Hope from the Bright Side

Between Honey Boo Boo and the political conventions, the entire country seems to be swirling in some weird, wound-up vortex of, well, I don't know what. Bad taste? Boredom? Anger? Exhaustion? Help me out here. Or, no. Don't. I really don't want to hear your opinion. I'm fed up with opinions.

I'm on the look-out for the fun. The joyful. The uplifting. Honey Boo Boo ain't it. I suggest looking on the bright side for a while. Let's start here:

The vast expanse of intersteller space. I may be showing my age here, but space exploration is still the most intriguing thing earthlings are doing. What/who is out there? Why are we here? Fortunately, there's a lot of great stuff happening right now. The Mars rover is busy exploring that planet on our behalf.  Voyager I, launched 35 years ago, is set to leave our solar system and show us what's happening beyond. Is there anything cooler than that? No, there is not. And during this exciting time, we pause to honor the life and achievements of the first man to plant a foot on our moon, Neil Armstrong. He's seeing a whole different side of the moon now. My point is, if you're discouraged with some of the slime hitting you from all sides here on earth, just look up. The possibilities and inspiration are limitless.

Impending autumnal awesomeness. For me, Autumn is the season of hope. Cooler weather, new beginnings, Halloween, colorful trees, sweaters and corduroy, the smell of dry leaves, Thanksgiving. Humidity and heat give way to crisp, breathable air that clears away summer's lazy sluggishness. It's a time of energy, clear thinking, creativity. Suddenly, I have the gumption to attack my lengthy to-do list. Buh-bye sticky Summer. Hello, awesome Autumn! You can't get here fast enough for me.

Great books in a million different ways. My little summer reading self-challenge has led to my discovery of some wonderful, weird, challenging books available for my reading (via old school real live book or Kindle) and listening (thanks, New York Public Library, for free audiobooks!) pleasure. I've fallen in love with biographies and autobiographies again. I've rediscovered non-fiction, at least the kind that is well-written, non-academic. I've gotten great recommendations from friends, both in real time and via Goodreads. Friends, there is some great stuff out there. Stay away from the political, but seek out something that will pique an old interest or spark a new one. You don't need reality TV or battling news commentators. Life is so much bigger than that.

Food. In general. Preferably with Family and Friends. Beef stew. A smoothie of fresh fruits and berries. Lobster roll. The perfect hamburger. Apples (in any form). Grilled cheese sandwich. Pie (in any form). Well, I could go on and on. Insert your favorite food here. Yeah, yeah. Obesity, blah-blah. Shouldn't live to eat, etc. And I am not advocating constant, unhealthy pigging out. But, oh rational souls, you know the thrill of a first bite of premium ice cream or a loaded baked potato. Especially if you're sharing your food-fix with loved ones. It gives hope that all things are possible. Life can continue. Why use reality TV as a guilty pleasure? That's what chocolate is for. Need ideas? Get thee to Pinterest.

There. That's enough to get me on the road to the Bright Side. It might work for you, too. Add in some family love and faith in whoever your Creator may be, and you're on your way.  Eschew (see how I work that word in once in a while?) the soul-sucking and opt for the life-lifting. Give it a try. Eschew. Opt.

And always look on the bright side of life.

Un-Conventional

The year is 2012. We've had the 24/7 news cycle for over 30 years. Most of us have access to hundreds of TV channels, video games, plus an internet with infinite edu-tainment capabilities. And thanks to a convoluted primary system, presidential nominees are selected months ahead of Election Day by a handful of scantily-populated states.

So here's what has me puzzled: Why do our two political parties spend millions on week-long conventions, speechifing, wearing silly hats, and subjecting us all to overly-emotional, slickly produced videos of the presidential and vice presidential candidates [cue patriotic music] in this day and time? And tell me why network television feels the need to cover the whole rootin' tootin' business.

Who's watching? Who's listening? Why? You know who the nominees are going to be. You've heard the keynote speakers of both parties before. Do you watch both the Democratic and Republican America the Beautiful patriotic tributes, or just the one for your particular party? (You can probably download it from the party website, by the way, and be done with it. Just a suggestion.) The only reason I can see for tuning in to these creaky events is to see who's wearing the silliest elephant or donkey hat. And, ya' know, that has limited attention value these days.

Reality check, oh great party leaders. Gone are the days where you could hold a nation in suspense about who your presidential nominee would be. The time has passed for the roll call of states to mean anything since your candidates have already been selected. "The great state of (fill in the blank) pledges its 74 delegates to Estes Kefauver!" just ain't ever going to happen again. Mainly because Kefauver's dead, but you get my point.

