play lasted just less than 2 hours including the intermission; the debates lasted 3 hours: the first man spoke for an hour, the second man spoke for 90 minutes, then the first man spoke for 30 minutes. The whole country has developed a severe attention deficit disorder since then.

The Republican party was newly formed, and the men were running for senator from Illinois. The contest was for control of the legislature, which elected the senator. There were seven debates, on slavery. In the end, the Democrats retained control of the legislature, and Douglas was re-elected to the senate.

This was apparently the first political campaign with national press coverage, the first that had a press entourage. It would seem that 2 technologically revolutionary things permitted this: the railroad and the telegraph. I imagine that these technologies fired imagination as much as the PC and Internet have.

The debates were recorded stenographically by reporters, and sent around the country, and later edicted into a book by Lincoln. This publicity led to these two men running for president two years later. Lincoln won because the Democratic party split in the South.

The play's value was in giving a feeling for personal sensibilities of the times. I think it downplayed the clear sense that both men had for the inferiority of the negro. The debates were especially interesting in reviving the 'states-rights' argument. I can recall this still being an important issue politically in the early 1960's, but not since then. The Federalists have finally won the day.

My dad, descendant of slave-holding plantation owners, often said when I was a child that the Civil War was about states' rights. Formally, this is correct. The Southern states held that this is a Republic of independent states; the Northern states held that this is a Union in which states' rights are subordinate to the principle of union. But I realized when reviewing the debates, inspired by this play, that in fact the casus belli was slavery. This was the reason that the nation tuned in to the Lincoln-Douglas debates so attentively; the willingness of these two men to take the opposite positions in the debate made each a spokesman and led to them later running for president against each other.

The country was clearly preoccupied with the question of slavery. It seems that the argument was clear: inferior men could be enslaved; or no man should be enslaved even though inferior. (The inferiority of the non-European races was assumed.)

Before we sneer too quickly about racial inferiority, we should understand that scientific evidence for the equivalence of the races has actually been hard to come by. For one thing, our own culture seems superior to all others, no matter what is our culture. It's normal human egocentrism. For another, the culture and arts of Europe have since the enlightenment been superior to all others in some sense.

The logic is that this superior scientific (technological and academic) and artistic culture could not have developed unless the people had the ability, corporately and individually, to develop and sustain it. The illogic is the implicit claim that since other races did not develop the same culture independently and simultaneously, that they are of lower native ability. This claim was thoroughly explored after the development of psychological testing, and because it is impossible to test ability without using the intellectual tools of the culture, it's extremely difficult actually to answer the question. It has been much more useful to presume that all humans are, on the average, of the same ability, and to explore the nuances.

In any case, there may very well be genetic (racial) difference in brain function as there are in skin color, body habitus, and coordination. But this does not imply moral or political exploitation or unfairness is right. And so the Civil War was fought justly against human oppression.

In our Civil War, millions of white men died to make black men free. Men who thought themselves essentially superior nevertheless died to give their inferiors political and personal liberty. This altruistic sacrifice is not mentioned; it has been overwhelmed by the horrors of post-bellum racism.

And it is true that the negro and the Indian *were* inferior (functionally): they had not the tradition of education or experience or culture that automatically imbued whites of lesser native ability with superior skills. It has taken decades of scientific research to establish clearly this truth.

The war did settle the states' rights question regarding secession at least. The Federalists, in this regard, won a final victory. When one thinks about it, Federalism is inevitable in the long run, if the union be not dissolved: Federalism is augmented each time a national law is passed, or a nationally -funded project is undertaken. More importantly, states-rights is inherently divisive, as having 50 idiosyncratic positions on any issue ineluctably fosters division.

The play showed clearly that both men had benign intent and strong convictions and differing presuppositions and priorities. Both wanted the union preserved; Douglas intended to do it through accommodation; Lincoln wanted it, but was not willing to permit extension of slavery, which seemed to him unjust.

Lincoln was elected president against Douglas; after the election Douglas toured the South trying to persuade against secession. We know he failed. He died at age 48 in 1861. Lincoln outlived him by only 4 years, and died at 56.

Grandchildren are more interesting than computers

Around about 1980, a new doc came to town, and said, "Dan, you've *got* to buy an Apple computer!" College Fortran programming and punch cards were still a vivid recollection, I was overwhelmed with kids and doctoring, and said, "No!" Then the word processing program arrived, and I've been bearing the computer burden for lo these 28 years. They are very, very useful tools, but are sometimes as demanding, cryptic, and wayward as any 2 year old child -- and not nearly as much fun. I write much better than I golf...

This weekend Jeremiah and Laura embarked on a one-week anniversary trip before he goes off for a couple of months to Arizona and Bulgaria for his summer law-school internship (if that's the right word for a hegira like this), and both sets of grandparents were roped and hog-tied. Her folks had the light duty: Sunday morning through Monday PM, his folks drove from KS during this time, and are on duty for the week while her folks go off to Manhattan to attend Public Entertainment.

