The Perfect Song Blog

I discovered fairly quickly that the wheelchairs were not provided by Jet Blue.  This explained why the wheelchair attendant at JFK was wiling to leave the arrival gate and wheel my step-mother an eighth of a mile to the departure gate.  I tipped  her, she thanked me and disappeared into the crowd.  When we arrived at  the San Diego  airport a young African man with  a wheelchair was waiting.  He was quiet and very polite.  My wife and her mother made a stop at the women’s room.
“Where are you from? ” I asked.
“I came here from Kenya last year.”  After more questions I found out he followed his mother here, that he wanted to attend college to become a nurse and return to Kenya to  help his people.   “Do you work for Jet Blue?” I asked.
“No.  I work for a company that supplies wheelchairs and people like myself.  I don’t make much money, you know, my salary and tips.”  When my wife and her mom returned, we took the elevator  downstairs  and he patiently waited and helped my wife find our bags while I stayed with our computers and mother-in-law. I left him a large tipiand wished him my best. The taxi driver was also from Africa, here to make money, attend college and live a good life  without violence. 
I few  days later, on our way back from Encinada I noticed a text about American politics  on the console.  “Are you  a student?”
The young driver smiled.  “Post graduate.  I’m from Kenya..  I was in politics but with all the corruption I had to leave for my safety.  Now I am going return to do rape counseling and perhaps go back into politics where I can better help my people.”  We had a long talk about politics, and how American, Canadian and Chinese interests in Africa are changing his country for the better.
I struck up conversations all week with taxi drivers, grocery store packers and waiters. 
I realized that there is an entire underground of unseen people, many of whom are educated.  Some of them are more  worldly than I’ll ever be.
To them the American Dream not a weary cliche but something that is real, alive and dynamic.  They’re pursing it, living it, taking advantage of it in a positive, productive way.  Many of them are taking the Dream  and the  American  Experience back to  their countries.
I called our admissions director and told him if this country would ever get over its  hangups about immigrants there’s  a whole new population of students to  recruit.  Students who  are serious about life, who have goals and dreams.  People who have seen horrors in their country and are determined  to go back and make a difference.   
If higher ed truly cares about making a difference in an individual’s s life, in American society and in countries around the world, we have the opportunity.  Young people full of ambition and hope are all around us. 
All we have to do is recognize them and share what higher ed has to offer.

In my last post I reviewed Martha Horton’s first novel The Faun. I’m always interested in the creative process so I interviewed Martha to get more insights into her intriguing novel. This is part 1.

How long did it take you to write The Faun?

About six months, while on unemployment and not doing the 9 to 5 thing. It was fun, quick, easy.

Where did idea come from?

I first read Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun when returning to the US after several years in Italy.  I was fascinated with the premise and the characters - and frustrated by the loose ends, the 19th century syntax, the ending.  (Readers in Hawthorne’s day also were frustrated - the book became a “hit” primarily as an early guide book to Rome).

How long did you live in Italy?

I was there 1962 - 1965.  I edited  a tourist magazine in Rome, then edited a journal of international affairs at Johns Hopkins School of international Studies in Bologna, and finally worked as a correspondent for McGraw-Hill World News in Milan. I returned to the States because I was expecting my second bambino and my Italian husband had been drafted into the Italian Air Force, which at that time basically paid enough for one good dinner per week.

You were married to actor Steve Reeves’s double.

My husband was “discovered” on the beach (somewhat like Donatello in the park).

He doubled Steve Reeves in the “Hercules” series and also was one of about 30 stuntmen who attended a special school where they learned gladiatorial combat (net and trident, etc.) He was in a number of the “myth and muscle” movies like “Barabus,” “Ben Hur” and “Cleopatra” as well as some pirate films. But he couldn’t handle dialogue.

From the book, it sounds like you really loved the Italian culture.

Yes, I love the usual things visitors enjoy - the history, scenery, food, wine, art,  architecture, opera, the vitality of the Italians.  Living there is different, because you come up against some of the less appealing aspects - provincialism, cynicism, official RED TAPE that is appalling. Of course, I was there in the Sixties - almost half a century ago!

