Settle For One Day To Believe In You

Not following a particular religion can make holidays feel a little weird.

A few of my Facebook friends on Monday posted about celebrating Passover. I checked my status feed this morning (Good Friday), and was greeted by at least 25 posts thanking Jesus for his sacrifice.

Generally, I try not to broadcast my feelings about religions. I like to spend a great deal of time with someone, usually, trying to get a feel for them, before I will tell them how I feel about religion. Now that I think about it, it's not really all that odd, to wait until you're familiar with someone before treading those grounds with them.

This country is still predominantly Christian, and it shows in my behavior, as I behave like a minority. Is there an issue of trust? There might be. You could say, I do not trust my acquaintances to stick by me if they knew I did not share their belief with them. Could that also be insecurity on my part, that I'm not willing to stick up to me beliefs in the face of opposition? Yes, but in the case of agnosticism/atheism, what do you gain by sticking to it? Nothing.

It would be foolish, in my estimation, to assume that although I tolerate my friends' beliefs, that they should tolerate mine. If a person follows a religion, then they should follow it to the exclusion of all others; if you have the faith that you're right, then you should be convincing all others to agree with you. If you aren't trying to convince others, how strong is your faith?

So, I say "Bless you" when someone sneezes, and I go to church with my family. I stand up and sit down at the right times, and I teach my children the prayers and psalms. It's a basis of a moral education, for them, and a constant reminder for me, of what I do not possess.

Conservatives in this country are right, in this one thing: tolerance will lead to the destruction of religion as an exclusive institution. If everyone is allowed to believe however they want, and the sheep quit attacking the goats just because they are goats, then the "us vs. them" argument fails to carry any weight.

Would be a bad thing? I can't be sure. I think I'd still miss the holidays, though.

Until another time,
Salt

So They Cut It Down To 3:05

I've quit listening to so much talk radio, and I think it's done wonders for my blood pressure. However, it doesn't help me get worked up for blog posts. Many factors limit my intake of stupidity; I hardly watch TV, and I don't read the news.

Well, that last part isn't entirely true. I still follow the links when someone sends me something to read. I know about the NFL lockout, I am aware that the Iowa Legislature is trying to cover up the state's animal husbandry practices, and some Great Lakes states are trying to close the budget gap with spending cuts they should not be making. However, all of these events have critics who are much more invested in the issues than I am, and can get fired up more easily.

Facebook is not a great place to get news from. For a while, it seemed that everyone was very concerned that I knew that Charlie Sheen was unbalanced. This...this is not news. I am never happier to be a quiet, private person than those times I see the entertainment media machine magnify someone's life to ridiculous proportions.

So, what have I been doing? Entertaining myself. My kids are getting older, and reading with them is great fun.  For my hour-long commute, I've obtained some audiobooks. Additionally, my car has satellite radio, which has some really interesting stations (the classic radio suspense station is currently high on my list).

Typically, though, I harvest my entertainment from video games. I work with computers all day. Staring at two screens covered with the arcane language of database queries, I make my daily wages. People with whom I work ask me, "How can you stand to go home and look at another computer? Don't you want to do something else?"

My reply is always the same. "At work, I don't always get to win against the computers. At home, I get to pick the stress level I want. I get to pick the battles...and I get to win."

Until another time,
Salt

Don't Cry Because It's Over, Smile Because It Happened

I was informed today that my friend Cathy Mckinna died.

To the best of our knowledge, she died in her sleep two nights ago; she was found in her bed, and had not been to work in two days.

If someone asked me to speak at her memorial (although I'm sure no one will), I'd have this to say.

I will miss Cathy, because my time at work was made richer by having her there to share it with. I didn't see or even talk to her every day, but the times we worked together were enjoyable. She was a good co-worker, smart and clever in just the right amounts. She never asked me the same question twice, which raised my respect of her many times over.

When I last talked to Cathy, she was filling out her forms to become a US Citizen. She'd set the money aside, and had downloaded an app for her iPhone to take the citizenship exam. I think she'd have made a good citizen for this country.

On a personal note, I considered her a good friend, too. She had compassion and empathy and insight. She liked showtunes. Also, she laughed at my jokes, which is more than expect from most of my friends...and what a laugh she had! You could probably hear her laughing from a mile off. It was worth it to get Cathy to laugh.

Yes, I will miss Cathy. I hope someone gets her to laugh, wherever she is now, so we can all hear that again.

Until another time,
Salt

Her Daddy Wrestles Alligators, Mama Works on Carburetors

Well, it's happening.

