BOXING DAY

And today (Boxing Day) is the day that the privileged members of the Victorian Bourgeoisie traditionally shared year-end gifts of appreciation with their servants. It's a tradition that survives today, at least here in the US, principally in the form of tips to the paperboy and the doorman, or maybe one's hairdresser, or gardener, or anyone else who provides a personal service. According to Wikipedia, its origins are ultimately found in the Roman tradition of the Saturnalia, a week-long year-end revel where slaves and masters reversed their roles, and large amounts of alcohol were consumed by all.

In the 19th century Frederick Douglass wrote bitterly about how the "holiday" between Christmas and the New Year was used by white slaveholders to degrade African American slaves - first by encouraging widespread drunkenness, and then pointing to the same as "evidence" that slaves were simply not capable of managing what little freedom they were allowed. The modern day African American holiday of Kwanzaa emphasizes the exact opposite values, and especially a reaffirmation of "the communitarian vision and values of African culture and...its restoration among African peoples in the Diaspora, beginning with Africans in America and expanding to include the world African community."

Personally, I still feel a great deal of ambivalence about what to think or do about these awkward seven days that mark the transition from one calendar year to the next, and separate the first half of the church Program Year from the last. I'm glad for the rest, but panicked by expectations, and worried about things I can't control, and will never be able to control But I'm also intrigued by the idea of a seven day holiday that begins with a Celebration of Unity, and ends with a Day of Assessment, and in between lifts up the communitarian values of cooperative effort, shared enterprise, creativity, and self-determination. But mostly I think I just like the colored candles.

from the Official Kwanzaa Website, www.officialkwanzaawebsite.org

CHRISTMAS DAY

And now that the Christmas Eve service is over, I'm not scheduled to preach again until January 11th. Next Sunday Kitsy and the Worship Committee have something special planned for the end of the year, and the Sunday after that (January 4th) Will will be leading our traditional "Burning Ritual," an alternative service of Joys and Concerns where the participants secretly write their regrets from the previous year on a scrap of paper, and then burn them in a large metal bowl we have set up at the front of the Meetinghouse. So when I'm finally back in the pulpit myself on January 11th, I will hopefully be feeling rested and energetic again, and ready to resume the every-other-Sunday preaching schedule we've mapped out until Easter.

Meanwhile, I still haven't gotten around to writing my annual Holiday Letter either, which seems a little redundant given the amount of blogging I've done this year. Still, it is a tradition I would hate to interrupt, and perhaps just that small and gentle contact...an e-mail with a link to the text of the actual letter itself -- will be sufficient. I sure have enjoyed the cards, letters and e-mails I've received from so many of you. One of my favorites actually contained the suggestion that in light of the recent events of December 14th in Bagdad, we need a new Constitutional Amendment protecting the right to Bare Feet.





Oops! Forgot that I was blogging on One Day Isle. This sort of post is much more worthy of The Eclectic Cleric. Maybe I'll see you over there.

CHRISTMAS EVE

And this is what I'm using for my new computer "wallpaper." When I see photographs like this, it's easy to reflect back on what a wonderful Dog Parker really was, and the qualities that made her that way. But mostly it was just the time we spend together. Not every waking moment, certainly; in fact, ,if anything, the opposite -- it was the time this little dog spent sleeping in my bed that really imprinted us one to the other. That and the weekend road trips to those small congregations where I was consulting, and there were always so many new and interestng people to meet, and she always had to be on her best behavior.

In any event, an excellent Christmas Eve candlelight service tonight, if I do say so myself. A comfortably-full sanctuary, a half-hour of easy caroling, and then the traditional service of carols and readings, followed by my Annual Christmas Eve Homily -- a little pre-celebration socialism to truly usher in the Spirit of the Season. And I was also able to give our Sexton the Boxing Day gift we had secretly collected for him the previous Sunday. Delighted to say that we surprised him twice: first when he felt the thick envelope, but even more so after he had opened it. So that was a great thing too, all thanks to a simple suggestion at the Staff Meeting from our Church Administrator that we really ought to try to do something a little special for our Sexton this year. So I made the appeal and the people responded...and another George Bailey moment gets "paid forward" by this church.



Here are a few more Parker pictures, just because I had them available. It astonishes me to notice how much she had aged between the time that first photography was taken when she was still a puppy, and the photo taken at the Seaside Rehab, only a few months before I finally was able to let go and say goodbye....



And yet I am also confident that our Spirits will be reunited again, just as depicted on this card my Aunt made -- the two of us sailing off downwind...though whether that represents the sunrise or the sunset really depends on our ultimate destination.... Guess I'll just have to trust my moral compass on that one. And maybe I will have to sail upwind just a little....

THE LONGEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR

I know it's been way too long since I last posted here; no excuses, really, other than the same old ones I've always used: I'm sick, I'm busy, I've got a lot of other pressing priorities which conflict with spending the time I need to writing here. Big excitement this past week has been learning, literally a day late and a dollar short, that my tiny little Eastern Massachusetts Unitarian Universalist Ministers and Employees Group is going to be changing their Health Insurance carrier from Harvard/Pilgrim to Blue Cross. I'm not at all happy about this, because from my perspective Harvard/Pilgrim has always been an EXCELLENT Health Insurance provider, and with the exception of the out-of-network second opinion I received at Sloane Kettering, I've never had a hassle with them. And who knows? Blue Cross may turn out to be just as good. But changing ANY insurance plan at this point of my life is going to be a hassle: now I'm probably going to have to go back and get all new Primary Care Physician referrals, and re-preauthorizations for my CT scans and other tests...it's just a big pain in the tuckus which frankly I didn't need.

In any event, I still feel very fortunate to have health insurance at all, and am so grateful for the care I have received from my physicians and other health care providers, as well as the support of my friends, family, colleagues and congregation; it makes it easy to feel optimistic, even in the midst of this dark and gloomy season of the year. Delightful Solstice service yesterday, BTW, all planned out by our Minister of Music Charlie Grindle and Ministerial Support Team member Kitsy Winthrop. My contribution was limited to welcoming the visitors at the beginning of the service, and supervising the announcements, as well as assisting with the collection of the offering, which included a "special" offering we were trying to keep secret from someone in the church. I'll know Christmas eve whether or not we actually pulled that one off. I'll be so excited if we do.