Now, if the two parties want to have a little 2-day, rally-round-the-candidates, let's-hold-hands-and-wave-the-flag to-do just to light a fire under the party faithful, well, I say, let 'em have it. Have a short party, slap each other on the butt (or across the face), and get back to explaining why you should sit in the Oval Office. Don't you all have better things to do with your time and money?

Certainly, the conventions provide lots of temporary jobs for waiters, bartenders, and strippers in the two cities where they're held. But I can't help thinking that even more jobs - permanent ones - could be created with the dough spent on the two parties' parties.

Once upon a time the conventions held the possibility of a dark horse candidate coming out of nowhere, at least for the vice-presidential nominee. Ah, for the days of smoke-filled rooms and behind-the-scenes bargaining sessions! Make no mistake, the conventions were still dull as dishwater, and seemed to last forever on black-and-white television back in the day.  But now, they're so predictable. Scripted. Slick.

Maybe if they added a final challenge, like Survivor or The Bachelor or Biggest Loser. Or, even better, forced the candidates to compete on a Japanese game show obstacle course. OK, then I would definitely tune in. And seriously, could that be any less dignified than the current conventions and campaigns? Hardly.

But since some sort of ultimate smack-off seems unlikely, I'll limit my convention-viewing time to the bare essentials and throw my support to Netflix. Not even your silly donkey and elephant hats will pull me in.

Don't Wanna Hear It

OK, y'all. Let's get one thing straight right up front. I support everybody's 1st - 27th Amendment Rights. You have the right to say whatever you want to say, think whatever you want to think, stockpile weapons, a fair and speedy trial, due process, and clear on through the rules about when congressional salaries take affect. And publish whatever you want all over the internet.

But I am tired of hearing about it. All sides are are just screaming at each other right now, and nobody is changing anybody's mind. I don't care what the polls say about presidential candidates, chicken sandwiches, or gun control, I do not believe there is any middle ground right now. Forget "independent" voters. They do not exist. Anyone claiming to be a middle-grounder-independent is just yanking the pollsters around. There are only two camps on every single issue at this moment in time, and each side is just throwing hissy-fits. It reminds me of Dr. Seuss's Butter Battle Book. But the Cold War had nothing on the form of mutually assured destruction we're going through now.

So while I support your right to fling out your particular viewpoint on immigration or the legality of jumbo-sized sugary drinks, I also support my right to not listen to all the fussing and fighting. Unless some unforeseeable event happens, I believe we're stuck where we're stuck. Like 99.99% of the population, I already know who I'm going to vote for. I know where I stand on the chicken issue, immigration, education, and out-sourcing.

And if you know me at all, you probably know where I stand on those things. And I know where you stand. If we're on opposing sides, you won't change my mind, and I won't change yours. So I'm begging you to stop trying to convince the other side. Or tone it down. Anyone left with an open mind can make up his/her mind without all the loud, angry opposing viewpoints.

Let's call a truce. I love/like you wherever you stand on the issues of the day. There's a whole lot of things we do agree on. About most of what life has to offer, we can share laughter, tears, and awe. I love seeing pictures of your crazy night out, your exotic vacation, those precious grandbabies and family weddings. I love when you recommend a book or a concert or a restaurant. But I do not love being hit by political hate bombs every time I check Facebook and Twitter. As the old song goes: I don't wanna hear it, no more fussin' and-a fightin', baby. And I don't.

But I'm always up for a good joke or a vacation picture. Or an update on how many times you went to Starbuck's today. Peace, y'all.

Reclaiming the 1996 Atlanta Olympics

The 2012 Summer Olympic Games kick off tonight in London, and we'll all crowd around the television to watch the opening ceremony. In the run-up to these games, I've read a lot of really negative stuff about the 1996 games held in my hometown, Atlanta. All suggestions seem to be "For goodness' sake, avoid Atlanta's mistakes."

Over-commercialization and rigid press credentialing and access seem to be the biggest gripes. Though pre-9/11 security was tight, a nut-case was still able to plant an exploding backpack and do real damage. The Centennial Park bombing that took place on July 27, 1996, was horrendous, but - contrary to bomber Eric Rudolph's goal of shutting down the "socialist" event - it didn't seem to impact crowds at the venues for the rest of the games. And the weather was steamy hot. Atlanta in July. Who'd a thunk it?

But let me tell you the real story of the 1996 Olympics. I was there. I took my two-week vacation for that year to work as a shift supervisor for a team of security volunteers at Centennial Olympic Park. We weren't the gun-totin' professional security team; AT&T was responsible for those officers, I seem to remember. Our job was to give directions, reunite lost children with their parents (I did that three times), keep folks from bringing in beer (they had to buy it at the Budweiser pavilion inside the park) and bicycles/skates/skateboards, plus crowd control and generally keeping an eye on anyone looking sick or getting too rambunctious. The professionals took over - medical or law enforcement - from there.