The eight year old boy is questioning the existence of Santa.

He started in, innocently enough (and lucky for him, without his five year old sister in the car). "There's no way reindeer can fly," he tells me. Which led me down a line of questioning that demonstrated to him that he had no idea how anything could fly. He finished with, "There's just not enough force!" To which I replied, "Maybe they are Jedi reindeer." He laughed it off, "Not that kind of force, Dad."

Circumspectly, he's been undermining Santa, then checking me (or his mother) for reactions. He still composed a letter to the man, hope springing eternal, and put it in a Santa letter box he knows of.

Literacy, problem solving, sense of self: all these things he has done, and they indicate he is growing up; this is the first one that has made me wish he was not. When he asks me later this week, I'm not sure how I'll answer. But I know how I want to.

Many great things have been written, some of my favorites I've referenced before. This is another of my favorite writings. It makes me tear up a little, to think about a person writing such an eloquent response to a point-blank question posed by a young girl. To think about a young girl posing such a question to the newspaper, and hoping for an answer, makes me tear up a little more.

She got her answer, which I have copied shamelessly from The Newseum.

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Published on Sept. 21st, 1897, the editorial was left unsigned. Seriously, though ... who was thinking about Santa in September?

Until another time,
Salt

Are Part of Being Young

Editing comes naturally to me.

I have a friend (I call her a friend), whose blog I started reading a while ago. Her blog is different than mine, and I'm sure it appeals more broadly. She allows for variances from the rules of writing; hers is more of a stream of consciousness flow, conversational in its manner. She writes while her emotions are still raw and powerful, and I would not be surprised to hear that her keyboard was wet from her own tears at the end of more than a few of them.

Without realizing how damaging this could be, I reflexively critiqued her writing, from placement of punctuation to spelling errors, typos and verb agreement, and so on. I didn't mean to offend her, and luckily, she knew that I intended no such thing. She politely notified me that she didn't think she wanted my help, and it was then I realized that I had been essentially editing her diary or journal.

Her thoughts, her feelings...shared with the internet, but still her emotions, laid bare. I had run roughshod over them, because while I was reading, my eyes would stumble over misused grammar, and it jarred me away from the perfect immersion of her story. I wanted everyone who read it to experience her weavings without interruption, and I had tried to change it to fit my view of what it should (or should not) be.

This revelation made me think about my friends (I call them my friends), and how we approach writing our blogs. Some write their blogs like journalists. They are art critics and sports beat writers, political strategists and foodies. Starting with a play or a plan or a plate, they explore each part of it with their words. Others still are travelers, whose blogs are a place to record what they experience on their journeys, so we might see the world through their eyes.

My writings? These are my essays, awaiting publication; my arguments, prepared to face attack; and my speeches, searching for the right audience. Each word is carefully chosen, every connotation is weighed carefully against the others. Even my mother tells me that my thoughts appear to have "boiled" for a while before I couch them here. I strive to be thought-provoking. The written word is more to me than just a tool to convey thoughts. It's the medium in which I choose to frame my existence.

An apology to my friend (I call her my friend) for trying to edit her soul from her blog.

Until another time,
Salt

Each and Every Note Another Octave

I voted today.

My lovely spouse had gone before me (while I was taking the children to school), and called to say we weren't on the registered voter list. She mentioned to me that the volunteer had said that sometimes people just drop off the list. She reminded me to have my driver's license handy.

When I got there, I went to the registered voter line, organized alphabetically. I handed the volunteer my driver's license, so I wouldn't have to spell my last name (which is easily misspelled).

Still, it got looked up wrong, and I was told I was not registered. I pointed out the error, and after flipping back a page, my name was found, immediately following my wife's unsigned line.

Then I mentioned that my wife had already been there, and that she had been informed that she was not registered, and that she had registered again, and that she had voted. I was assured that her vote would count. Which makes sense, after all, it's a secret ballot, how would they know which one was hers? Since she doesn't plan to return and vote again under her registered name, I think she'll be able to vote in future elections, as well.

Our volunteer looked rather embarrassed about all this, so I told her that it was still pretty early, and she'd probably only had one cup of coffee so far. Her fellow volunteers laughed, and I went to retrieve my ballot.

How did it go, you ask?

I voted to increase the local property tax, because I have seen the school district budget, and I know how the state money has decreased, while the need to educate our children has not. Also, some of the school buildings are so old, they are out of code; they need repairs or replacement of certain fixtures.

I voted against all incumbents, because sometimes I'd rather have "the devil I don't".