On a recent visit, I found Rome much more tourist-friendly than before, much cleaner, and somehow “homogenized,” as is much of Europe.  But as you walk the streets of the city there is still the same sense of coexisting with antiquity, and the atmosphere of “golden gloom” that is so compelling. I feel strangely at home in Rome.

What are some of the differences between the Italian and US cultures?

These are fewer and less striking than they once were.  Anywhere in the world, not so many years ago, when you asked a US citizen “Where are you from?” the answer was almost always ”America” or “The United States.”  Ask an Italian, and the answer would be “Roma” or “Siena” or “Sicilia.”  There was not a strong national identity - Italians identified more closely with their football (soccer) teams.  I think, particularly in the Southern half of the Italy, one stills finds a greater appreciation for simply living life well as opposed to “making it.”  Expectations may not include the big house and fancy car but they do include good food and good friends and close family and time to enjoy them. Also important is the “bella figura” -  good appearance.  You may live in a closet but when you go out, you take pains to be well groomed and well dressed. No butt cracks, no hair curlers.

The government there is much more socially progressive, i.e. universal health care and long vacations and “the 13th month” Christmas bonus, etc. It’s also incredibly corrupt at all levels (I’m not sure that’s so different from the US, but here we at least make a pretense of abiding by the law). And because Italy is not a world power, the Italians are not so obsessed with the military.

Note: More in Part 2 next week.  You can find Martha Horton’s novel, The Faun, at www.amazon.com

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Back home I put the tire on the tractor and take the weights off the back tires that I have to put on each winter for traction to use the plow. I then settle in to try to get the chains off. It’s usually a two-minute job but the guy who overhauled the tractor in the fall put the chains on as a favor and clamped them so tight I can’t remove them. I spend an hour, then finally give up and bend one of the links until I can slide it off, loosening t he rest of the chain and removing the master link.

I do this in between throwing the ball for Zeus, the German Shepherd. Every Shepherd should have his own flock of sheep or herd of cows so he can do what his genes tell him to and not reduce him to chasing a ball over and over. Although he seems to really enjoy it.

Then I start on the other tire. . .

I take a break and have a pipe and a coffee.

Leigh finds me and asks if we can put up the length of siding that blew off in a storm this winter. I haul out the ladder and climb to the top where the siding is missing just below the roof. A hornet swoops about, letting me know I’m precariously close to his nest.

After awhile he understands I’m not interested in it and goes away. I wonder if it’s part of local hornet lore that there’s this bearded guy who comes around every so often and sprays nests, killing all who are it in and anyone unfortunate to return and get their feet in the gunk.

I imagine they might talk about it. I mean, there are survivors in every genocide.

As I stand at the top of the ladder trying to get the siding to fit, the sky grows very dark and thunder cracks, echoing through the valley. The wind picks up. I don’t want to quit but it occurs to me that standing on a metal ladder with lightning just to the west and heading toward us is not very smart.

I ask Leigh to get me some white nails. She finds a few and I cheat. After I fit the siding in, I tack the nails into it so the wind won’t blow it down again.

I climb down the ladder just as the storm hits.

When it passes I go back out and spend a half hour putting the belts on the garden tractor mower.

Then it’s dogs in the Jeep and down to Miniers to find food for supper because we’ve both been outside working and I didn’t get groceries last week. I feel like a mountaineer going into town and bringing back grub.

I go for the quick stuff, things that we rarely ever eat – sausage and sauerkraut, barbecue flavored shredded beef. Pasta salad from the deli. Corn chips for the TGI Friday’s spinach cheese dip that I bought at Tops a month ago.

We have supper and another storm hits with a huge dark and greenish sky, meaning everything is right for a tornado formation somewhere. But that passes and we’re pelted with a good old-fashioned thunder storm.