People have either been asking how I feel, or commenting on how good I look, and the truth is yes thanks both -- I've been feeling absolutely fantastic these past few weeks, ever since we juggled the meds for controlling the side effects from my first round of chemo, and it makes such a huge improvement in my quality of life. I'm sleeping better too, and having my Dad here to chauffeur me around makes all the difference in the world. Last night almost seemed "normal" -- after church we came back home and kicked back for awhile, then around 4 PM went out for pizza at Bonobos (where I used to spend almost EVERY Sunday evening last winter) where I had a hot cider instead of what would have been my usual cold microbrew, and enjoyed a Pepperoni pizza while my Dad had Caesar salad and a slice of my pie. Outside the blizzard raged, but we were warm, snug and cozy across from the woodburning pizza oven, and were safe home again by 5:30.

It's not really a new lesson, but it's something that I find continually reinforced again and again by my illness, especially in this season of contemplation and renewal. If I can just learn and remember to let Life come to me, rather than constantly striving and grasping for the things I THINK I want or need, but which eventually prove hollow and disappointing... like I said, it's not a new lesson. It's probably the oldest lesson in the book. But it's an important lesson nonetheless, which brings together all those conflicting yet complimentary virtues: patience, persistence, tenacity, ambition, desire, gratitude, generosity, forgiveness, hope, aspiration, trust and confidence....Faith in its most pure and unadulterated form...Hey! -- what did you expect from a preacher anyway? Faith in its most pure and unadulterated form. No wonder I'm looking and feeling so good.

EAT, SLEEP, READ

This was the sign in the window of the Longfellow Bookstore here in Portland, which I parked in front of this afternoon while my Dad (who had just picked me up from church after the weekly staff meeting) ran into the bank to deposit a check. And the irony of it impressed me immensely -- because I HAVE a lifestyle now that is pretty much "eat, sleep, read" but such simple things such as getting to church, shopping for groceries, or going to the bank are essentially impossible for me without the assistance of someone like my Dad. Without my Dad (or the assistance of someone) I am essentially housebound, and when not eating or sleeping am either reading or writing, or getting ready to travel to a medical appointment -- the one destination where the assisted/independent living center provides transportation for me if I need it.

There are work-arounds I could hire an attendant, and doubtlessly will sometime after my Dad goes home at the end of the month; but the one excellent candidate I had identified to the job folded his tent and moved to Montana for the winter (which caused me to question his judgment just a little, even if he does have family there!). My fantastic neighbor has been, well, fantastic about carting me back and forth to church, and to various other essential errands too...but she has a life of her own which is incredibly busy in its own right, and I'm always a little concerned that the time she spends helping me is lost to her completion of her own activities. And I suppose I could always call a cab, or draw upon other willing church volunteers (as I occasionally have) to help me get from point A to point B.

But the irony has to do with the nature of freedom and "independence." How many of us have daydreamed about having a life where we are free to devote ourselves almost exclusively to reading -- to the comfortable chair, and the pot of warm tea on a rainy afternoon under a bright reading light. There's nothing better in the world! Except when that's the ONLY activity that you can do by yourself, and your "independence" is dependent upon the kindness of others....

One Day Isle?

No, these are not UFOs, or a picture of what awaits us on the other side of the rainbow bridge, the terminus of that "bright tunnel of light" so routinely reported by those who have undergone a "near-death" experience. Rather, it is a photograph of the lithograph that hangs on the wall of the waiting room at my Physical Therapist's office, with the two banks of overhead florescent lights reflected in the framed glass. But it COULD be that other place, at least in my imagination... with the moored boat, and the lighthouse, lots of lawn for Parker to run on, and a waterfront cottage filled with books. It could be that place....

Not that I'm planning to visit that place anything soon. The imagination is a wonderful thing. Yes, it allows us to see things that aren't really there: to view images of realities that exist only in our minds, and then (perhaps) to make those things real. "If you have built castles in the air," Thoreau writes, "your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them." These days, a good portion of my time is devoted by necessity to that first endeavor. But I still have hopes of building a solid foundation as well, so that these bold visions might have a solid base to sustain them. Then I really will feel like I have accomplished something important with my life.

Good Mourning, Good Grief!

And I've been thinking a little about all the things I've "lost" as a result of this cancer, and grieving them as i would any loss. Although the irony is that the two things I miss and grieve most were not "things" at all, but actually living beings, and their loss had nothing really to do with my cancer at all. The first of these is my mom, who actually passed away on June 10th, 2007 - yet who I will always associate with this place and this ministry since she held back word of her diagnosis until after I had completed my first candidating sermon here (on Mother's Day that same year), and because I have missed her just about every waking moment since, espcially after being diagnosed with cancer myself. And my second great grief is the loss of my beloved companion animal of 13 years, "The Adorable Parker," who I sent ahead to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge this past October 4th, and who I also continue to grieve almost every day, although not nearly so intensely as I do my mom.

But between these more profound sources of grief, I continue to mourn a small handful of more mundane losses, which are far more closely related to my cancer itself.

I mourn the loss of my ability to walk, and the corresponding lack of mobility that goes with being confined to a wheelchair pretty much every waking moment of the day. This may not be forever; God knows I'm doing what I can in Physical Therapy to build up the supporting muscles around my back, and hopefully to figure out ways to minimize the pain and increase my endurance. But at this point it sure seems like an awfully long road to walk (with plenty of annoying stairsteps along the way) Grief comes easily in comparison. Especially since it is something I have to live with every single day of my life.

I mourn the loss of my ability to drive my car, and the corresponding lack of mobility that goes with THAT! This is a very different kind of lost freedom - to have to depend on others simply to get to church, get to the store, get to my study at the Eastland or to a Restaurant or the Hospital. The irony here is that physically I am probably capable of operating my car now, even with the clutch and the standard shift. But the amount of narcotics I need to take in order to keep my pain under control really prohibit me from safely operating a motor vehicle, not to mention the question of how do I get to the car in the first place, get the wheelchair in the trunk where it belongs, get myself back behind the wheel, drive to where I'm going, get the chair BACK out of the truck for me to sit in again, and.... Again, not entirely outside the realm of possibility. But a pretty long road to go....

I mourn the loss of my old apartment, and more specifically the joy and the freedom I experienced living there my first year here in Portland. I loved my West End neighborhood, the local restaurants, the easy walks to church and to the Eastland, and just being able to get out and around. And then suddenly I'm in the hospital and that whole part of my life is over. I continued to lease that place from April though July in the hope of being able to return, but finally gave it up when the lease was up. A pretty expensive storage locker, even if "hope" was the most important thing I stored there after all....

I mourn the gym, and those days not so long ago playing pick-up hoops with the over-35's in Concord, or at Nantucket High School, and even the undergraduates at the University of Oregon. Most of all I mourn the Boston Sports Club in Waltham, where I could go in the late afternoon and enjoy a circuit through the resistance training machines, a half-hour's worth of basketball shoot-around, a quick jacuzzi and sauna, and still be home in time for dinner and whatever evening meeting awaited me at church. Never really did make that kind of connection here in Porland. Thought about the "Y" (which was both affordable and convenient), but kept procrastinating and procrastinating...and now it's just another thing to mourn. Somehow I doubt that I will ever be playing even modestly-competitive basketball again...but a sauna and a jacuzzi every now and again would be nice! And my real ambition now is to get fit enough to sail.

