?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Breakfast

Posted on October 1, 2005

Bob Evans at eight in the morning is a bustling place, especially on Saturdays during college football season. I know this firsthand, because Earl and I went there today. Three waitresses wore University of Michigan T-shirts, which elicited various responses from customers who were probably just laying down a base in their stomachs for the tailgate parties to come.

Being a morning person, Earl goes out for breakfast almost every day; but, being a confirmed grouch until about 10:00 AM, I confine my going with him to once a week. I can only take so much bustling.

Besides, I don’t like breakfast; it’s always the same old choices. Basically, there are eggs, pancakes and waffles, breads, potatoes, cereals, sausage and bacon, and juice.
Granted, these ingredients can be served over easy, well done, basted, buttered, and – in some cases – lathered with whipped cream. But there’s rarely a vegetable in sight at that time of the day. I guess vegetables aren’t early risers either.

Earl prides himself that he’s cutting back from eating about 800 eggs a year – that is not a typo! – to about 400. That’s he’s switching from hash browns to pancakes. Regular to decaf. These are serious concessions, since breakfast is his favorite meal.

What Earl doesn’t understand is that, for years, I’ve had a snack before going to bed. Last night, for instance, I had leftover chicken, mashed potatoes, and broccoli. I know conventional wisdom frowns on eating late at night, but I’ve stuck to it just as Earl has stuck to his daily quota of bacon.

I figure I just eat breakfast at the end of the day instead of at the beginning. The broccoli was quite tasty and there wasn’t a University of Michigan T-shirt in sight.

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Old White Guys

Posted on September 29, 2005

It may be a derogatory term in this age of political correctness, but I’m in favor of old white guys. I’m not talking about my personal life here. Old white guys are well-known rockers who still hog the spotlight. And, even though there is a chorus of younger performers urging them to get off the stage, I’m here to give these survivors their due.

Paul McCartney, who is sixty-three, just released his latest album, “Chaos and Creation in the Backyard,” and reviewers rate it highly. One of the most interesting articles I read recently on McCartney appeared in OnMilwaukee.com. For a down-to-earth look at the former Beetle, go to

http://onmilwaukee.com/music/articles/maccabackyard.html?7577

Then there are the Rolling Stones, who have been performing live longer than many people have been on this earth. They too have a new album; and, while it’s vintage Stones in many ways, it’s also cutting edge. Called “A Bigger Bang,” the album is available in a new flashcard format. This means it will play on any piece of appropriate equipment, from mobile phones to hand-held computers; but the format prevents copying. So everyone who wants the album will have to pop for $39.95. To read about the Stones and this technology in language anyone can understand, go to

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/music/4290458.stm

And, to read a wonderful article about the Stones and why they’re touring yet again, go to

http://www.sunherald.com/mld/sunherald/living/12735550.htm

Bob Dylan is also back, not with a new album, but as the subject of a four-hour documentary made by Martin Scorsese and titled “No Direction Home.” It previewed on PBS earlier this week, and I challenged my bedtime to stay up and see it. I have always been a Dylan fan. But while the documentary brought back memories, I found Scorsese’s direction somewhat boring. After all, how many times can you show Dylan in half-light while he talks? Some might say this put the emphasis on the singer’s words, but I felt otherwise. Regardless, if you want to read about this documentary, go to

http://www.bobdylan.com/ndh.html

Well, that’s almost it. I did want to mention, however, that two other stalwart men have been busy lately. African American Stevie Wonder is releasing a new album, and Kermit the Frog turns forty and will be memorialized in a series of U.S. Postal Service stamps, available immediately. For obvious reasons, however, neither made the Old White Guys List.

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Fall

Posted on September 28, 2005

I feel acutely sensitive to fall this year. I had thought this summer would be spectacular, and I was ready; but the drought that took hold of southwestern Michigan these past few months assured the demise of spring’s promise.

Now the weather is turning crisp. And rain, the rain we should have had weeks ago, has arrived. It’s too late for farmers’ crops, and maybe it’s too late to enhance the turning leaves of autumn. At the same time, my flowers are now beginning to bloom as they should have done in June and July. They must be confused. Yet, they provide smiles as I go about my weeding.

The acorn and walnut trees on our property are rife with nuts. It makes for a lawnmower’s nightmare; yet I’m glad to see the trees are well enough to bear fruit, given the drastic shortage of water this year. I’ve heard the local trees are stressed; and, lord knows, I do not want to add stressed trees to my litany of chores. So if they want to clog mower blades with their progeny, I will not whine.