My stint was one week before the games started and the first week of the games. I worked with a smart, fun team of folks from FirstAtlanta Bank. The hours were long. I normally reported in at 3pm and worked until the park closed, sometimes midnight, sometimes 1-2am. It was hot. But we had been well-trained, learning everything from how to keep cool (heat-wise and head-wise), how to spot suspicious behavior (which has stood me in good stead since then), basic first aid, and every bit of Olympic/Atlanta trivia you can think of. And, yeah, we got to wear those great safari hats that people offered large sums of money for ("No, I'm not going to sell you my hat." I still have mine, by the way). Bottom line, my job was hospitality.

The park was wide open, which was subsequently a criticism of Atlanta's games - too much activity concentrated in one area of the city. Well, boo-hoo. It was the place to see and be seen. It's where the athletes hung out in their off-hours or to celebrate victories. Visitors from all over the world were treated to great concerts and had a ball playing in the dancing fountains. It was definitely a party atmosphere. We laughed a lot, learned a lot, and - trained as we were - never lost our cool.

It wasn't all work, though. Kate and I attended a couple of equestrian events at the Conyers International Horse Park and a baseball event at the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. Thanks to a good friend with an extra ticket, Kate was lucky enough to attend the Opening Ceremony (yes, we still have the green and gold quilted pouch of goodies). Saw several concerts at the Park (picture above at Joan Osborne concert, I think). I also had volunteer shifts in front of All Saints', fortuitously located between the North Avenue MARTA station and Olympic Village where the athletes were staying. We gave directions, handed out water and snacks, and invited folks to come in from the heat, say a prayer, meditate, whatever. Many took us up on that.

Yeah, it was a big commercial event, but that was seen as a huge plus at the time. We kept hearing horror stories about Montreal still deep in debt from its 1976 games, and Atlanta was just not going there. I think the city ended up in the black by about $10 million, so thank you Coca-Cola, AT&T, IBM, and Budweiser. The thing is, I notice London's games are even more commercialized than Atlanta's. Here's hoping my English friends come out ahead, too. You do not want to be paying for this twenty years down the road.

The 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta were wonderful. We had the best, friendliest, most helpful  volunteers on the planet (and I believe that record still stands). The athletic events set an unprecedented number of world records. Most of the visitors were just happy to be there and really got into the Olympic spirit. So hate on our games all you want, just understand that your negative view is colored by a prickly press corps and sour IOC officials. OK, our mascot was ridiculous, but thank God, London's is even worse. Leave Izzy alone now.

Ali lighting the flame. Kerri Strug making that vault. The Brazilian soccer team bringing me one of its t-shirts as a thank-you for directing them to the Budweiser tent. That frozen lemonade concoction. Collecting and trading pins. Those gorgeous blue-green butterflies at the Opening Ceremony, plus Gladys Knight singing Georgia on My Mind.

Awesome, Atlanta! Thank you for the opportunity to serve my city, my country, and the world.

One Good Guy

I lost a childhood friend this weekend. Steven Clark, who shared the classrooms, hallways, and playgrounds of my elementary and junior high school with me, died of pancreatic cancer on Saturday.

Steve and I hadn't seen each other since we graduated from Brainerd Jr. High in 1966, but thanks to the power of Facebook, we reconnected a couple of years ago. I remembered him as kind, smart, and thoughtful. From our Facebook communications I learned he was still all those things and more.

The two of us shared a classroom all the way through elementary school. His face is in every single class picture I have, from first through sixth grades. (He's in the white shirt holding up half of the PTA award banner in our fifth grade picture above. That's little me grinning for all I'm worth, hands folded, below him.) Steve was big brother to four younger siblings, the very model of what a big bro should be. He never got caught up in any crazy school kid drama - whereas, I was always in the midst of it - and was always the even keel with a word of encouragement and friendship. One good kid.

As soon as we found each other on Facebook, Steve emailed me and said "We just have to talk!"  He called, and we spent the better part of an hour filling in the years in between - family, vocations, music, religion, memories. You name it, we talked about it. He sounded the same. We laughed a lot about things done and left undone (for which you're supposed to repent, I know). As a church organist, he had occasion to play in Episcopal churches; we spent time affirming our love for the great choral tradition and liturgy of my church. We brought each other up to date on where various classmates were and what they were doing. Just like two friends catching up after summer vacation - a very long summer vacation.