I voted for everyone running unopposed, because they need affirmation, too.

I did not vote for anyone in the race that I had not researched (Judge 3, 10th District Court), a fact that bothered me. I should have looked at the sample ballot on the Secretary of State webpage, so I would have been better prepared. I won't be missing this one in 2012.

Until another time,
Salt

Like a Hurt, Lost, and Blinded Foal

My faith is like a single thread, stretching up from me, into blackness I cannot penetrate.

It wasn't always this way. I used to have a rope; a golden rope, that I would lean on, pull on, use to hold myself up if  I felt I was falling.

A slow erosion of reason wore against my rope, and a thread is all that remains.

So, I have a single silver thread, impossibly thin. Now I stand without aid, and without fear of falling. Still, I hold onto the thread.

Mass was held last night, at my son's religion class. I attended with him, performed all the usual rituals with him and the others in the church. I felt as though I had attached a cup to my end of the thread, and I had whispered into it, "Is anyone there?" I pressed my ear to the cup, and waited.

I'm still waiting, as I have always waited before.

...and will continue to wait, so long as a thread remains. For when it is gone, it will not be because I let go. It will be because whatever I thought it was tied to has gone.

Until another time,
Salt

Inside This Ancient Heart

I have terrible dreams.

Lately, they've been about people dying. People I know. Sometimes individuals, sometimes couples, sometimes whole families; all dying.

But not me. I'm never the one that dies. I'm usually not even there when they die. Instead, I'm asked by the priest (rabbi, minister, etc.) to eulogize the deceased.

Each of these dreams has me going to the wake (visitation, calling, viewing, etc.) of the person (people) who has died, greeting and visiting with those who also knew him or her (them). I hear stories, all stories I've heard before, from the other mourners, and everyone has a favorite memory. We pray in whatever custom he or she (they) practiced in life. I am always the last to leave.

Then I go home (sometimes alone, sometimes to my family), and I sit down to write. I've gotten quite far into some, before I realize I'm apologizing for them. "I know that so-and-so had [some negative quality]," like, didn't share feelings well, or had an annoying speech habit that everyone but them was aware of. So, I make myself delete that, and change it to a positive story.

When a person dies, no one recounts the "bad" parts. When a person dies, we go into our memories of them with a cloth, and we buff out all the negative things, and we shine up all the positive things, until their memory glows in our minds, and we celebrate that part of them.

So...why don't we tell them while they are still alive?

Having realized this, in my dream I start to cry, and I can't write anymore. I wake up, feeling awful about anything I've ever said bad about anyone, and I steel myself to be more positive, to everyone.

My friends and family, go ahead and put me down as someone who will speak on your behalf, should you proceed me out of this life. I don't mind. In fact, I may be able to write it in my sleep.

Until another time,
Salt


P.S.  Please, play this song at my funeral.

A Cry For Help, Look At Yourself

Critics drive me crazy.

The way I was raised, if you didn't have a better solution, you really have no right to go after the people implementing "bad" solutions. An example of this kind of behavior would be the Tea Party activists. Their rallying cries of "we're going to get spending under control" and "we're going to cut taxes" are just criticisms of government, not solutions to real problems.

The problems are very real. The solutions are not obvious. However, the screaming and clanging of bells tends to drown out the actual facts. I don't expect anyone besides me to actually read the budget of the United States Federal Government or the Statement of Public Debt, so I'll do my best to sum them up.

In the year 1998, the actual total budget authority (found in the 2000 Budget) of the US Government was about $1.6 trillion. Of that, about a quarter of a trillion was spent on interest. There was an actual surplus of about $69 billion. The actual debt stood at $5.5 trillion dollars.

To scale this back, suppose a household netted (after taxes) $35k. They have a mortgage (debt) of about $120k. They spent $6k on interest, but didn't pay down their mortgage at all.

In the year 2008, the actual total budget authority (found in the 2010 Budget) of the US Government was about $2.98 trillion. Of that, about a quarter of a trillion was spent on interest. There was an actual deficit of about $459 billion. The actual debt stood at $10.0 trillion.

Going back to our scaling example, our theoretical household is now a $60k household. They now have a $200k mortgage, and they just borrowed $10k to make ends meet (including paying about $6k on interest).

Pointing fingers (criticizing) is easy. Implementing change will be hard. No solution will be popular, because every good solution will be painful. Fixing the Social Security Ponzi Scheme will be an incredible task for any President. Health care is another issue that will likely be wrestled with again (and again).