There are other things I mourn as well of course, but these four activities (and the freedoms they represent) are the ones I miss the most. And at the same time, I'm also quite grateful for the things I CAN still do....

I'm grateful that I am still able to preach as often as I do -- that I can climb those half-dozen stairs into the high pulpit every other week, and share with the congregation whatever small wisdom I may have to impart that Sunday.

I'm grateful for the support of my friends, my family, and especially the members of this church, who have made it so easy to fight this disease without growing discouraged, and who have done so much for me personally to keep my spirits high, and to help me hold body and soul together.

I'm just grateful to the Mysterious and Sacred Powers of the Universe itself, the Spirit of Life, our Loving and Benevolent Creator, Chance, Luck, Opportunity, Good Fortune -- whatever it is that has given me this highly unlikely (at least statistically) shot of self-reflective consciousness: this all-too-brief "dual reality" of "being alive and having to die." Like every one of you who are reading this blog, I am a small part of the Universe becoming conscious of itself, and thus speculating about what it all means, and my own purpose and meaning within this grand (and perhaps accidental) design. Good God, what a Mystery! Are our minds even remotely equal to the task? Yet if we start out small by learning to Know Ourselves, and then gradually expand outwards from there: always authentically, always faithful to the things we have learned, yet open-minded enough to encounter other learnings....

Is it any wonder that gratitude always trumps grief in my experience, and that optimism rather than mourning remains the principal mood of the day....

How Time Flies!

And i can hardly believe that it's been over a week since I last posted here. No excuses, really; just a "normal" week where I got a little carried away with outside activities, and never really got around to things like this. I did have a nice visit frow some freinds from Nantucket over the weekend, and I also preached on Sunday, a sermon titled "Naughty or Nice" {LINK} which did take up a little of my time and attention. I know a lot of people get a little worried when I don't post, but this time it's actually GOOD news -- I'm feeling a lot better, rather than worse.

I'm also struck from time to time by how closely my living experience here at the Senior Assisted/Independent Living Center resembles that of living in a college dormitory. I've certainly had plenty of experience of the latter, where the days also tended to revolve around meals, the mail, afternoon naps and staying up WAY beyond my bedtime. But here, in place of classes, we have medical appointments instead, and apart from that there just isn't that much time left over. Plenty of activities scheduled though, from daily Bingo and a variety of exercise classes to old movies in the theater and shopping trips out to the Mall or Wal-Mart. We often get school or scout groups coming through the building this time of year as well, here to perform community service, or sometimes simply to perform. And it's certainly been an interesting experience for me so far.

We all take our meals each day at our assigned tables: my three "messmates" include two retired postal workers (both now in their nineties), who grew up here in Portland, have been retired longer than I've been in the workforce, and (in one instance at least) still have fairly large extended families in the area. My third companion (isn't that what the word literally means? - someone with whom we share bread) is another man about my own age (early fifties), who also has some sort of disability, but continues to hold down a job (as a dishwasher in a nearby reastaurant).

That's another interesting thing about living here, which is that median age is probably somewhere in the eighties, and the women tend to outnumber the men by a ratio of almost 3:1. Yet for the most part we sit at "same-sex" tables. Part of the reason for that I suspect is just that there aren't enough men to go around, but I'm also beginning to wonder whether or not we all just prefer it that way. Not that the conversation around our table tends to be that lively; mostly (when we talk at all) we talk about the food, the weather, what the doctor had to say, democratic politics (the two retired postal workers are both very loyal Democrats), or the latest program on the History Channel. If we're lucky one of the postal workers will sometimes share anecdotes from his service in the Second World War delivering the mail in France. They're all about cultural interaction; nothing "shoot 'em up" at all. But still they changed his life in a life-defining kind of way.

These guys are an inspiration to me. They wake up every morning in pain, limp through their daily activities, eat their meals, read follow the political scene, visit with their families, all the time knowing that most of their life is now behind them, But even so, each new day is also a gift from the universe, to be savored in all its intensity and brightness for as long as god continues to give them.

And it just tickles me so

...when they call me "Father." It's doesn't happen that often, so that when it does it's still a bit of a surprise; but it happens often enough now that I'm kind of learning to like the sound of it. Father, Brother, Sister...such familiar, familial language in an attempt to capture and express a profound commitment to a very special kind of relationship...although mostly I suspect it just happens out of childhood habit, an unforgotten token of reverence and respect.

Much more rarely am I addressed as "rabbi," although in many ways that is a title I would much more proudly embrace. I honestly don't feel like I'm smart enough to be a real rabbi, although now that I'm into my third decade as a UU minister and with a PhD in hand, I'm starting to feel like maybe I could sit in the same room and listen attentively. The Hebrew alone would kill me, although I suppose If I'd been raised with it, it would be different. And no doubt I romanticize the role, just as I'm sure many people romanticize my job: a room full of books, and a life not only devoted to scholarship, but a lifestyle of Devotion AND Scholarship -- and study itself as a form of devotion, or even prayer. I'm drawn as well to the idea of a true Sabbath, with no work of any kind...not even to light a fire. How different from the "Day of Football" so many Americans observe on Sundays in this season, with its associated gambling, drinking and snacking, and hours squandered in front of a television.

Brother & Sister have so many other connotations: the monastic life, or an hermetic one; or perhaps simply participation in an "unprogramed" silent Quaker-style meeting. What does it say about me that the kinds of religious life that appeal to me most (besides the one I've already chosen for myself) are ones that would put me out of a job? Can't explain it, and don't want to try.

In any event, HERE is an amusing little something that I found on another site, filled out for myself and posted over at The Eclectic Cleric, which was my original blog when I first got started doing all this back in 2006. Wasn't all that sure of what I was doing way back then, and I'm still not all that sure now. But since then I've started and stopped perhaps a dozen blogs, including ones for my mom's memorial service and an archive of my letters from Denmark, sermon-blogs for Nantucket, Carlisle, and here at First Parish, a pick-up basketball blog (Obi Wannabe Kobe) which I described as "Old School reflections on the Meaning of Life, Popular Culture, and the Essential Wisdom of Pick-Up Basketball," and of course now this cancer blog, which has accumulated both more readers and more posts than any of the others in so much shorter a time. But I guess there's nothing like a real human interest aspect to gather attention. And this blog certainly has both....