Today I spent a couple hours in the yard battening the hatches for winter. I trimmed some overgrown perennials back, pulled some sassy weeds, and generally reveled in the day. Even when my yard overwhelms me, there is satisfaction in digging in the dirt. Fall is the perfect time to do this.

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Time

Posted on September 27, 2005

I need thirty-hour days to get everything done and still enjoy life, and I think maybe it’s a function of my age.

Time was when I could work long hours on a given project and still have enough energy left at night to read half a book or watch a couple television shows or even clean my kitchen. But no more. Now I can hardly keep on top of the daily grind, much less get ahead of the weekly chores.

Maybe it’s because I have more to do, and in some respects this is true. I still work part-time as a serious consultant, and I manage not only a huge house but also Earl’s and my rental properties. I still am involved in Earl’s other projects to some extent and I want to read, walk outside, garden, play piano, and write every single day. I also iron everything I wear. It’s a tall order to keep up.

But maybe I need thirty-hour days because I’m also slower at doing things. Which makes me wonder if my body is slowing down or if I am becoming more bucolic, more interested in enjoying what I’m doing while I’m doing it? It’s not just about the achieving any more, although that is still important; it’s about finding satisfaction at the end of the day for those things I chose to spend my time on.

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Art

Posted on September 26, 2005

I received a letter in the mail last week from Lake Forest College, where I obtained my master’s degree almost a decade ago. It informed me that Art Zilversmit had died, and I silently wept.

Art Zilversmit was the first director of the Master of Liberal Studies program at Lake Forest. This was only fitting, since he started the program in the late 1970s. By the time I came along in the late 1980s, he was well ensconced as its protector.

A Master of Liberal Studies is categorically different from other Master’s degrees. Instead of focussing on more and more about less and less, the MLS focuses on more and more about more and more.

Consider an economics degree at the Master’s level. This degree focuses more and more on economic issues, reducing the subject matter to less and less about anything else. The economist who graduates from this school of thought truly knows economics.

But the MLS takes the opposite tack. MLS programs, and there are many at very prestigious universities, assume that the world’s problems can be solved by learning more and more about all disciplines, because each one has something to contribute to the dialogue.

An economic issue, for instance, is studied not only from an economic point of view but also from an historic one, a sociological one, a biological one, etc. It is the blending of knowledge from these various disciplines than enables people to arrive at the best solution for problems.

By training, Art Zilversmit was an historian; and he brought his point of view to every class. At the same time, he was an eclectic, recognizing that other disciplines had their value and encouraging his students to agree with this. That is the essence of an MLS program.

Art and I never were particularly close. He didn’t seem to like opinionated women, and I was old enough to have plenty of opinions. At the same time, he got the best work out of me because I was determined to prove my worth as an older student. I wanted his respect. All along, I’d always found school easy. Until Art. He made me think.

What better eulogy could there be?

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Christmas

Posted on September 26, 2005

Egads, which is probably a word nobody says anymore. But it provides the right amount of shock and surprise for today’s ten minutes, without resorting to the more traditional, yet overused, four-letter words. Egads, Christmas is exactly three months from today.

We are heading into that season of parties, gift giving, stocking stuffing, tree trimming, and general overspending. It’s that time of the year when overindulgence takes on many meanings. Our waistlines, our credit cards, our energies are all on overload.

But this year will be different for many. The twin sisters, Katrina and Rita, saw to that. I can’t imagine what the holiday will bring for those whose homes have been devastated, whose jobs have been lost, and whose very way of life may never be the same again.

Today, we are all glued to the television set, watching the storms’ progress; we’re analyzing the economic and political problems they left in their wake. Tomorrow, we’ll probably still be tuned in. But three months down the road, it’s possible some other major news story will command the headlines. That’s the way it is.

At the same time, when I realized that Christmas was three months from today, I felt a sadness that the holiday usually doesn’t bring. I only hope those who have suffered at the whims of Katrina and Rita can enjoy some semblance of normalcy by then.

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Bill O’Reilly

Posted on September 24, 2005

A couple nights ago I caught a snippet of an interview between former talk show host Phil Donahue and current Fox News host Bill O’Reilly. The latter runs the Bill O’Reilly Show. Then last night, I saw the same O’Reilly – after all, it’s his show – interview former general Wesley Clark.

While both interviews covered a range of topics, each came down to Cindy Sheehan, the mother of the fallen solider who has taken on the Bush Administration. I suspect this is because Donahue and Clark have shown support for her, while O’Reilly does not. And, to keep viewers interested, it’s important to have controversy.

O’Reilly was his usual rude self, interrupting whenever he could, bombasting with the best. Donahue’s response was to bombast back while Clark’s was a more moderate voice. The fact of the matter is that the people involved have already formed strong opinions and are not willing to consider anything the other side had to say.