We had a St. Paul Chamber Orchestra concert scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Grampa was nominated to take one child instead of Gramma. So Grampa tightened his suspenders, hitched up his coveralls, and changed 2 adult tickets in the peanut gallery for 1 adult and 2 children in the middle of the main floor. It seemed right to take Aaron. This 4.7 year old does have pitch, and scrapes recognizable tunes on his quarter-scale violin, and began singing long before he could talk. I remember a 20-minute walk to the deli in Oxford when he was about 18 months old, and he sang all the way down and all the way back. In April, we took Analise to the opera (Pinocchio), and he wept piteously until I said, "Aaron, Grampa has an opera at home, and you can watch it on TV when you come." Two or three weeks later, I put on Thais, and he sat in the chair. After about 10 minutes, his big sister said, "This is bore-ing," and decamped for the outdoors. Aaron watch 2.5 acts with rapt attention except for 2 bathroom breaks. This is something that it would be cruel not to nurture.

I picked up the 4.7 year old and the 7.1 year old and headed off to lunch with Maia (11) and Jenny (adult, a musician). Maia quickly joined the caravan, as she and Mom had tickets for the same concert. Mom drove alone. Grampa now had 3.

Fortunately, we had the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th seats from the aisle, and the 1st seemed not to have been sold, so all 3 kids sat with Grampa. There was a great deal of bouncing around by Aaron (4.7) - the man next to him said, after about 5 minutes, "He's really enjoying that seat!" But I told them they must be still and quiet when the music started. And they were. Furthermore, their hearing aids did not squeal, their cell phones did not ring, they did not cough or sneeze during quiet passages, they didn't whisper about the dramatic stuff, and when Aaron fell asleep during the adagio of the first piece, Brahms's Sextet #2 in G for strings, he neither stirred nor snored.

The Brahms is 41 minutes, and this was followed by the 25-minute Schumann Cello Concerto in a. Afterward they all said they enjoyed it, and they all paid attention. After intermission, there was only one piece, the 27-minute Mendelssohn Symphony #4 in A (Italian), a perky, fast piece for the most part. Aaron spent part of that piece on my lap, and just as I was truly wondering where his attention was, he perked up and started bowing (in mime). I guess his Suzuki is sinking in. He did this again during the last movement, a presto that was very perky.

Maia was wearing a long skirt, and she showed Analise that if you push your knees away from each other, the skirt turns into sort of a trampoline, and you can take turns bouncing your hand off the fabric. A nice, quiet way to burn energy during the long slow passages.

After the concert, we waited for Jenny's sister Elsa, a violinist, who said that the orchestra had noticed the little kids in the audience and how good they were, and hoped they'd be back again. This made Analise feel grown up. A good thing.

During the drive back to Hudson, there was a sign over the roadway, "Thank you for buckling up." Analise said, "That's stupid. Why do they thank people for what they have to do?" I was glad for this, as this is a problem my family has had for generations (I think). I said, "Analise, do you feel good when someone says 'thank you' when you've done something you have to?" A pause. Then, "Yes." May it sink in.

Gramma, meanwhile, took the 2.4 year old Miriam to Como Zoo. She is an observer, sitting in her stroller and gazing. Once they came to a goldfish pond, where Miriam meditated upon the goldfish for fifteen minutes. Every five minutes or so, Gramma would say, "Are you ready to go?" and Miriam simply said "no." Finally Miriam said, "All done," arose, and turned away. Powers of concentration that would shame some adults.

Afterward, Izzie took Miriam shopping for new shoes. This did not take a long time. She knew exactly what she wanted; fortunately, she was willing to believe Gramma on which ones were the wrong size. I heard about this from Miriam, while I was clipping her into her infant seat. She put her right index finger on a small pink sandal and said, "New."

We didn't get home with all the kit and kaboodle until 7 pm, about bedtime, so Grampa made the ridiculous suggestion that we eat at Culvers to save time. We struggled out of there after 8, due to the fact that the grandchildren do enjoy their food sedately. Research has shown that sedate eaters are not obese. Six out of six grandkids are sedate eaters. May their kind proliferate. (But not before college!)

Today Gramma spent most of the morning in the flower garden; the 3 grands were allowed to plant flowers. Let me say that anything worth doing goes 3x as slowly with kids, and with half the quality - but if they're really allowed to do some of the work themselves, they're about six inches taller when it's done.

About 11, Grampa saw Analise sampling the rhubarb, and got the bright idea they might make a rhubarb custard pie. (Think key lime pie with rhubarb juice.) So...Analise harvested the rhubarb, chopped the stems with a big knife, ran the blender, with some assistance to make the rhubarb feed into the blades, pressed out the juice, and ran the mixer.

She wanted to crack the eggs and separate the yolks, but we discovered that if the yolk must survive the experience intact and the whites remain uncontaminated, and the whole bit is to stay off the floor, then this should not be your *first* egg-cracking experience. Then the whites don't whip up, especially if you jump the gun a little on adding sugar, and Grampa had to go the store for more eggs. A good thing, in this case, because it gave time for the custard to cool and set up before we laid on the meringue (yes, I know custard pies don't traditionally have a meringue, but we had these egg whites and yearned for meringue.