A Red Christmas Cardinal

From time to time I need to remind myself that I don't really need to publish an entire dissertation here each time I post; that sometimes it's enough just to make a quick observation and pass on. For example, lovely service yesterday for the first Sunday in Advent: a comfortably full house, a frisky spirit, fantastic music, and a guest speaker too, Karen Foley, who we invited in at the last minute because people were worried after last weekend about whether or not I was going to be physically up to preaching yesterday. As it turned out, I was feeling fine, and am now looking forward to next Sunday with eager anticipation. Meanwhile, yesterday I helped lead the rest of the service (and especially the Announcements, Candlesharing, and Offertory), while Karen carried the more liturgical/"spiritual" elements (the prayer, lesson and message...plus invocation and benediction) and contributed yet another voice to the expanding chorus of colleagues who have come forward to support me during my illness

I also received a very nice gift yesterday, inspired by a sermon I preached a year ago. Here's the manuscript LINK -- see if you can figure out what the gift might have been....

Food, Family, Football II

Well, Oregon State's Rose Bowl aspirations are not to be satisfied -- or at least not by their own hand. The Ducks came into the Heart of the Valley and gave the poor Beavs a 65-38 spanking right there in their own back yard. Ouch! The Beavers can still play in Pasadena on New Year's Day if UCLA manages to upset USC next week, but odds are that the Beavers will be playing in El Paso's Sun Bowl next month, USC will meet Penn State in the Rose Bowl, and Oregon is probably now bowl-bound as well, although I haven't the slightest idea where.

But enough sports. It was great to see my family for the holiday, to share that special holiday meal and even to share the four hours in the Verizon store on what I thought would be a 45 minute errand. But I finally think I have all my phone and internet problems resolved...at least for now...assuming I can find the time on Monday to do all the actual software installation and synchronization. But I will. No Worries.

And for those of you who missed it yesterday, here is the bird's-eye view of Husky Stadium and (more accurately) Union Bay where the boats raft out on game day starting from the small marina on the left-hand side of the photograph.

Food, Family, Football

[Earlier this week, I posted this comment to a friend's much more popular (and therefore more widely read) blog, "Beauty Tips for Ministers:]

...[my family and]...I have been going “holiday lite” (as opposed to Holiday Lights!) for years. I’m bothered by how the individual holidays have lost their religious distinctiveness, and instead become kind of a stinky amalgam of shopping, consumption, gluttony, overindulgence, and other such nonsense. An annual Holiday letter, two or three gettogethers with friends and family, and the traditional Xmas/UU holiday services such as I find them: here a Cider & Cornbread Communion, an annnual pageant (created by Vincent Silliman, a former minister of this church, and now in its 80th+ year), a candlelight service, and an annual New Year’s burning of regrets. In years past I’ve bought food baskets for my relatives, buts, but may do something different this year reflecting my disease.

The one thing I miss is a good annual Holiday football rivalry! Whether it’s been Harvard - Yale,or the Ducks and the Beavers, or the Cougars and the Dawgs, for me Thanksgiving in particular has traditionally been about food, family, and football…a trinity deeply grounded (if you read up on these things) in the historical evolution of the holiday itself.


Comment by The Eclectic Cleric — November 26, 2008 #


Last week's "Apple Cup" did little to feed the hunger. Apparently this was only the fifth time anywhere that two college football teams with a combination of 20 losses have met since the formation of the NCAA, and the fact that it took overtime for the two teams to settle the result (since neither seemed capable of losing it outright in just four quarters) simply seemed like "par for the course." And the Seahawks v. Cowboys Thanksgiving Day showdown wasn't much help in taking the edge off either. But at least I could tell it was a football game going on, which was some comfort.

The best thing about Washington football has always been the opportunity to "tailgate on the poop-deck," which is to say take your boat to Portage Bay, raft on to the huge FLEET of boats that assemble there on game day, then make your way across the raft at gametime and enjoy. Hell, now that I think about it, I wonder whether you even have to ATTEND - just join the raft, enjoy the party, and then when the games starts put on the radio and go down in the cabin and write. Something to think about, in the HIGHLY unlikely possibility that I ever move back to Seattle, am living on a boat, still serving a church, and decide to become a local Husky football fan again. I mean, once you were actually PART of the raft, it would be awfully hard to get you out again...




THE Game last Saturday, which featured Harvard's 10-0 domination of Yale (on what I believe was the 125th iteration of their competition) was apparently respectable enough. But still, it had none of the makings of the classic 1968 game featured in a recent documentary on the subject, where a til-then undefeated home team (Harvard) came from way behind to score two touchdowns and two two-point conversions, which eventually lead to the headlines: "Harvard Beats Yale 29-29" and "Old Schools Tie." And don't get me wrong. I really enjoy Ivy League football, and if I could have simply disciplined myself to get my sermons written before Saturday I would have bought season tickets and enjoyed EVERY game the Crimson played (Hoop too. Probably even Women's Hoop.). But now it's a little late for that.



The real problem with IVY league sports (not that it's really a "problem") is that very few of those kids have ever really played on a field like this. This is Ratliff Stadium in Odessa Texas, home of the Permian Panthers MOJO and scene of the book, film and (presumably) television series "Friday Night Lights." Below is the empty parking lot as you see it in the daytime, just to give you a little different sense of the place. A lot of these Texas Schoolboy Football teams could blow undefeated through the Ivy League without breaking a sweat (OK, they would sweat. That is, perspire.).

I recently saw an interesting article by a former Harvard student who was talking about how difficult it is to get in to Harvard (in terms of the competitive admissions ratio, at least), and wonder what was he going to do with his life now that he had already accomplished the most difficult thing the most difficult thing in it at the age of nineteen...only to discover that admission to Harvard merely opened the door to all SORTS of other interesting and even more difficult challenges.

But many of these West Texas High School football players really HAVE seen the best years of their lives by the time they turn nineteen. That was the whole point of the book (Friday Night Lights) -- how do you BACK to being an oil roughneck after you've been worshipped like a God?



At least this year's Oregon/Oregon State game (I can't bear calling it "the Civil War." Maybe "Warfare on the Willamette?") has some meaning. The Beavers are undefeated this year at home, and if they can beat the Ducks there in Corvallis they will be going to the Rose Bowl for the first time in a long time (1965: Michigan 34, Oregon St 7). If they don't, then USC is playing in Pasadena (yawn. just another home game), and both the Ducks and the Beavers are bargaining for bowl bids somewhere else. So sorry Mike Belotti -- I'm pulling this year for the kids from the Heart of the Valley. And since I have degrees from both schools, I can't be wrong in that either. I know it's been a long time for the Ducks too (1995: Penn St 38, Oregon 20). But at least that's more recently than New Years Day, 1920, which was the year Harvard handed the Ducks their tailfeathers, 7-6.