We clean up. I fry the trout that my designer’s husband sent me because they know I love fresh fish. I cook it with Greek seasoning and will have it for lunch this week.

The dogs are beat from a day of frisking around, taking turns hanging with me and Leigh as we worked on separate projects.

I come up and write my thoughts here, and later we’ll watch a recorded TV program, probably Numbers or Without a Trace.

And that will be enough.

When I go a store, I don’t go to shop. I’m a male. I’m going for things I need.

I am not shopping.

Having made that clear, I realize that when I go to a store, something changes in me. The day-to-day laid back, I-love-everybody Dennis Miller undergoes a change. It’s subtle and it’s massive.

I want what I’m going after and I want no one in my way. On my way to say, Wal-Mart, I watch the traffic and try to get the lane lead when the light turns green. If I’m coming up on a traffic light and it turns yellow, I bump the gas pedal and slide under it, hoping there’s not a cop around working toward a quota.

I arrive at Wal-Mart which I have a love-hate relationship with (as I do all stores, except the Apple Store, which I’ve never shopped in which explains why I love it). I find a parking spot with two goals:

1. To get as close as I can

2. To remember where I parked.

I go in, knowing what I want:

1. Seed starter kits.

2. Seeds

3. Storage crates

4. Shampoo –T-Gel, the only thing that controls my psoriasis

I know what I’m after. I know where they’re located. I move quickly, purposefully. An old man is shuffling in front of me. I tell myself I’ll be in his shoes one of these days but this isn’t the day and I let him eat my dust.

I round the corner of an aisle and nearly slam into a mother and three kids under the age of ten. This is the worst possible age combination group. Two kids are jumping, dancing and one is crying because the spoiled brat didn’t get the latest piece of red-painted poisonous toy from China.

I feel myself getting uptight because I have to slow down and put on a pasty fake smile of politeness masking my impatience and hopefully showing a cardboard façade of relating to the mother. (I do not relate because I am a male and the crying spoiled little barbarian should have been stored in his cave).
I scoop up the seed starter kits and head for the seed display. A Korean woman looking at the seeds asks if it’s too early to plant them. Yes, I say. It’s too early. She asks when a good time is and I want to say “go ask a Wal-Mart Associate, the vested experts making minimum wage and no benefits. They would love to expound on the best time to plant your seed.”

But I don’t.

I head down the aisle for the storage crates. A couple appears from behind a display in front of me and ambles. Do you have any idea what ambling is and what it does to me?

I’ll tell you in the next post

I can just hear the question: “Okay kids, how would you like to watch a movie on the big screen this afternoon?” And the kids, ages 3-5 jump up in excitement. Mom packs them into the car and takes them to Sam’s Club.

How do I know this? I saw this family, Sunday. I went to Sam’s at 11:30 to beat the church crowd. Well, all the other heathens in New York State had the same thought. The place was mobbed. I showed my membership card to an uninterested senior citizen in his Sam’s vest. I grabbed a cart and proceeded inward. . .until I reached the family. The mother stood there using her cart to lean on as the kids, sitting on the floor in a semi-circle, watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl.

This was not a few minute watch. They were in for the duration. The kids were so engrossed I’m sure they forgot they were sitting on a gray, concrete floor. The mother was oblivious to the woman in front of me trying to get through as people, trying to get out, stood and waited. Finally a hole opened up and the woman pushed around the family and I followed.

I think if a Sam’s Associate had come over and paused the movie, the woman probably would have taken the kids over to the snack counter and bought pretzels and soda and returned to pick up where they left off.

I could see her sitting at the supper table that evening, telling her husband about her day. “Yes, we watched Pirates of The Caribbean. I just love Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom.”

“This was in Sam’s Club?” Asks the father for clarification.

“Yes, it was a little drafty. People kept coming in the whole time. You know those big doors . . .when they open it lets in a lot of cold air.“ Turns to children. “I don’t know how you kids stood it sitting on that cold floor.”

“I think somebody called Mommy an idiot,” one child says.

“Bitch,” another child adds. “They called her a bitch.”