My travels took me to/through Nashville twice since reconnecting with Steve, both family events allowing no opportunity to  meet up with my old friend. I was hoping we'd have more time in the coming years to get together, but it wasn't to be. My brother David died of pancreatic cancer in 1990, and when I heard Steve's news in February, it gave me a jolt. Yet, I really hoped that medicine had come far enough along on the disease in the last couple of decades to make the prognosis not as dire as it had been for us. Alas, it hasn't come far enough.

I do feel fortunate to have learned that the good kid I knew all those years ago grew up to be one good guy. Rest in joy and peace, Steve Clark.

Summer Reading List Update

I know you have been at the edge of your seats wondering how my summer reading effort is getting along. Well, here it is July, and I am doing my best to fill in each category. Here's the tally so far:

• 2 Biographies: Well, I have two ready to go, The Autobiography of Mark Twain, Vol. 1 (OK, I'm including autobiographies in the biography section - sue me) and Kindred Souls, about the relationship between Eleanor Roosevelt and David Gurewitsch, both via my iPod. I did listen to Tina Fey read her Bossypants - hilarious, giggled all the way through, but since it's about show-biz, I won't count it (though I highly recommend giving it a listen). 
• 2 fiction (not junk): As you can imagine I've already overloaded this category. Finally read Henry James' Washington Square. Also, Summer by Edith Wharton. Currently reading Pure, by Andrew Miller - excellent story about clearing out Les Innocents cemetery in pre-Revolution Paris. 
• 2 non-fiction: Just finished The Power of Habit, by Charles Duhigg, read in the hope of giving me some insight into my bad (and good) habits. Now, I just need to switch around a few cue-behavior-reward patterns, and I'm all set. Next up: Last Child in the Woods, by Richard Louv.
• 2 theology/religion: Only one, so far: The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided by Politics and Religion by Jonathan Haidt. Beyond that, I haven't a clue.  Still searching. Looking for suggestions.
• 1 self-help: Nothing selected so far. I may look for another non-fiction and move The Power of Habit into this slot. Or maybe Bossypants, since it gave me lots of laughs and a light heart.

I have stacks and stacks of fiction ready to go, and by "stacks," I include audiobooks and Kindle e-books, as well as books made from trees.  It has been a test of mental fortitude to stick to my categories in this dreadful heat, though none of my choices have disappointed so far. Still, I long to read a mindless mystery or tawdry beach-book.

If I get through this competition with myself, a great big hot fudge sundae is waiting for me at the end. Yeah. One of those bad cue-behavior-reward habit cycles I refuse to break.

Happy 4th of July!

http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/

The Irish of Old New York

After six years of self-guided New York City tours, I felt the need to break out and find better ways to discover/uncover all the city has to offer. I found "Friendly Native New Yorker Walking Tours" on Meetup and figured, what the heck, and signed up. The first tour available, The Irish of Old New York, was yesterday.

Because of the extreme heat we're experiencing right now, our guide Linda kindly moved the original time of 12:45pm to 6pm (thank you very much!). With my $15 cash in hand - the charge for each tour, comfortable walking shoes, and lightweight clothing, I met up with the group in front of St. Paul's Chapel to begin the tour.

Why begin a tour about the Irish at an Episcopal Chapel, you might wonder (as did I)? Well, it seems two early prominent Irish transplants have monuments in St. Paul's cemetery, though neither is buried there. Thomas Addis Emmet (1764-1827), Irish revolutionary and American lawyer, and Dr. William James MacNeven (1763-1841), the father of modern chemistry, have cenotaphs - both engraved with the Irish harp and clasped hands - in cemeteries on either side of the church. And smack dab on front of St. Paul's is a monument in memory of Brigadier-General Richard Montgomery, who died at the Battle of Quebec in 1775.

We moved on to City Hall, co-designed by Irish-American John McComb, Jr. in 1803. He also designed Gracie Mansion and Castle Clinton, by the way. Our guide enlightened us about one of the early governors of New York, Thomas Dongan, whose residence stood on the site of what was the New York Times building and is now Pace University. We heard wild stories of the Irish who helped build the Brooklyn Bridge. How that thing ever got built is beyond me.

At Chambers and Broadway stands what once was A.T. Stewart's Marble Palace, the first department store in the United States. Next door (on Chambers) is the old Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank, which provided financial services for Irish emigrants. Both are across the street from the Tweed Courthouse (yeah, that Tweed). Boss Tweed was not Irish, but his Tammany Hall cohorts bought many a vote from Irish emigrants via jobs, health care, and other services.

We passed through the splendiferous Municipal Building on our way to notorious Five Points, famous for Gangs of New York. Once the roughest area of the city, it's now an area with a little park, row houses, businesses, courthouses, and government buildings. Such scary history, though. When the old brewery was converted to tenement housing in 1837, as many as 1200 people lived there. Murder, disease, dead bodies. Lovely. We also got the scoop on the Draft Riots of 1863. Seems most of the names drawn were poor Irish, and violence ensued.