Vintage Gas (from the UK)

I'm not sure whether this guy is trying to tell her that her money's no good here, or that she needs a ration coupon before he'll fill her tank, but until I found the Germans he seemed like a strong candidate for the other Gas Post. Of course, the dialog doesn't really come across in translation. Just what would the German for "fill-in" BE anyway, and would the homonym still work? One would probably have to make up an entirely new word, which would change the joke. (Just like the image did anyway, although it also helped me find it. Still: "Ich will Ihren Benzinmeister sein?" I don't think so....)

These other photos are also all from the UK, only current times. Just in case you happen to be living overseas, and want to enjoy a little meaningless recreational driving, as so many of us STILL do here in the States....



A filling station in Wales, with two great vintage gas pumps right out front.



This vintage pump is located in Cornwall. Just what is a "Gig Club" anyway? Anything to do with small boats?



This Filling Station is in North Yorkshire. You can almost see the Scottish influence, in the location of the American-style "Picnic table" around the corner to the left as you exit the shop to return to the motorway....

Happy Motoring, Everyone!

GAS SPOTTED FOR UNDER TWO DOLLARS IN PORTLAND MAINE

"Good Morning! Welcome to The Filling Station. My name's Phil, and I'll be your fill-in today. Fill 'er up?"

My Haunted Home

And it's starting to happen, just as I always knew it would. I can hear her rustling dogtags tags as though she were right in the next room, shaking her collar. Or hear what seems to be her heavy breathing as she sleeps, and sometimes I even think that I've just caught a gimpse of her in the corner of my eye as I'm entering or leaving a room. And ALWAYS my left eye, it seems; never the other.

Sometimes I just wake up in the middle of the night, and feel her presence nearby.

And for thirteen years it always was....

And then, of course, two months ago now we finally had to say goodbye. She waits for me now at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge, and someday sooner or later we shall join each other there, and once again be united in the Spirit as we cross over together into whatever awaits us next.

Does that sound too conventional? Almost naive and childish, like pie in the sky when we die? A boy and his dog, frolicking again on a sundrenched meadow, running and playing fetch on an endless summer day, and feeling young and happy and alive again....

Or maybe it's a beach, and the muddy tideflats of a place like Camano Island? A boy and his dog in the bathtub, watching the dirt stream off of her and leaving me only with a pouting, but clean-smelling pooch with shampooed, fluffy fur and dog-tired from her romp?

What does it matter? I am so thankful for those years, and if that's the most comforting measure of eternity I can summon up, why should I criticize or judge it?

Instead I thank God for the great gift of this animal. As I have written here before, I am a better person now as a result of my relationship with this dog, and my decision to bring her into my life and care for her. To feed her, shelter her, groom her and take her to and from the vet: to be her "master" (or perhaps, more accurately, the leader of the "pack"), no matter how childlike it may seem.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

a note on the photo -- this picture was taken in 2001 while I was on my way from Nantucket to my first Thanksgiving with my brother in Connecticut. It was seven years ago, ten weeks after 9/11....half a lifetime for Parker, as well as the year my nephew was born. How much water has flown under the bridge since then....

The good news is, the fire station is just across the street

Long time readers of this blog will immediately know why this front page story from the Portlaned Press Herald (albeit below the fold) is upsetting to me. Just before my illness, Monday night "Stump Trivia" at Bingas Wingas had become a fixture in my life, and once I was released from the hospital I continued to play as often as I could...which meant basically whenever I could get a few friends to play along. My brother got to be so infatuated with it that he even started to stay over a day on his weekend visits when he could, so that we could play together.

In fact, most of my friends who experienced Trivia started to feel a little enthusiastic about it. When my good friend Chris was here last summer visiting from Seattle with his family, we played together two weeks in a row (the second week with his daughters), and actually won prized of hats and tee shirts for them to take back to the west coast with them. But my best experience was playing with both my brothers and my sister-in-law when they were here visiting in June. It was amazing to me how quickly they recognized the strategy of the game, and how easily we settled into a working routine of play with each of us understanding our roles in processing the questions and generating either the right answer (or on occasion a correct guess). It was like we'd been playing together for months, even if it was only the first time any of them had played at all.

More recently I've been playing with a small group of church members, either with or without my brother. And I've lost track now of how many times I've won prizes playing this silly game. My favorite prizes were always free Portland Sea Dogs tickets, followed by "Binga's Bucks" and Bingas gear (i.e. hats and shirts). There often seemed to be plenty of beer paraphernalia available from our local breweries as well, but it always somehow seemed to evade me, Likewise, one of the traditions of game is to chose a different, unique, and sometimes a little risque name for the team; may favorite was (and remains) carpe scrotum (which I understand has now been picked up as a permanent moniker by another trivia team playing another night in a different bar) It means exactly what you would think it would mean knowing that carpe diem means "seize the day!"

Bingas has been important in my life in a few other ways as well. I was eating lunch there one day with my father when it occurred to me how annoying it was to have to reach up over my head just to eat a wing, and knowing that I was eventually going to have to climb up on a stool in order to preach from the high pulpit again, I decided to start small and see If I could manage to climb up into a bar stool first. I could, and so you might well say that my return to the ministry started from my decision to sit first at a bar (rather than the other way around).

But the other thing I always appreciated about Bingas (at least before I was diagnosed) was that it was somewhere close to my home where I could always get a quick bite to eat and watch a game without being immediately identified by what I did for a living, rather than simply by the fact that I was a "regular." In Ray Oldenburg's terms, it was a "Great, Good Place" -- a Third Place (apart from home or the office) where I could relax and "be myself" without always needing to be my ENTIRE self. Where I would be recognized with a nod of the head by the other regulars, and enjoy many of the pleasures of being in community -- good company and lively conversation, for instance -- and still go back home in the evening and back to work in the morning without worrying too much about what went on there in my absence. Pubs, cafes, bookstores, even hair salons all share some of these characteristics -- as can urban churches when the "chemistry" is right and the ministry of "Radical Hospitality" is correctly understood. Of course, churches can be much, much more than this as well. But being "a great, good place" for a few hours on a Sunday morning (or perhaps a Wednesday evening) isn't such a bad thing for a church to do well. And at places like Bingas, I also started to learn a little more about what that looked like.