“I think it was dumb bitch,” the other corrects. (See? Kids are always paying attention.)

“People are so rude,” the mother says. “I mean there we were just standing – or sitting – minding our own business and people gave me dirty looks. I mean, they wouldn’t be playing those movies if they didn’t want people to watch, would they? I mean, that’s the point.”

She takes a bite of mashed potatoes. “People are so immature,” she says self-righteously.

“I wonder what’s on next week?” One child says.

“We’ll see, honey,” Mom says. “I’m sure it will be a good one.”

I volunteered to clean the upstairs bathroom every week. Sounds small, I know, but it was a big jump for me.

I wanted to do something to help with the cleaning and knew from experience that washing, drying and folding clothes is not for me.

So, Saturday we had a training session, an eye-opening training session. I figured cleaning a bathroom meant washing the sink, wiping down the toilet and picking up things.

“First you have to take all the stuff off the sink,” Leigh said, moving the hair brush, electric toothbrush, tooth whitening solution, soap, deodorant and paper cup. She held up a bottle of industrial strength liquid that looked like something McGyver would use to melt concrete. “Then you squirt on the areas around the faucet that get gunked up. “ She squirted it.

“Don’t get it on your hands.”

I was becoming frightened.

What other flesh-melting weapons did she have hiding in her cleaning arsenal?

“Let it soak while you go to the tub,” she continued. “Scrub it by hand with this sponge using Bartender’s Friend. Get all the areas on the sides. Don’t forget the faucet. ”

I thought Bartender’s Friend was someone who bought me a drink.

This was looking a bit complicated. I was beginning to think I needed a degree in chemistry, protective face gear and heavy rubber gloves to complete the mission.

“Next you do the toilet. “ She dumped some ammonia into the bowl. “Then use Lysol Wipes to clean the rim, the seat, behind the seat and the sides.” She hauled out the toilet bowl brush. “Scrub the inside of the bowl until it’s clean.”

She went on. Haul out the throw rugs and shake them outside. Pour ammonia on the bath mat to get rid of the scum. Sweep the floor. Clean the walls where the dog lies and rubs dirt into them. Wash the mirror.

She handed me the cleaning materials. “Thanks . Good luck.”

And she left.

I was on my own.

In the next post I’ll let you know how I made out.

Mansfield University shuts down for 10 days over the holidays.  For many years I looked forward to this mini vacation as a time to get a lot of my projects done.

After many frustrating years, I now know that there is no free time leading up to Christmas.  Leigh is stressed out with cleaning the house, Christmas shopping, decorating, packing and wrapping, in addition to her business.

So I’m called in to help cook, play with the dogs, and wrap presents, a job I absolutely hate.  In my hands, scissors turn crooked and cut the paper in jagged lines.  I never cut it the right size.  The presents I wrap always look like they’ve been slept on by an overweight insomniac.

Christmas day is a physical and emotional rush. The post-Christmas recuperation time has lengthened into about three days.  I kid you not, I was up and around after surgery faster that I felt half alive after Christmas 2007.

One of the presents for Leigh was curtains for our living room which she’s needed for two years.   This year I gave her a note saying I’d buy them but she had to pick them out  Kim, our daughter was here.  Kim had to leave a few days after Christmas.

It worked.

What I hadn’t thought about was the unholy hassle of assembling rods and putting up the hangers.  I did one set the first night and found that the holes already in the wall  were not right for the new hangers.  I took everything apart, moved it over an inch and drilled a new hole.

There was, of course, no stud there.  I measured and re-measured,  screwed in the new hanger and found my level was no longer working correctly.

“I’ll just have eyeball it,” Leigh said.  I hate it when she eyeballs.  “Okay, just tap the bottom a litttttle to the left.  Nope!  No!  Too much.  Back just a tich.  No!  That was  more than a tich!

“What in the Hell’s name is a ‘tich’?”

“You know what a tich is.”

Obviously I don’t know if I just moved it more than a tich!”