Whatever mistakes have been made need to be corrected (without dwelling on the reasons the mistakes were made), and it's going to be more painful the longer we wait. In 1998, there was a budgetary surplus. For most of the 2000s, there was an actual deficit of $450 billion per year. The debt has climbed by over $1 trillion per year since 2008.

My solution would be to raise taxes, to reduce the deficit. Unpopular, yes. Would fix the problem? Also, yes. My original reason for looking up the budget was to find something to cut. Flat 10% across the board cut, and raise taxes. I don't have a solution. Before you vote this November (state and federal levels), please make sure the person you cast your vote for has a real solution, that addresses real problems; not just a "they screwed it up, elect me to fix it" platform.

I'd like to close with a statement from a Republican President (Theodore Roosevelt), on critics.

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

Until another time,
Salt

And Together We'll Spread The News

Some guy in Florida is looking to have a book-burning.

(apparently, his sudden notoriety has overrun his expected bandwidth, and the site is down. Maybe this Google cache link will work)

This country is big believer in rights. He has every right to do this; it's a mode of free speech. However, the rest of the world is going to do their best to shout him down; also, a mode of free speech.

I do not see how inflammatory actions like this will result in any kind of positives. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind (as is is believed M. Gandhi once said). This is not turning the other cheek, nor is it "spreading the truth," as he claims he is charged by the Bible to do. This is ideological warfare, and firing a salvo of insults that will be used for extremist propaganda is just poor judgment.

All that can be said on this has already been said, and much of it was said by people who are far more eloquent than I am.

However, I hope someone sets up 1,000 chairs for the event. So that when 900 of them are empty, they appear in all the media.

When Christianity turned 1400 years old, the Renaissance and the Age of Discovery were starting. The world as they knew it was being reworked. As Islam turns 1400 years old over the next 20 years, what changes will be brought to that culture?

Until another time,
Salt

I Must Have Done Something Right

Tuesday, September 7th, my girl starts school. 

I've known since I had this blog, that this would be the post today. I didn't trust myself to type it out, my eyes quit seeing so well about halfway through (same for the title song).

During the time I read to find this, and while I was re-parsing it, I found some people claiming it a poke at public schools, and that you should home school your children.

That is patently ridiculous.

Your child's ability to deal with other people in an environment that is not your home is completely up to you, the parent. My wife and I have done a spectacular job giving our children the tools they need (at least, what they need at age five) to make it in this world. I'm really terribly sorry if you're too selfish or protective to allow your children the independence they need to do things themselves. I feel bad for your kids, that they had such a horrible experience in school because you, as parents, failed them, so you took them back under your protective wings so you could shelter them for twelve more years.

I realize there are good home-schoolers out there. I wish you all well, and I'm glad you have the freedom to educate your children in your chosen method. However, when someone decries my lifestyle, declaring that all publicly educated children are being turned into robots by the institution, it breaks my "Be Nice" filter. Name-calling, fin (copyright: Dan Cook).

This is about growing up. It's about letting kids into the world, in a (reasonably well-) controlled environment, for six hours a day...and the things they will learn, that cannot be taught by a parent. I have a lot to say about this, but I'm running out of space. Know this, internet: my daughter will still sing "Paradise City" at the top of her lungs when it comes on the radio; she will still want me to catch moths and throw them into the webs under the eaves, so we can watch the spiders eat; and she will still do her best (not anyone else's best), because she is my child, and that is what we do.

So, here it is, the over-played, over-hyped, heard-around-the-country-on-the-first-day-of-school poem by Dan Valentine.

Dear World:

I bequeath to you today one little girl ... in a crispy dress ... with two blue eyes ... and a happy laugh that ripples all day long and a flash of light blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs. 

I trust you'll treat her well.

She's slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning ... and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. And never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proud she'll wave her young and independent hand this morning and say "Good Bye"... and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse.

Now she'll learn to stand in line ... and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She'll learn to tune her ears to the sounds of school-bells ... and deadlines ... and she'll learn to giggle ... and gossip ... and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy across the aisle sticks out his tongue at her.

And now she'll learn to be jealous. And now she'll learn how it is to feel hurt inside. And now she'll learn how not to cry.

No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch steps on a summer day and watch an ant scurry across the crack in a sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn to kiss lilac blossoms in the morning dew.

No, now she'll worry about important things. Like grades ... and which dress to wear ... and who's best friend is whose. And the magic of books and learning will replace the magic of her blocks and dolls.

And now she'll find new heroes. For five full years now I've been her sage and Santa Claus and pal and playmate and father and friend. Now she'll learn to share her worship with her teachers ... which is only right. But, no longer will I be the smartest man in the whole world.