Incommunicado and Aching to feel better

And if you're wondering why I've been virtually incommunicado for nearly a week, it's because I have been, and I'm not even sure if I can remember all the detail about how it come about. Relatively painless chemo last Monday (I think), and Tuesday and Wednesday were pretty painless as well. But I was starting to feel a little less chipper by the time Thursday rolled around, and Friday I was a basket case. Part of the problem was that at some point my SMTP host stopped recognizing my outgoing mail, but more to the point is that my post-chemo side-effects suddenly shot of the page...so now I have over 152 unread/unanswered emails in my in-box, and none of my temporary "work-arounds" seen to being even close to catching up. So if you have a solution for me, give me a call -- or send me an e-mail in ALL CAPS (so I'll be able to hear it over the "noise" of my box)

Meanwhile though, desperately struggling to get my physical pain under control, which has now become so excruciating that I actually had to drop out of today's service, and have booked a substitute for next Sunday. And believe it or not, his is all I can manage for today. It's funny. When things are going smoothly, life seems so flexible, and I feel like I can go on forever. And when things take a turn for the worse, well...I'm sure you get the point. Now I'm just going to try to find a happy picture to post, and see whether that turns things around...rather than running them further aground.

The Hurrieder I Go...

the Behinder I get.

And this is really getting to be not much fun at all. The pile of crap on my desk just keeps getting higher and higher, and I feel trapped in this terrible double, triple, quadruple bind of knowing I need (and wanting) to slow down, and to eliminate a lot of the extraneous distraction from my life, yet still feeling like there is so much more that I want and NEED to do, and not being able to keep up...whether by working smarter, or harder, or longer, or by delegating the "non-essential" tasks to others, or even by "dumping" altogether the things in my life which are neither urgent nor important to me.

If anything, I feel like I need to find MORE time in my life: to read, to meditate, to exercise and pursue my physical therapy, or even just to nap and take it easy...something I seem to have been able to do far more easily when I felt healthy than for some strange reason I am able to now.

At least I did have one nice moment of inspiration today though, when I saw a version of this in the newly-released fall "Forum," which is Seventy-Five State Street's Resident magazine. Afterwards found several other variants on the internet, and since no one seems to be willing to claim the original as their own, I tweeked it a little until I got a version that suited me, and have now become "Anonymous" again myself. (Mark my words, this will probably turn out to be another Fulghum "Kindergarten" kind of tale, but until it does....)


[by Anonymous]

If you can start the day without caffeine;
If you can always be cheerful,
ignoring aches and pains.
If you can resist complaining, 
and boring people with your troubles.
If you can eat the same food every day
and still be grateful for it.

If you can understand when your loved ones
are too busy to give you any time.
If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,
And overlook those times when those you love
take it out on you when,
through no fault of yours,
something goes amiss.

If you can ignore a friend's limited education
and never correct him,
If you can resist treating a rich friend
better than a poor one,
If you can face the world
without lies and deceit,
If you can conquer tension
without medical help,

If you can relax without liquor,
If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,
If you can honestly say that deep in your heart
you harbor no prejudice
against creed, color, religion or politics....

Then, my friend, you are almost as good a person as your dog!

Warm Beer & Cold Pizza

Once a month the Activities Department here at the Assisted/Independent Living Center where I currently reside hosts a Social Gathering for men in the South Commons Living Room. There are generally about a dozen of us who show up to eat cold pizza (typically sausage and onion, but sometimes also pepperoni or plain cheese) and drink warm beer (yesterday Bud Light, with a single Silver Bullet tucked in among them...but sometimes also Heinekens or something from one of the local craft breweries: Shipyard Ale, Gearys Winter Ale, or the Long Trail Pale Ale). And then there is always Ginger Ale (and sometimes even Root Beer) for the teetotalers among us, one of whom has been attending AA for over 50 years.

But moving right along, yesterday I attended this pathetic but well-intended effort to create male camaraderie because on Monday I learned that my most recent CT scan shows that the primary tumor in my right lung has once again started to grow, which means that NEXT Monday I begin my second regimen of chemotherapy. This time I'll be taking two drugs named Olympta and Avastin, probably only once every three weeks for a total of 4-6 cycles, which may then be followed by a course of treatment with yet a third drug, Tarceva, which is an oral medicine rather than an IV infusion. But a lot of this is yet to be determined, since what we do next really depends upon how well what we do first actually does.

Even so, this news was obviously a big disappointment. I've always known that there was more chemo waiting for me somewhere down the road, but I'd anticipated it starting up later this spring, and being able to tiptoe through the holidays without letting cancer become too big a factor. But apparently that's not the way it's going to be; instead, it looks like I'm going to be celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas and Hanukkah, (a.k.a. Feast of Lights, Festival of lights, Feast of Dedication, Chanukah, Chanukkah, Hanukah); Yule; Saturnalia; Shabe-Yalda; Bodhi Day (a.k.a. Rohatsu); and whatever else may happen to stumble along my path with a tube in my chest, rather than painted blue and dancing around a bonfire in praise of the Huntress, the Horned King, and the Lord of Misrule.

Or to put it another way, all I asked for was a little wassail and some figgy pudding, and instead I'm left to make due with warm beer and cold pizza. Bud Light, fer crissakes. I hardly know what to say next. To memories of better Christmases past! And the hope of many Christmases yet to come...

Nominations for First Pooch

And I'm a little embarrassed to say that I've gotten so carried away with this conversation about what kind of puppy the Obamas should acquire that I've been neglectful of many of my other "duties" -- not the BIG ones, of course, but little things, like keeping up with this blog and answering my routine e-mail. Instead, I've been surfing the internet for photos and other images suitable for posting...even though I know most of you would much rather hear from me in my own words.

Here's an interesting photo, for example, of a Boston Terrier in a stare-down with a Siberian Husky. Looks like it could be a poster for a big football game between Boston University and the University of Washington, or even a more mundane basketball showdown between BU and nearby UConn. But the truth is, it's just a random photo -- significant to me only in the sense that I am indeed a Washington Husky (undergrad), and my very first dog (or perhaps I should say -- my very first "Dog of my Own") was a stray Alaskan Malmute mix (i.e. a "Mutt") who showed up at Juniper Beach the summer after I'd graduated from High School.

We immediately hit it off, and he didn't have to follow me home because we were already there. I named him "Foster" -- in part because he was indeed a "foster" dog, in part because he reminded me of a character in a novel I was reading that summer (Richard Brautigan's The Abortion), but also because he reminded me of a sophmore girl who had likewise followed me around for most of my Senior year hoping, I think, that I would ask her out!
The very first dog our family owned when I was a kid growing up was a dachshund named Gunner. I remember "Gunny" as a mean little dog who barked constantly, slept most of the day (when he wasn't barking), and who didn't care much for little boys who pulled his tail (that was, after all, the safer end of the dog), played too rough, or got between him and his food dish. But my dad adored that little black wiener dog, and he lived with us through most of my childhood, until he finally lost the use of his rear legs and had to be "put to sleep" (as my father so gently put it).