The tour ended at St. James Church, where the United States branch of the Ancient Order of the Hibernians was founded in 1836. The AOH sponsors the ever-popular St. Patrick's Day Parade each year in New York City. Erin go yadda-yadda.

So, there you have it. A recap of our two-and-a-half hour walking tour. Well worth $15. The group - many of them regulars - was friendly and our guide knowledgeable. I'll definitely be on the lookout for the next meet-up.

But I don't think I'll ever want to live any place called The Old Brewery.

Collinwood Cliffhanger

My name is Victoria Winters . . . [cue music] Oooo-ooo-OOOO-oo-oo-oooo-ooo-oooo. [Cue waves crashing on rocks]

Last month, I spent a couple of weeks with the fine denizens of Collinwood in Collinsport, Maine. It had been a long, long time since I'd whiled away the afternoons with my Dark Shadows buddies Elizabeth and Roger, Carolyn, Maggie, and Victoria, Barnabas, Julia, and David. But there they were, in glowing black and white, which added to the creep-value, I can testify. I wanted to watch the series in preparation for seeing the Tim Burton movie, just to refresh my memory about who's who and what's what.

I found I'm still jealous of Carolyn Stoddard's perfect flip (that's a hairstyle, young'uns) and the super-cute wardrobes of Carolyn, Maggie, and Victoria. Classic. However, there's still some really iffy acting, especially from the film pros like Joan Bennett, and it's easy to tell they're reading from the prompters. Boom microphones and cameras are often seen in the shots, or at least their shadows, so much so that the show was often referred to as "Mic Shadows."

But you know what? The show still managed to scare me. Maybe it was the music, or the weird camera angles (with or without boom shadows), or that everything seemed to happen at night. Anyway. The storyline is still FABulous. Seances, ghosts, steep drops down to the waves crashing on the rocks, mausoleums and cemeteries, the Blue Whale, those damn music boxes. The Old House. The New House. Take the key and lock her up . .  {shiver}

Alas, I got so hooked on Dark Shadows that I was devastated when the Netflix series came to a screeching halt. Dang. I'll give them one thumbs up (for making part of the series available) and a whole handful of thumbs down for its weird selection of episodes. It starts with Episode 210 (the first time Barnabas appears) and ends with Episode 370 (when Victoria has traveled back in time and just as we're about to find out how Barnabas got to be a vampire). Aaarrgh! So irritating! I want all 1225 episodes, not a measly 160!

I'd love to see the first episodes that provide the background of Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, her daughter Carolyn, governess Victoria Winters, and Maggie Evans. And, I would love to see the rest of the series with Quentin and lots more Angelique. Sheesh. I feel so cheated. Much like viewers did when the show was abruptly yanked from the afternoon line-up in 1971.

What would be the fate of Barnabas, Elizabeth, Carolyn, Quentin, Maggie, and poor Willie Loomis? One of the show's writers brought a little closure in a TV Guide article at the end of the series. Not much consolation, granted, but it is a glimpse into what might have been, though my skin kinda crawls knowing that Barnabas and Julia would marry. {another shiver}

So until Netflix pulls everything out of the Dark Shadows vault (get it? vault?), I'll have to find a way to live with my unfulfilled addiction to the good people of Collinsport.

By the way, I never did see the Tim Burton movie version. After watching the original series, I can't imagine anyone topping it, not even Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter. And I'm sure no one could out-"do" the original Carolyn Stoddard's hair.

[cue music] Oooo-ooo-OOOO-oo-oo-oo-oo-ooo-oooo.

The BBQ King

I ventured down to the Big Apple BBQ Block Party in Madison Square Park this morning to pick up as much good old' southern barbecue as my to-go containers could carry and my wallet afford. It is a swell event.

Award-winning BBQ establishments from around the country set up huge cooking drums, light the fires, throw on the meat, and wait for thousands and thousands of BBQ-starved New Yorkers to pay $8 a plate to indulge their pig-eatin' yen. It's sort of a throw-back to the annual Kiwanis BBQs when I was growing up, where $8 would get you enough BBQ, slaw, corn on the cob, baked beans and loaf bread to feed a family of 12 (OK, it's the South, what can I say?).

It was fitting and proper that I should track down barbecue today of all days because this is my dear daddy's birthday. He would've been 92 today (he died in 1999). As far as I'm concerned, Clayton Frazier was the BBQ King.

Once or maybe twice a year, Daddy would barbecue enough pig-meat to feed a small army. His style was a cross between North Carolina vinegar-based barbecue and his own Tennessee farm boy twist. His was not the kind with thick, sweet sauce smothering the meat. It was thinner, lighter, and with a bit of a hot-sauce kick.