Today when that school bell rings for the first time ... she'll learn what it means to be a member of a group. With all it's privileges. And it's disadvantages too.

She'll learn in time that proper young ladies do not laugh out loud. Or kiss dogs. Or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms. Or even watch ants scurry across cracks in the summer sidewalk.

Today she'll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends. And I'll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long, lonely journey to become a woman.

So, World. I bequeath to you today one little girl ... in a crispy dress ... with two blue eyes and a happy laugh that ripples all day long ... and a flash of light blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs. 

I trust you'll treat her well.

(I'm of the opinion this piece is by Dan Valentine, not Victor Buono. You'll find mixed reports on this, but I think the evidence is in Mr. Valentine's court.) 

Until another time,

Salt

We Provide a Vital Service to Society

Just thinking about others can provide me a great deal of happiness.

For example, I was at the health clinic the other day. I drove myself there, and walked around the van parked in front of the entrance that was unloading people in wheelchairs. Instead of being annoyed at having to walk around, I was happy I could walk in rather than be pushed.

At the check in, the attendant asked me if my insurance had changed. I said it had not, and she informed me of the $20 co-pay. I could have been bothered by the $20 charge to have the doctor look at me and tell me I still have allergies, but I was just happy that I have insurance when others do not.

I was initially troubled that the traffic was bad on my way to work, but I reminded myself that I was there to go to my job. I'm sure there are people who would take this problem in exchange for their problems; I'll be happy having a job, thanks.

My daughter's fifth birthday party is upcoming, with a Princess Tea Party theme. I'm happy to be able to pick up a costume for her, without worrying what fabric it's made of; it won't irritate her skin. The thought of trying to track down gluten-free tea cakes does not cross my mind, 'cause it is a problem we don't have.

The logistics of a Disney World vacation are quite daunting, but it's really a problem (set of problems) I'm glad to have. The planning ahead, picking parks to go to, trying to decide where to eat (getting mealtimes that range from 4pm to 7pm for dinners), gaming the up-and-down prices on airline tickets. Then there's the stuff that happens right before the vacation, wondering what clothes to pack, how to ensure we're going to drink enough water, etc. Again, I'm sure it's a problem that many would trade me for.

When it comes down to it, looking up never makes me feel better. It's when I look around at the other people suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes, I see that I have plenty to be happy about.

Until another time,
Salt

Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

So, my son went to a Twins game.

A friend of mine notified me that he had some spare tickets. I checked with my wife, and we decided she had more interest in seeing the new Target Field than I had (and the friend is a mutual friend); she went with our son.

Our friend brought his nephew, who is about one year younger than our son. The boys got along great, as all boys who meet doing something they both enjoy will.

Now, what you can't find by searching for the game stats (which are here) is the weather from that night. It was warm and sticky all day, and when the sun started to go down, you could just feel the thunderheads forming. I knew what time the game was at. I checked the radar, and I added in the average time a baseball game takes.

I sent them with ponchos.

After finding their seats, they discovered they had a great view of the backside of right-handed batters (meaning they had an excellent view of left-handed batters...of which the Twins have several). Hot dogs and brats were consumed, and they had a fine time at what turned out to be one of the fastest games this season (third fastest game of the MLB season, as of the date of the game, I've read).

They also stayed dry.

Sensing the weather was closing in, as soon as the last out was called, the adults were up and herding the boys to the car that our friend drove to the game (my wife hates driving downtown), to try to beat the storms. They ended up driving right into the teeth of it, but didn't see any of the tornadoes that were running around the cities that night. Upon arrival, the two boys compared Pokemon cards before my wife and son called it a night and headed for home. As I said before, boys who meet doing something they both enjoy will get along just fine.

What did my daughter and I do, you ask? We stayed dry too; we ate caramel puffcorn, and watched Disney movies involving princesses.

Until another time,
Salt

Watching Some Good Friends Screaming

I don't listen to as much talk radio as I used to.

This is a good thing, according to my wife; my blood pressure also thinks it's a good thing (I have less exposure to stupid people, who make me want to rant). However, I feel less informed about the world.

Maybe I have not mentioned that my car (whom I've named Bridget, just so you know) has Sirius Radio in it. Well, it does, and it came with a six month subscription. I really only listen to about ten stations, of which all but two are music (one is sports, the other is "golden era" radio re-broadcasts).

So, it took me a while to hear all these people whining that we can send a person to the moon, and we can make a phone call around the world, but we can't plug a leaking well?

