While walking through the neighborhood the other day I was discussing the injustice of the world with our dogs Abby and Hobbes. Specifically, I was pointing out to them that
magazine recently published an issue identifying “The 100 Most Influential People in the World” and had the nerve to leave me off the list.
“Appalling. Simply appalling,” commented Hobbes. This young gentleman has only been a part of our household for a few weeks and is still working on ingratiating
In my “family of origin” we used one particular phrase to describe those people who went to church on Christmas and Easter every year. “C & E Christians?” “Christmas and Easter Christians?” No.
We called them “Religious Fanatics.” It was hard for us to imagine why anybody would go to church that often. Most years--most--we made it for one holiday or the other. That was plenty.
My parents did not dislike the pastors of the church we technically
They were a little short on parent volunteers to help with the kindergarten Valentine’s Day party, so the lovely Mrs. McKinley and I volunteered to join the merriment in our grandson Luke’s room with the stipulation that I not be asked to help with a craft. I don’t do crafts, even at the kindergarten level.
So there I was, assisting at a Cupid Bingo game, helping the young scholars differentiate between the picture of the heart that said “Hug Me” and the picture of
We did a lot of baptisms at the church where I was serving in October 1987. Although we discouraged the practice, there would often be a little honorarium for the pastor after the service. The one I got on October 25 knocked my socks off: tickets to the 7th game of the World Series to be played that night at the Metrodome, matching the Minnesota Twins with the St. Louis Cardinals. After extensive discussion at home, agreement was reached that my son would accompany me to the game.
There we were, seated
My old pal Pastor T. Albert “Tacky” Carlson was in town visiting his in-laws over the holidays, so we got together for a cup of coffee and some catching up. Tacky served at Melanchthon Memorial Lutheran Church down the street before giving up on snow shoveling and taking a call to St. Susan by the Seashore down in Florida a few years ago.
“Not much of a winter you’re having here,” he greeted me, clad in a classic Norwegian winter sweater and slurping on a peppermint
On the refrigerator door at our son’s house there is a family picture drawn by our grandson Luke, who is in kindergarten. There is Mommy and Daddy, his little sister Eliza, Luke himself, and their Jack Russell terrier, identified in the drawing as “Loosee.”
Picky persons might want to point out that her name is really spelled “Lucy,” but Luke’s version comes from the concept of “Brave Spelling” being taught to the kindergarteners in Mrs. Meinhardt’s
More intelligent people than yours truly might pick out a little Heidegger for leisure reading, but I go for things like the thrillers penned by
. I’ve read them all.
One of the pleasures of Sandford is that he is Minnesota-centric, with most of the crimes he deals with taking place in the Twin Cities or “Greater Minnesota.” In one of his books some of the action took place about a block from where I really live.
Of course another of the pleasures is in thinking along
“Feedback.” This is a constant aspect of internship. Feedback from supervisor to intern, from intern to supervisor, from lay committee to intern, from intern to lay committee. Sometimes, unfortunately, feedback leads to hard feelings. Sometimes, even more unfortunately, the fear of hard feelings leads people to withhold important feedback.
In a recent “Corner Office” column from the Sunday
New York Times
business section, Adam Bryant interviewed Andrew Thompson, the
I had some business to transact with a large corporation and, reverting to my dinosaur ways, chose to do it by telephone rather than on-line. While I had dealt with this business for several years, I had never created an electronic relationship with them, and doing so at this time—when I was dropping their service—seemed like more trouble than it was worth. So I called.
You know the drill. “Please listen carefully, for the options have changed.” So I listened. And pushed
Funny how things sometimes flow together.
There I was at my desk. I had just read a review of a local performance of one of the great old classic plays of the American theater,
by Thornton Wilder. The dramatic nexus of that play comes when Emily Webb, dead far too soon after her marriage, is given the chance to return to earth to relive one day of the life now ended. She chooses her 12
birthday, but is quickly frustrated by her inability to break through the routine-ness of everyday life