Over the years though, I've developed a whole new respect for Doxies. And critter who is bred and trained to crawl face-first into a badger's den and kill them has my respect, which is EXACTLY why the Dachs ("badger") Hund ('dog" or "hound," - duh) was created in the first place. Of course, nowadays they do all sorts of more creative things, including performing in the The Greatest Show on Earth! They're a lot smarter than you might think, despite their admittedly ridiculous appearance.

I'm not actually suggesting that the Obamas should adopt a dachshund. It actually sounds to me like the Labradoodle (and, more specifically, a Goldendoodle) is both a great choice and the front runner, and who am I to argue with polling data at this point? I'm certain they will be very happy with whatever dog they adopt, regardless of whether it turns out to be a purebred champion or rescued mutt.



On a similar note, people keep asking me about when I'm going to get another dog of my own. And the answer, of course, is I don't know -- although I'm not really in any big hurry to take steps in that direction either. Parker was a fantastic companion to me for over 13 years, and I miss her company more than I can say. But before I commit to another dog, I need to have a little bit better sense of how much longer I'm going to be around to hold up MY end of the covenant. Not to put too fine a point on it. In the meantime though, I am learning to take great pleasure from "other people's dogs," and in sharing memories of Dogs I Have Known and Loved with other like-minded souls. Besides, my new totem animal is now a Giraffe -- and I've decided to take a little time to explore what that means before taking another "non-spiritual" critter into my life. But that's another post. Hope you've all enjoyed this one.

We Can, We Did, and Then Some

And like just about everyone else I know, I am very excited about the election -- or at least very relieved to have it over. Or ALMOST over -- still waiting to hear whether Al Franken is going to be able to pull out a victory out there in Minnesota, which I sure hope he does. It's a strange coincidence, but it just so happens that Mr. Franken is married to the daughter of one of the sisters of one of the fellows I eat breakfast with every morning, so we keep hearing the updates about Jim's "nephew" every day as we sit down with our coffee (which is nice). Hard to believe though that people are already speculating about whether or not Sarah Palin will be making a run in 2012. Trust me America -- by 2012 Sarah Palin will scarcely be a footnote in a Texas-approved High School History textbook.

Did a very stupid thing today --well, more absent-minded really. But the middle of the day came and went, and for some unknown reason I simply forgot to take my mid-day meds. Forgot about them all the live-long day, until I finally got home from the Membership Committee meeting tonight at a quarter of eight (feeling terribly flush, puny, under the weather, and not quite myself)...discovered my mistake, and took them then instead. Now I'm starting to feel a little better, but still nowhere near as good as I would LIKE to feel...plus I'm dead tired, yet kinda wanting to stay up late enough to get close to back on schedule again.

Meanwhile, here's an image I would like to hold on to for a long, long time. Because I could sure use a little bipartisan peace and quiet for the next couple of years or so....

The Society for Utopian Studies

And I know this is supposed to be a "cancer" blog, but it really has pretty much evolved into a "life, the universe and everything" kinda blog -- the blog that the original "Eclectic Cleric" was supposed to have been when I first started writing it back in 2006. And I guess that's OK with me for now as well -- my tumors are essentially dormant, and God only knows when they'll decide to wake up. [And as far as I'm concerned, they can stay dormant as long as they like! You know what they say: let sleeping tumors lie] Still, the medical part of my life story is actually pretty boring at the moment. I have relatively good pain control; my fatigue is getting markedly less severe; and my strength and mobility seem to improve almost daily.

So instead I have a panoply of lesser symptoms/side effects which I never really noticed before: dry mouth, hoarseness, and shortness of breath for starters; occasional blurred vision, intermittent ringing in my ears and other hearing difficulties; and finally bruising, edema, and various other little skin things associated with the blood thinner I've been taking to treat my deep vein thrombosis. The weight gain issue, of course, has gone from being mildly humorous and amusing to a pretty serious source of distress and annoyance for me -- taking that weight off is going to be an awful lot harder than putting in on was...but who in their right mind wants to read about that?

Likewise, after Tuesday the Election will be over too. Or at least I HOPE it will be over, and that an unambiguous victory with a powerful electoral mandate will have gone to the first African American President in American History. That would certainly give me plenty to write about..but it might grow tedious for those who do not share my own peculiar political sentiments.

Meanwhile though, I've actually had a pretty full week this week. The Society for Utopian Studies was hosting its 33rd annual conference here in Portland at the Holiday Inn By The Bay, and my friend Diana (who just finished her PhD in Comp Lit at the University of Virginia) was here in town to present a paper in a panel called "Embodying Utopia: Should Utopians Have Perfect Bodies?" Her paper was about "The Immortal Cyborgs in Abre los ojos by Alexandro Amenabar" and was almost completely incomprehensible to me except for a great, off-the-cuff quote from Donna Haraway about how "I'd rather be a Cyborg than a Goddess." I was more taken by some of the broader ideas that emerged in the conversation between the panelists that took place after the presentations about the differences between utopian imagery of "bodies plus" (i.e. eugenic manipulation, or certain cyborg technologies) and "bodies minus" ("virtual" bodies in the forms of avatars, or disembodied consciousness) and their various dystopian varients (Brave New World, Blade Runner, the Matrix).

It was a little easier for me to keep up with the panel on "Transcendentalisms Old and New" which was mostly about Thoreau's "Pocket Utopia" at Walden, except for one paper about utopian imagery of Wilderness in Thoreau and John Muir, and the development of "Eco-Tourism." And there was also a panel on "Geriatopia" and the use of Utopian Imagery in the marketing of Retirement Communities which I found kind of intriguing given my current living situation. But I think what I liked mostly about the conference was how profoundly interdisciplinary the Society is, and how much fun it was to catch up with Diana, who has just started a tenure-track job out in Ohio, and still isn't certain where she belongs in a state that is "High in the Middle and Round at Both Ends."

The Church Service Sunday was Día de los Muertos, and didn't leave much left over for me to do once I had welcomed folks to church and greeted the newcomers. We only do it once a year, and so once again we were all over the place liturgically -- the preacher actually skipped over her sermon in order to get to the Offering, which is almost unimaginable to me! (She did eventually go back and include it, and her message itself was actually quite inspiring). Early in my career I routinely skipped over the offering in order to get right to what I thought was the "main event" (i.e. me preaching), which always made the treasurer a little nervous. But I don't think it ever would have occurred to me to do it the other way around. Taught the first "New UU Inquirers Class" after the coffee hour, with two more sessions to follow on the next two Sundays. Had eight turn out for that as well, not including myself and the other co-facilitator, or one of the participant's Golden Retriever.