“Don’t make such a big deal of things.  Just tap it –a tich.”  She did that just to anger me.  It worked.

I was now sweating and wanted a drink, something with significant  dose of alcohol in it.

“Ah! Ah! Close.   Now put it back to the right a tich.”

I found myself angry that the term tich was getting on my nerves.  I tapped it.  She stood and stared, studying it.  Time dragged on.

“Did your body freeze up?” I asked.  “Are you breathing?  Communicate, please!

“Over just a freckle of a hair,” she finally said.

I curse the carpenter who first came up with this non-existent universal measurement.  I curse all carpenters who keep it alive.  And, I realized, I was in a general, all-encompassing cursing mode.

I touched the hanger.

“It didn’t move,” she said.

I touched it harder, the old freckle-of-a-hair-touch.”

She nodded.  “Perfect.”

When shared projects like this are over, there’s a feeling of cautious relief.  Slowly, we speak to each other to make sure neither one was offended  too much.  She happily began hanging the first curtain.  I fixed a drink and went downstairs to watch The Family Guy.

The slate colored clouds lie like a rumpled blanket as the misty rain melts the snow. Everything is a texture of various shades of gray.
I don’t mind. I’m in the Jeep with three dogs headed to the transfer station to unload my garbage and recyclable cans and bottles.
We pass a hawk sitting on a post staring over the barren cornfield. He looks like he’s waiting for a 12 noon mouse rush. I park by the garbage bins where I contribute to an American landfill yet another week’s worth of trash, most of it made in China.
My horse-faced man who traveled the world to give advice to third world countries about his company sits in the trailer selling bags that we have to buy to put our garbage in.
“Kind of a gray day,” I say, knowing about a hundred people have already said the same thing.
He nods. “Yes it is. But it least it’s not snow.”
“True. I can’t believe Christmas is only three days away.”
He nods. He wears a baseball cap and has big, even white teeth. He’s in his 70s and smokes even though he’s had two pacemakers. “My wife passed away on this day three years ago,” he says quietly. “So Christmas don’t mean a whole lot to me anymore.”
I suppose anyone else would have said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Instead I asked: “How did she die?
He nodded. “We were havin’ breakfast. We have a little enclosed patio where we would go out and have breakfast and watch the birds. She loved birds. We had birdhouses, you know, scattered around. We were eating breakfast when she put her hand up to her chest and said something hurt bad. She fell off her chair. . . and that was all she wrote. . . . She was gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that but if you’re going to go that’s the best way,” I say.
He nods in complete agreement. “Yes, it is. No pain, no suffering. She was a nurse. Never no problem at all. Just came on that quick.” He looked out past the airport into the sky. His pale blue eyes were far away. He shook his head slowly. “I sure do miss her.”
We talk a little more and I give him three dollars for a garbage bag. “I’ll see you next Saturday. It’ll be here before we know it.”
The phrase Merry Christmas is worn and hollow and I did not wish him one.
He had shared his story and that was enough.

Here’s some quick fun stuff, the 2008 Miller family Christmas tree in a few easy steps!

It’s a warm gray Sunday morning. Light rain is melting the 10 inches of snow. Hours are collecting into days that are quietly trudging toward the end of the year. Al Gore was one of the few bright spots in another year cluttered with drug-dumb entertainers, lawmakers who aren’t gay and never have been, baby battles and and Paris Hilton. (I have never seen her on TV, listened to her or watched her have sex.)

The final days of 2007 are a frenzy of Top 10 lists. I read them, recognizing or understanding maybe half of the listings. I always wonder: why 10? But it doesn’t matter. It’s an encapsulation of our collective year. I’m gong to search the Net and share as many top 10 lists as I can. It was a quick and frenzied year and I need to better understand it before time’s tide sucks me into 2008.
First top 10: Simon Dumenco’s Epic Media Meltdowns from the Dec. 17, Ad Age on Line.

Reality check: I’m reading Journey of Souls while the media is serving up Britney.Okay. I’m off to find more top 10s.