He made too much to be eaten in one or two sittings, so he'd bag it up for you to take it home to throw in the freezer and eat whenever the mood struck. Believe me, that barbecue fed me many a meal during some lean-earning years.

Daddy was so proud of his barbecue. I'm sure he loved the process of tending it for hours on end as much as he loved the tasty results. Let me add, however, that the results were not to some folks' liking, but for Daddy and me - mmmwah! It was delicious.

I can't think of a better way to celebrate the life and barbecue-legacy of my daddy than to chow down on smoked pork smothered in hot sauce. Happy Birthday, BBQ King.

Reading My Way Through Summer

Ugh. Summer. I just do not see the appeal. At least not to those of us for whom the rat-race does not slow down June through August, or who don't have swimming pools right outside our doors or beachfront homes in the Hamptons. So I have to come up with something that makes all the humidity-drenched hair, sticky clothes, and nose-melting street odors bearable until the crisp, fresh winds of October blow all the yuck away.

My plan involves some sort of summer reading program. Through books, I can escape the heat and humidity and take virtual vacations that my pocketbook would not allow me to do otherwise. Plus, it's a throw-back to those lazy-hazy-crazy days of childhood summers, when I worked my way through the public library's summer reading list, ticking off my three biographies, four fictions, four non-fictions, thanks to the trusty bookmobile.

Last summer, I only read New York City-themed books. A couple of years ago, it was books by Southern authors with Southern settings. This year, I'm breaking away from geographically-based program, though it would've been so easy to opt for England in this Jubilee year. No, instead, I've decided to push myself beyond easily-read mysteries and historical novels. I've been a lazy reader of late, and I must move to more substantive material. Yeah, that goes against the summer-ready grain of pot-boilers and bodice-rippers, but my brain will turn to mush otherwise.

Discipline. Reading discipline is this year's summer reading theme. I'm harking back to the old-school summer reading requirements (on my own terms, of course): two biographies, two critically-acclaimed fictions (no airy-fairy stuff), two non-fictions, two books about theology/religion, one self-help. Once I tick those off, I can read any sleazy show-biz biography or free Kindle vanity-press thing I want.

Whether I prop up a real, old-fashioned hardback tome, listen to the book on my iPod, or have it delivered to Kindle, I expect my list to broaden my horizons and keep me cool (figuratively, if not literally) at the same time. And while I've already chosen about half the books that meet my worthy goal, I'm always open to suggestions, so jump in if you have something to recommend.

Now all I need is someone who'll give me a fancy certificate and Baskin-Robbins gift card when I successfully complete my summer reading program. That might make the heat bearable.

Beale Street Blues

Just returned from a wonderful weekend wedding in Memphis, Tennessee. I've never been to Memphis, though I seem to remember we drove through there on our way out to California in 1959. So, no real experience with the city renowned for blues and barbecue. And this occasion gave me the opportunity to do it up right.

I got to stay at The Peabody, the city's grand dame of a hotel. The place is massive, the lobby gorgeous, and the rooftop experience (for the wedding reception, dinner, and dancing) unsurpassed. And then there are the famous Peabody Ducks. What started as a prank in the 1930's is now a tradition that brings in hundreds of people from 11am-5pm daily. If you only have one shot at Memphis, do stay at The Peabody.

Didn't have a bad meal the whole time I was there. (Notice how my travels seem to revolve around food? Yeah, well.) Breakfast at Cockadoo's, lunches at Flying Fish and Blues City Cafe, rehearsal dinner at BB King's Itta Bena, and wedding dinner at The Peabody. Fish basket, BBQ ribs, shrimp and grits, and lots of wine and mojitos. Good eatin'. Missed getting to experience BBQ at Rendezvous, but - like Graceland - that will have to wait for another visit.

Beale Street consists of several blocks of blues and rock clubs, BBQ restaurants, and shops filled with all things Elvis and the blues. We witnessed a zombie parade as we were making our way into BB King's on Friday night, and by the time we got out several hours later, all the non-zombies were out in force (though I bet many of them looked like zombies the next day).

And then there's the mighty river. It's awesomeness comes from knowing how long it is, and that Memphis is just one town along 2,500 or so miles.

The only blues I encountered was the musical kind. I highly recommend the food and hospitality of Memphis.

Brainerd Bombers Fall in Line

Well, Reunion #2 with my elementary and junior high school girlfriends  is now just a wonderful memory - three days filled will laughter, tears, and lots and lots of food. Sort of like Reunion #1 (the family reunion at the farm). The only difference was the amount of booze consumed at #2. (Not to worry. We were up on a mountain and contained within a lovely log cabin. No driving or operating heavy machinery were involved.)