I know Earl and I are on opposite sides of the ideological fence and we get to interrupting each other if we’re not careful. So if we watch O’Reilly together, it is with an unspoken agreement that we can’t opine about our person’s point of view. Or the opposition’s point of view either.

We also know we’ll probably never change the other’s opinion. In fact, Earl has repeatedly said that if something happens to me he will search for his next companion at National Rifle Association meetings or Republican National Conventions. As for me, I won’t search for another companion. Phil Donahue and Wesley Clark are probably already taken.

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Weather Channel

Posted on September 23, 2005

I have become enamoured of television’s Weather Channel ever since the twins, Katrina and Rita, showed up on the scene. Until then, I was only mildly interested in what the temperature was in my neighborhood and didn’t particularly care at all about storm fronts or cold fronts elsewhere.

I live in an area that might receive an inch or two of residual rain from the hurricanes, but it’s nothing that poses life-threatening problems. So I could continue to turn my mental back on rain and wind elsewhere. But for some reason I can’t. I watch the misery of the people involved and am captivated by the idea that natural disasters still wreak havoc, even though we have put a man on the moon, seen the USSR disintegrate, and found the formula for DNA.

On various TV channels, I’ve watched the displaced residents of New Orleans search for shelter, only to be uprooted if they went to Texas for relief. I’ve seen the snake lines of cars trying to leave Houston and Galveston, only to become a vast, skinny parking lot. I’ve watched buses attempt to load passengers, Coast Guard members attempt to rescue survivors, politicians attempt to exert damage control in more ways than one.

Regardless of these efforts and their portrayal on other channels, the Weather Channel is the empirical evidence that we are at nature’s mercy. It shows the storm in full color, describes weather prognosticators who fly into its middle to gather data, tracks its speed, and attempts a semi-prediction regarding landfall. And not one politician can make a whit of difference as far as Mother Nature is concerned.

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Connections

Posted on September 21, 2005

I last saw her a couple years ago, when she was approaching eighty and I was approaching sixty. It’s hard to imagine, since we were in each other’s lives on a daily basis when I was just over thirty. The adage about time flying is certainly true.

Trudy was my boss for nine years when I worked in the public relations department of Condell Memorial Hospital in Libertyville, IL. And, believe me, she was the right boss in the right place at the right time for me. I will always thank her for that.

Trudy and her husband, Bill, raised six children long before she and I became co-workers. By the time I came to work at Condell, her youngest was in high school; while my two sons were just learning about elementary school. What I remember most is that whenever my children needed me, she understood. If one son had a fever and had to be picked up at school, she didn’t bat an eyelash.

“Go,” she said. “We’ll handle it later.” And she always did. That was way back when, but today we remembered it all.

This morning, I drove to Libertyville where Trudy lives in an independent living facility. We had lunch, and then we went to the hospital that defined our relationship years ago. The same person who was president when we worked there is president now, although he plans to retire next year. We got a tour of the facility, although most of the people who were important to us have long retired. Nevertheless, it was most exciting to connect with our past and to see what the future holds for Condell.

It made me realize how important personal connections are. Maybe they are only on the business level, which is where Trudy’s and my relationship started; but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you keep connected, because that is how you learn how things that you were involved in, but didn’t get a chance to finish, turned out.

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Neon

Posted on September 20, 2005

I drive a no-frills, stick shift Neon; and I love it. This is because cars have never provided status for me. At the same time, my partner Earl thinks my vehicle is less than a car. He calls it a coat with four wheels that you wear. And when he pretzels himself out of the passenger’s seat I see his point.

My car doesn’t have grab bars above the doors; it doesn’t have seat warmers; nor does it have a compass that tells you where you are going. But then, I have a keen sense of direction and don’t feel the need for some automated program to tell me where I’m going. I’d be more apt to tell it where to go.

In contrast, Earl drives a gleaming black Lexus with a vanity license plate. The car has everything except Onstar, which is that program that provides directions to the restaurant, directions to the movies, directions to anything you want. I’m willing to bet that the next time Earl buys a car, it too with have Onstar.

In the meantime, the price of gas has begun not only to surge but also to soar. Even though gas is down from its record Michigan high of $3.19 a gallon, it is not cheap. So when Earl asked me this morning if he could take my car, instead of his, to Chicago for the day, I smiled.

His car costs $50 to fill. Mine costs half as much. In addition, I can make a round trip to Chicago on one tank, while Earl requires a fill-up along the way. Of course, I said “Yes.” And I didn’t harp about his previous attitude either.

Rather, I think I’ll just create a bumper sticker for his Lexus that says, “My other car is a Neon.” That says it all.

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