I started a list of things that would compare and contrast these accomplishments. How many years of aerospace engineering went into putting a man on the moon? From Kennedy's promise to Armstrong's words, just over eight. How long did it take to lay the first Trans-Atlantic Cable? Eight years of failed attempts before one worked, and even that one failed within a year and had to be replaced. From Marconi first sending a wireless telegraph signal, to getting a wireless signal across the Atlantic: six years. These feats were over time spans not comparable to the blown well.

Regarding the well itself: it took them several months to drill it, what would make a person think it can be plugged in much shorter of a time frame? Additionally, it is over a mile underwater. This is not an insignificant distance, considering that it's through water, straight down. The pressure at that depth is something like a ton per square inch (depth divided by 33 feet [to get atmospheric pressure equivalency], then multiplied by 14.7 psi, the pressure at sea level). Yet, the oil just billowed out of it, indicating that the pressure on the oil was that much greater.

Now, since it's been capped, and they are monitoring the pressure of the oil on the cap, it's something like 3-4 tons per square inch. So, in just under three months, they managed to cap a blown-out well at one mile underwater, containing pressure of 6000 to 9000 psi.

Time span and difficulty aside, this is a human-caused disaster that is unprecedented. Should they have had a better disaster plan ahead of time? Yes. Should they have used better-quality material in the first place? Yes. Could this have been prevented? Ehh...that's harder to answer. A bubble of the size they estimate ruptured the well would have exerted something upwards of 50,000 psi....and that's a lot of pressure.

Until another time,
Salt

If I Listened Long Enough

My mind does not accept "magic" as an explanation.

I suppose it was sometime in high school that I first realized this. Something in my head wanted more repeatability and consistency in my life. Coincidentally, I started dating at this time, which didn't add to my repeatability or consistency levels.

Now, I understand there are many events that are "non-repeatable." For example, my mom is never going to have another child like me (for which, I'm sure she is grateful). My wife and I aren't bringing any more children into this world, but other people can, and do, all the time. The "Miracle of Birth" is ... well, pretty commonplace. It's also pretty well documented and studied; we know how it happens.

On a grander scale, there has been (to our knowledge) exactly one universe ever created. We can't tell how it got here, or if there are others, because there's not enough information. In ancient times, when there wasn't enough information to determine a cause for an event, it was attributed to some deity (for example, the seasons in Greek times were thought to be caused by Demeter's daughter being taken to the underworld for six months of each year).

As time has gone on, we've gotten better about gathering information. Our toolboxes for studying things has gotten better. We understand that the seasons are due to the tilt of the planet, toward or away from the Sun; it's not because some kidnapped goddess ate some pomegranate seeds in Hades. Once other explanations became available, religions based on explaining natural events faded, and religions based on how to live surged.

The concept of God is something that I struggle with daily. I was raised Catholic, and when I went through the Confirmation Rite, I chose St. Thomas (the Doubter) for my saint name...I also chose St. George (of dragon slaying fame) for bravery, because I knew I wouldn't last long as a Doubter without some Bravery thrown in. I ended up studying many different religions (even attended services for a few) in high school and college, but nothing in particular ever grabbed me.

All the services I attended, bible study groups I joined, retreats I went on, times I was an server (or eucharistic minister, later) at Mass ... I never really felt connected to any deity. It is for this reason that I have not attended services regularly in some time. Maybe it's time to start again.

It's not that I miss God. I find that I miss the people.

Until another time,
Salt

Why So Many Lose, And So Few Win

Lightning struck a styrofoam statue of Jesus last night.

Let me relate some facts, now that I've done a bit of reading about this statue. It was only six years old. The church it was constructed in front of built it (using donations, none of the regular church funds) at a cost of something between a quarter and three-quarters of a million dollars (depending on the source). It was a metal frame (the only surviving pieces), wrapped in molded styrofoam, and then coated with a thin veneer of fiberglass, so it could be painted to look like stone or marble.

There was, of course, criticism when it was built. It was nicknamed, "Touchdown Jesus" by some people. Heywood Banks (a parody songwriter and folk singer) wrote a song about it, entitled "Big Butter Jesus." There were people asking, "What else could the church have done with the funds they used on that statue?"

Now that it's been destroyed, I'm really shocked at the amount of people who are willing to ascribe this to divine intervention. Shouldn't we be past the whole, "God Smites Wicked; Full Story At Ten" mentality? I remember when someone tried to attribute AIDS to God, something about vengeance on the wicked (this is trending down). I remember just a short time ago a scientific experiment was conducted to disprove a claim that immodestly dressed women cause earthquakes.