Alas, we all promised to abide by the sacred golden road rule ("What goes on the road, stays yadda-yadda"), so I can't pass along some of the best stuff. But, let's see. There must be something I can report. OK, here are a few harmless, yet adorable, highlights:

• So many junior high events that we'd forgotten were remembered, thanks to Debbi's scrapbook - and I do mean "scrap' book. Newspaper clippings (back when every little thing got local news coverage) of awards assemblies, choir concerts, river boat parties, and home ec. fashion shows (love those swingin' 60's styles!) brought back lots of memories.
• A hilarious game of Catch Phrase quickly turned into a game of Please Pass The Eyeglasses So That I Can Read My Clue. (That's not too much information, is it, ladies?)
• We still know all the words to "Hey, Baby" and the Brainerd Junior High fight song, which we spontaneously broke in to during one of our photo sessions. (Why? Who knows?) But do not ask us to remember our children's middle names or our current cell phone numbers.
• Actually, there was one incident involving the operation of`heavy machinery, but I can't tell you about it. However, I don't think it had anything to do with wine consumption.

We had such a good time that we vowed to make it an annual event and gather even more Barger/BJHS girlfriends. The more the merrier, especially since we're at the stage where we need a roomful of us to come up with one lucid fact. Now, one more time!

Oh, when those Brainerd Bombers fall in line,

We're gonna win this game another time.

For when the Brainerd team has got the ball,

We'll be the champions again this fall, this fall.

We're gonna fight, fight, fight for every yard.

We're gonna circle in and hit 'em hard.

We're gonna roll old Northside on the sod, on the sod.

Brainerd Junior High!

Reunionating

It's a season of reunions for me. Normally, I'm not big on reunions - at least, not the infamous high school type. But since neither of my springtime get-togethers involves anyone I sat with in Algebra II or fought with over the cropping wheel on the yearbook staff, I'm happily taking part. Not only taking part. Seems I'm one of the main instigators and planners of two reunions. (What was I thinking?)

Well, for both, I was thinking: Isn't it about time?

One, a family reunion (with my daddy's side) on the family farm near Nashville, Tennessee, was way overdue. It was the first time in almost 50 years that I'd been to the farm. The last proper Frazier/Pardue family reunion was in the late 1980s, but it was held at a park, not the farm. The genesis of the reunion idea was at Aunt Frances' funeral last August. It was obvious to all of us that it was high time to reconnect and celebrate the family and the family place.

So we just did it. Our goal was to make it as no-muss-no-fuss as possible. No years of planning, elaborate invitations, or food responsibilities. We got in touch with as many folks as possible via email, Facebook, and Evite, though I did hand-write two notes. We named the date, said "y'all come! and bring a side dish or dessert," and hoped for the best.

The weather was cold and breezy, but the gathering was warm and full of love. It was so good to see the farm again and walk down roads where I'd stirred up dust as a kid. It was good to spend time with cousins and Uncle Harold; why don't we see each other more often? It was fun meeting and re-connecting with more distant relations. I loved showing daughter Kate and grandson Liam their Tennessee roots, literally and figuratively. Yes, this long-overdue reunion was everything we'd hoped it would be.

And tomorrow I leave for reunion #2. So many girlfriends from elementary school and junior high had found each other via Facebook that we decided to stop posting "We should get together some time!" and actually do it. Like the family reunion, we put the invitations out electronically, and said whoever could show up, should show up. I'm looking forward to seeing friends from a long, long time ago. Like our slumber parties of yore (and I do mean yore), I'm sure we will have a Twistin' good time, unless someone breaks a hip.

Just a bit of advice. If you've wanted to get together with family or friends you haven't seen in decades, do it. It doesn't have to be elaborate. The hardest part is finding a place and date. And no date will work for everyone, but don't let that stop you. Life is too short to miss out on spending time with a scattered, spread out family or those friends who taught you to Twist or suffered through Willie Jones gym class with you. Just re-union.

Guess I'd better go pack. Wonder what I did with those spiffy mod pj's I used to wear to all those slumber parties?

Things I Do When I Can't Sleep

1. Think up brilliant story plots and titles for novels. Which I totally forget about the next day.
2. Eat cereal with bananas. If I have any cereal. And bananas. And milk. But it's really nice when the universe smiles upon me, and I have all three handy.
3. Start creating photo books on Shutterfly or Snapfish. Sometimes I even finish one. 
4. Google random people from my past. But not for nefarious purposes. Just for fun.
5. Read the first couple of chapters of Three Men in a Boat (to Say Nothing of the Dog). Unlike the narrator, I think I must have housemaid's knee.
6. Look through my New York City guidebooks to see what I simply must do that I haven't done so far. Alas, the list is long.
7. Rearrange my teapots. Yes, I have enough teapots to rearrange.
8. Wonder about what became of products advertised when I was little. Hazel Bishop Lipstick. Gleem Toothpaste. Prell Shampoo. Fizzies.
9. Make lists. Grocery. Stuff I need for the apartment. Gifts for various family and friends. Bills to be paid. 
10. Worry about how lousy I'm going to feel when the alarm goes off in the morning.