The pie was OK. Helping made Analise feel grown up, which is more than OK.

She said, after the gardening and before the pie, "Grampa, I wish I could live here all the time. You and Gramma do so many things. We don't do anything at home." I'm pretty sure "not anything" means "nothing new", and might include work.

Miriam is a two year old, and is quite sentient. She is allergic to eggs. I cooked up the first, failed, meringue as an experiment (it turned out like flat, flexible meringue), I handed her a bit and said, "Here, taste this and tell Analise and Aaron if it's good enough to eat." She bit off a tiny sliver, and said, "It's good." I walked away stupidly, and she said, "Egg. No." And she handed me the piece. A child shall lead them...

She is very quiet, but very clear. "Lap." means what you think it does. It's not quite a command, but what Grampa would fail to respond? Then, of course, there's "Up." "Down." "Help." and, most important, "Do my own self!." She's willing to have help with only the motions or difficulties she can't do herself, and no more. For example, I can put her shoes through the leg-holes of her diaper-panties, but she will hike them up herself. Or I can unclip the belts in her infant seat, but I'm not to slip the clips free or move them away from her arms.

A few hundred feet from her home, there's a small escarpment of earth about 20 feet tall that has been faced with 2 and 3-foot boulders. Analise and Aaron had already taken Grampa Harrelson there, and I didn't know where they'd gone. Miriam took me by the hand, and led me all the way. She obviously was going someplace definite, a place she knew about. When we got there, she said, "Carry down."

Um. Urk. OK, I carried her in my arms as I climbed down this small, 50-degree headwall.

At the bottom was her neighbor Lila, who looked the same age. They plopped down on the grass, 2 small blonde ladies in pink dresses, their soles touching -- and compared shoes! Women! Lila's dad Matt explained that Lila had picked out new shoes yesterday - tried out every one in the store, he said, took an hour, then picked the purple ones. Women! It can't be nurture, it must be nature.

Then, the conversation over, she came to me and said, "Climb stairs."

Um. Urk. OK, I carried her in my arms back up the boulders.

She stood at the top for a minute, then turned to the boulders, held her hands up, and said, "Jump." I detected, I thought, a hint of a Daddy-ish activity. Um. Urk. OK, I grabbed her little hands with my fingers, and swooped her up in the air, stepped off the cliff, and set her down one bolder. "Again." And so we worked our way back down the headwall, one bolder at a time. This is possibly not something a responsible older man should do, but I was careful with my own balance, and the daily half-hour bike rides paid off in leg strength."

At the bottom, she turned around, still holding my hands, and said, "Climb." Aha! Urk. Um... She walked up the boulders holding onto my hands, leaning back toward me for convenience. Now it's clear that Daddy has spent quite a bit of time out here. And I was getting used to the wall.

Meanwhile, Aaron and Analise were playing hide and seek amongst the boulders. It turns out that if you are very small, you can wiggle a little and fit down inside the fissures between the rocks. It is slightly alarming to the grandfathers to watch the disappearance, but they were obviously practiced.

And in the end, we went off the everyone's favorite German restaurant and dined, and then we all wandered off to our respective beds.

Nonsense language and the Republicans

I remember a clinic staff meeting 20 years ago, during which a friendly fluent blowhard, Dr. Bob, expounded for a couple of minutes on an issue controversial to us. When he finished, there was a half-minute's complete silence. Then Dr. Tom, a quiet man and one of the world's truly bright people said, "Bob. What you just said makes no sense," and chuckled benignly.

I remember that incident when I hear certain Republicans speak. GW, the former Mayor of Wasilla, R. Limbaugh for example.

Today I read a lovely long commentary on this in the British magazine The Liberal's book review section, at the end of which the author, Sarah Churchwell, quotes HL Mencken (
http://www.theliberal.co.uk/issue_13/reviews/churchwell_help!mom!.html
http://www.theliberal.co.uk/issue_13/reviews/churchwell_help!mom!2.html
http://www.theliberal.co.uk/issue_13/reviews/churchwell_help!mom!3.html
http://www.theliberal.co.uk/issue_13/reviews/churchwell_help!mom!4.html
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"...the remarkable journalist H.L. Mencken wrote in 1920:
The larger the mob, the harder the test. In small areas, before small electorates, a first-rate man occasionally fights his way through, carrying even the mob with him by force of his personality. But when the field is nationwide, and the fight must be waged chiefly at second and third hand, and the force of personality cannot so readily make itself felt, then all the odds are on the man who is, intrinsically, the most devious and mediocre – the man who can most easily adeptly disperse the notion that his mind is a virtual vacuum.

The Presidency tends, year by year, to go to such men. As democracy is perfected, the office represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. We move toward a lofty ideal. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."
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Not a moron, but a fool; our last president, who was remarkably unconscious of the social principles of government, who appeared to see government not as the complex enduring web of personal accountability which it is at its best, but a panel of switches to be flipped.
We will pay for two generations for his foolishness, and of course the Republicans have no monopoly on nonsensical speech; we simply cite here some of its most ardent practitioners.