Suppose there's a God (just go with me on this one), who spent a lot of time and energy between 6000 and 1400 years ago, sending the Divine Word to his creations. Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, Islam; assume these (and their associated publications) are the attempts of a Deity to inform us of His(Her) Will.

As divine works, these have a lot in common. They all include a creation story, instructions on how to worship, rules for treatment of your fellow man, etc. They all say Good Things™ will happen, if you follow their commandments. They contain stories of vengeance, of compassion, of mercy, of rules broken and rules upheld. There are wise people portrayed, and there are also fools (there sure seem to be a lot of fools, lately, doesn't it?).

This kind of reading can make a person think, "Ahah! They are all so similar! They must all be the Divine Word of God!" Of course, it can also make a person think, "Plagiarism! Someone wrote down some good stories, and all the other religions copied them!"

As for me ... I hope their statue was insured.

Until another time,
Salt

And Cheer Them With Fervid Elation

I was born during the winter in Nebraska in the mid 70s.

I like to tell people that my first words were spoken in the fall, and that they were "Go Big Red"; my parents assure me that was not the case. I'm told that my first words were, "Here's Johnny!"

I grew up feeling sorry for beating up Kansas, and worrying about Oklahoma and Oklahoma State. I hated all teams associated with Florida.

I considered a bit of a history lesson here, for context, but it's been done. The first article is (slightly skewed) from Sports Illustrated, the second is the Wikipedia entry for the (former) Big Eight Conference, and the last article is a timeline of events regarding (current) Big 12, Big Ten, and Pac-10 teams, and the conferences they have been affiliated with. So, I'll just intersperse my growing up with the changes I've seen in sports. If you need more analysis, you might read some Writing For The Cycle. He's much more knowledgeable about such things, and I'm sure he'll get to talking about this.

I moved to Minnesota when I was nine years old, carrying my Husker pride with me (which was a good thing, the Gophers were terrible in the 80s). I was a sorta Orioles fan, since Omaha didn't have a MLB team (Omaha Royals are AAA, so I kinda followed KC), but then the Twins won the World Series in 1987, and I was on the bandwagon. They did it again in 1991.

I started to learn hockey during this time, and began following the North Stars. I was not as devastated as many of my friends when they moved to Texas, but I was not happy about it.

I went to college at Drake University, in Des Moines, IA, still cheering the Big Red in the Big Eight (which, for 20 years at the beginning of the century, included Drake). Baseball lost a lot of its shine for me in 1994. Even in Iowa, in the heart of Hawkeye country, I found fellow Huskers. We would gather on Saturdays, and watch the Blackshirts eat up offenses for most of the 90s.

I remember the outcry among the Iowa fans when Penn State joined the Big Ten conference. I remember it being a big deal, but I didn't really pay much attention to it, because it was Big Ten, and although I lived in the conference, I lived and died with Nebraska.

I learned to hate Texas for reasons unrelated to hockey, when the Big 12 Conference was formed in 1996. They were arrogant bullies, and everything I hated Florida for being, but now Texas schools were locked into schedules with Nebraska every year. Texas got them to move the conference seat from Kansas City to Dallas.

I married in the late 90s, and my wife still jokes that she's a Cornhusker by marriage, and roots for the team because it's in the marriage contract. Nebraska's fortunes went down, and Texas fortunes went up.

I saw today that Colorado has left the Big 12 for the Pac-10. Nebraska is expected to announce it will join the Big Ten on Friday, June 11th, 2010.

I am not entirely sure what all the fallout from this will be. But I do know one thing: Nebraska already has one of these, which may help them get along with their new Big Ten brethren.

Until another time,
Salt

Please Help Them With Your Youth

I like tricking kids.

When babies are just at that age where they realize that I can hide a toy with my hands but it's not gone (object permanence), this is my favorite baby age. They've learned something, and I'm making them use it.

Another great source of entertainment for me is when kids ask questions I know they know the answer to. For example, my son used to come in from playing outside, and find me reading National Geographic magazine. He'd say, "What are you doing?" and I'd say, "I'm baking cookies." Then he'd say, "No, you're reading your magazine." I'd agree, and smile, and ask him why he asked, then. Now, he asks, "What are you reading?" and we occasionally get into good discussions about plant or animal articles.

Mothers that would see us out with our two small children would say, "Treasure this time; it goes so fast!" Parts of it don't go fast enough. Dinner times, for example, are exceptionally slow, and there's not much to treasure about them ("Sit up!" "Drink your milk!" "Don't talk with food in your mouth!" etc).