Office Daffodils

Just because they brighten my day. I have them right in my sight-line to the door so that whoever shows up - whatever the request, comment, or attitude - these little daffy-dills remind me that the world is way, way bigger than my office, my workload, my triumphs, my problems. All that soothing flower-love for a measly $3.

Ahhh, Springtime. Happy April, everyone!

To Serve Man

Last December I was asked to write a reflection for Lent 2012. It was a hard thing to do in the middle of Christmas trees, carols, and Santa, but I persevered. Well, thanks to Rod Serling I managed to come up with something. Since today, March 30, is the day of my Lenten meditation, I thought I'd share it:

One of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes involves a bunch of big-headed aliens who come to earth toting an impressive reference book. At first, everyone is terrified, but after a little diligent Alien-to-English work, one of the scientists declares that the title of the book is “To Serve Man.” The earthlings are thrilled and start crowding onto space ships headed for the alien planet. Alas, after a little more translation work, the scientist tries to stop people from leaving earth with the cry, “Wait! To Serve Man is a cookbook!”

That Twilight Zone episode bears some similarities to the Gospel reading in Mark. Zebedee’s boys, James and John, are trying to fight their way onto Jesus’ heavenly space ship by crawling over the other disciples and asking not only to board, but to be given seats in First Class, with Jesus in the middle seat.

Don’t you just know that Jesus got tired of this kind of silly stuff?  I picture him sighing before he continues. First he tells them that they have no idea what they’re asking. “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink? Be baptized with my baptism?” Like children, or anyone who doesn’t have or understand the whole story, James and John eagerly boast that, yes, of course, whatever. 

By this time the other ten guys are steaming with indignation, thinking James and John have crossed the line with their demands. But Jesus gathers them together, and then switches things around, turning logic and reason upside-down.

“First of all, I’m not the one with authority to give out seats in First Class,” Jesus explains. “And by the way, all the great and rich people who think they can buy their way up front are in for a surprise.” And here’s the twist: Jesus tells them that whoever wants First Class seats will be have to become a servant to everyone else on board. Just like him. Jesus lets them know that he did not come to sit in First Class. He did not come to be served. He truly came to serve man, and not in the Twilight Zone cookbook-sense.

When reflecting on our place in this kingdom and the next, we would be wise to stop clamoring for the First Class seats and consider our true purpose as people who serve Christ in the world.

“For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”  Mark 10:45, NRSV

Dream a Little Dream

So what would you do with $540 million? That's the question everyone's asking right now. Who knows how much the Mega Millions lottery will be worth at tomorrow night's drawing? So far, I've contributed $2 to the cause. And that's my limit.

One dollar was chipped in with my Office of Communications colleagues at the Church Center. Our pledge - and it is in writing, and everyone has agreed - is that if we win, we will contribute a large sum to underwrite our department, since we are facing budget cuts. We have big dreams for what we do for and with the Episcopal Church, and we're willing to pony up a chunk of our winnings. The rest will be divided evenly amongst us. Seems fair. Cost to me? One dollar.

Then I went out and bought one - yes, one - ticket for my own personal self. The way I figure it is that I'm either lucky or not. Buying more tickets won't change that. Anyway, even if I bought 50,000 tickets, that's still just a drop in the bucket of ticket sales. I don't see it increases my odds any more than just buying that one lucky ticket.

Here's the thing. For $2, I get to spend a couple of days dreaming that dream: what if? After taxes are paid and I take the one-time pay-out, what would I do with the money?

It's fun to dream big. It's fun to make a list of loved ones and unknown ones that I could make very happy or help beyond measure. It's fun to think that retirement and old age would be taken care of, come what may. It's fun to list which church, arts, and aids charities I could support in a big, make-a-difference way. It's fun to dream about how the money could be used to seed important projects. And of course, it's really fun to dream of the vacations, the little paid-for house in Atlanta and maybe a pied a terre in NYC, and the just-for-the-hell-of-it stuff.

The odds of winning a half a billion dollars are massively stacked against me (and my colleagues). But dreaming big, taking stock of priorities ("where your treasure is, there will your heart be also"), and letting the imagination run wild is surely worth two lousy bucks. Go ahead. Dream a little dream. Sing it, Ginger!