Anyway, I guess that's about all for now. I'm very happy to be feeling a little better, but I worry about how quickly that could turn around without warning. I'm trying to pace myself and take it easy, but I'm also trying to push myself a little as well, in the hope of continuing to make progress on my strength and stamina and mobility. And mostly, I'm just trying to make the best of those "good days" that the Goddess gives me, since I'm not really sure I WANT to be, say, a 600 lb cyborg in a motorized chair living "the life of the mind" at the expense of sensation and physical pleasure.

But that's a topic for another day.

Living the dual reality....

Like a lot of folks in the UUniverse, I imagine, I tuned in yesterday to "Fresh Air" on NPR so that I could listen to Terry Gross interview Forrest Church about his most recent book Love & Death: My Journey Through the Valley of the Shadow. The interview itself was no great shakes, although, in all honesty, I SO admire Forrest and the quality of the work he has done over the years that it would be very difficult for me to be any more impressed than I already am. And there was at least one part of the interview that I liked so much that I jotted it down, although I'm sure I've heard it before and it came almost as an aside -- when he described God as a "life force, that which is greater than all, and yet present in each." To which I would add "and in whose presence we are reminded, and made to realize once again, that we are part of a greater whole, and still whole within ourselves."

Hearing Forrest's interview came at the tail end of a pretty long day that also included my own monthly medical check-up earlier that same morning, and the rather distressing news that I have gained ANOTHER 15 pounds in the past four weeks, and for the first time in my life now tip the scale at over 300 lbs. This is getting ridiculous! Any yet...

Well, part of the problem really is body image. Because unless I really concentrate, when I look in the mirror I don't see this:



or this:



or even this:



What I DO see are these other guys down below -- the guy that I was BEFORE I got cancer, and suddenly had to accept the limitations that life imposes as honest-to-God realities, and not just in the abstract. It was easy to gain this weight: the food is free, it tastes real good, there's plenty of it and not much else going on in my life to keep me entertained at the moment. Add that to the fact that I get virtually no exercise, and...well, four pounds a week is about an extra 1600 calories a day. So I really have been eating for two!

Sitting on my scrawny rear and showing off my youthful curls, c. 1975

Parker was still a puppy, just before my 40th birthday

Helping my nephew Michael figure out Windows (or maybe he was helping me). Michael is now a student at Washington State University, where he plays clarinet in the marching band.

At least I did see the Nutritionist yesterday as well, which was a small help -- although (as I told her) I already KNOW HOW to eat more healthy than I do. So it really is mostly a matter of making up my mind to do it, and then taking that commitment seriously and sticking with it over time. Make, Take, Stick...there's GOT to be a better mantra than THAT!

The Luxury of a Free Saturday

And it's not the extra free hour on Sunday that makes a week out of the pulpit so refreshing. It's the extra 14 hours+ I get back on Saturday, not to mention the time during the rest of the week when I don't have to think about what I'm going to say on Sunday morning. Try as I might to change the habit over the decades, I have always been a Saturday sermon writer...and no matter how early in the week I begin the task, it seems as though I am almost always still working on my manuscript right up until the last minute anyway. I suppose part of the reason for this is that preaching in my mind is very similar to journalism, and to the daily work of journaling I try to practice as an informal spiritual discipline. Almost all my sermons seem to have their start in my diary anyway. And you certainly wouldn't expect people to sit patiently and listen to someone read to them from a month-old newspaper.

Of course, the other metaphor for preaching is "feeding the flock." And that understanding also lends itself quite conveniently to the understanding of fresh ingredients freshly prepared. But lately I've been working back in the other direction as well. Because good writing is generally the product of diligent re-writing, my writing teachers always told me. The ingredients may be fresh, but the recipe can always be tested and tweaked through practice and experimentation until it is "just right." And what I've realized is that I have a unique opportunity right now to return to some of my favorite material, and give it the kind of polish and scrutiny that the hectic press of preaching every week AND doing all the other things that Parish Ministers are called to do has always prevented me from doing in the past.



Meanwhile, last night I dreamed again of Parker. Not the frail, uncomfortable failing Parker of her final days, but Frisky Parker who chased balls tirelessly and ran flat out with the big dogs across the mud flats at Juniper Beach -- my little Boston Terrorist, who feared nothing, and refused to back down to any other dog no matter how intimidated she should have been. In fact, she often frightened me with her stubborn courage. But the thing I'll miss most about Parker is that she made friends easily, and that almost everyone who met her seemed to love her almost immediately. Or to put it another way, Parker was a babe magnet, who could elicit all sorts of oohs and ahhhs from attractive, desirable strangers who would never give ME a second glance.

Porcupine Balls

And because of my busy schedule yesterday, I had to delay until today my special birthday meal here at the Assisted Living cafeteria. It's the practice here to cook the birthday boy or girl whatever they want on their birthday -- a policy which (when I first was informed about it a few weeks ago, so I could make a decision about what I wanted to eat) seemed an awful lot like the last meal of a condemned inmate, but is actually a very nice personal touch in an environment that always flirts with the danger of becoming just another impersonal social institution.

And who knows? I don't mean to sound morbid or anything, but around here it is not an entirely unjustified assumption to believe that ANY given birthday might actually be one's last. And this is true even for someone like me, who (yes, counting this birthday) is STILL 41 years younger than BOTH of the gentlemen with whom I share a table at mealtimes! When I realized this, I decided that maybe I wanted to make a little bit bigger deal of celebrating my birthday this year after all. Which means I'm going to KEEP on celebrating it all the way through the weekend, rather than just letting it fade back into obscurity.

Because I know you're curious, the meal I requested was Porcupine Balls, with fresh French cut green beans and a white birthday cake with raspberry filling for dessert. These were a great comfort food from my childhood, and to my great surprise they came out just the way I remembered them. The green beans were a big disappointment though -- actually, they were MIA entirely, and replaced by broccoli that was barely recognizable as such, and had certainly seen much better days. But the cake was magnificent! Good healthy slices for my messmates and myself, and one for my fridge for later -- then I cut what was left into much more manageable pieces, and wheeled myself around the cafeteria serving out slices to whoever wanted one. Worked out a little like the loaves and fishes -- and was able to serve the last person in the room the last piece of cake.

And while I'm on the subject of birthdays, I was reminded again today that I actually share a birthday with another very famous (or should I say Imfamous?) Tim, who celebrated his last birthday over a dozen years ago now. Here's a little something about him that I wrote at the time.

"THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN AMERICA"

ENJOY!