I've mentioned before, I have a son (who is now eight) and a daughter (who is four...-and-a-half, if you ask her). I'm not a perfect dad, but I do what I can with what I've got. The most treasured thing that has happened between me and my kids is literacy.

Our family was big proponent of singing the ABCs. Then, when they had that down, we all learned our ZYXs, too (yes, my kids know the alphabet forwards and backwards). Shortly after that, we learned character recognition, and we'd drive around town doing errands, and finding letters on signs. They would practice forming letters (usually, the letters of their names) during coloring time. We would read to them often, pointing at the words as we said them.

Naturally, I'll put forth that my kids are geniuses, inheriting a great deal of natural ability from their parents. But the fact is, kids who are exposed to people who read, people who enjoy reading, and people who demonstrate to the kids that they enjoy reading, will be interested in reading. Kids who are interested in a topic will put forth effort to learn it, and any kid that puts forth effort is fun to teach.

The eight year old is well on his way to literacy, having gotten through the second grade this year. He reads longer books, with semi-complex plots. I make him read to me, now, because I enjoy hearing such great progress.

The four year old (FOUR AND A HALF, DADDY!), she recognizes letters, and knows their sounds. It's only a matter of time before she starts seeing words as sets of letters and sounds, and then by "smooshing" the sounds together, she will read words.

I cannot express how wonderful it is to see a child's face light up the first time they realize they read a word using letter-sounds. I still remember it from the boy learning, and I can't wait until the girl does it.

This is the time, for me, to treasure.

Until another time,
Salt

Just a Little More Time Is All

I am a lucky man.

No, I didn't win the lottery (precisely), nor has my dream job as a professional mattress tester fallen into my lap.

However, I was born to two parents who are full of common sense, and instilled into all of their children the value of learning (even if it's not in a school), and taught us the rewards of having situational awareness. I was encouraged to try things, test limits, and take things apart (and put them back together).

This was possible, because my parents were born during the baby boom of the 50s, and they grew up in the 60s, when civil freedoms were finally (legally) pushed to the logical conclusions of frameworks laid down in the 1800s. They understood freedoms, and they understood prejudices, and they tried very hard to make sure they led by example, not judging people "by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character," as the good Doctor prescribed to the nation.

The baby boom of the 50s was due to the return of the men (and women, but mostly the men) who returned from Europe and the Pacific after World War II. Some of them brought brides they married afield, but many of them came back from their foreign service to girlfriends or fiances or wives; they started families.

But this past Monday, Memorial Day, is not a day to remember those that returned from that war, or any war. It's a day to remember those who have fallen, so that the others have somewhere to return to.

I'm happy I live in a country where I do not have to serve in the military. It's a volunteer militia, and I support them, even when I don't agree with the reason for action, or the deployment destination. It's not my job to decide how to protect the country, but it is still my country.

As short and as rocky of a history as this country has, it's seen a lot of fighting, and a lot of death. But every battle fought for freedom, for ourselves or others, we need to remember the price paid. I think #16 said it best, when he said that "The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here."

However, due to the influences of my parents, I still work towards a day when a military presence will not be required to defend freedoms for all to enjoy.

Until another time,
Salt

P.S.   Yes, I am quite pleased with myself that I managed to quote two of my favorite speeches in one post, thanks for asking.

Ain't Missin' Not a Single Thing

The air conditioner is on.

I've mentioned I live in Minnesota, and that I like winter. We had a bit of unseasonably warm weather here, and we turned the air conditioner on at home. It's not set real low, just cool enough that you don't sweat when you're inside.

It is on at the office, too. That one is set rather low. But it was so warm on Monday that by late afternoon, the office air conditioners couldn't keep the building cool anymore, and it warmed right up to 80.

However, I notice that all the men in the office still dress in slacks, and most of them still wear long sleeved shirts. Since the weather turned warmer, I've noticed the women have changed their dress style.

Then complain that they are cold.

I'm in favor of a comfortable workspace; if you dress appropriately, it is comfortable. Other than Monday afternoon, it's been a pretty predictable 69 degrees at work, which is fine for long pants (or a long skirt) and long sleeves. Yes, I know it's between 85-90 degrees outside.

But we don't work outside.

My wife said it best. "I can dress to be comfortable for my five minute walk from the office to the car, or I can dress to be comfortable for the nine hours I'm in the building."

I don't think I've ever been happier to have married a rational person.

Until another time,
Salt