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The Day We Met 'The Bear'

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There are many bear stories now in the Macrander family.  There is the time when we were on vacation in Colorado and Sarah was obsessed with seeing a bear.  We were on a rafting trip on the Arkansas River and were coming around a bend.  Sarah pointed excitedly at a large black animal by the stream and yelled "bear."  No Sarah, that would be a cow.  She so wishes that the family did not have such a long memory. There is the stuffed bear, once shot by Jarrod's father Kent, that Emily now lives with.  That had to be a question that entered her mind as they were getting to know one another. "Can I really date (love, marry) a guy that keeps a stuffed bear around the house?"  I tend to think that it reflects Jarrod's quirky sense of humor and connection to his dad more than a passion for killing things and displaying them.  I just think that it needs a hounds tooth hat.

I am not really sure that Todd has a bear story, but, am not sure that I would want to know it.  OK, that was shameless.

The story that I am about to recount is from 1981.  You kids have grown up with the picture and the ticket stub to a game from this story prominently displayed in our house.  You have probably heard me tell the story dozens of times, but I will write it down here as another daddy story.  Put on your glasses.  This is a long one.

A lot happened in 1981.  After nearly two years of being grad student acquaintances in Biology, that spring Ginger (aka mom) & I  gradually became friends, then good friends, then more than friends, our involvement and time together growing as spring turned to summer and then to fall.

Rolling the clock back a bit, through two college experiences I had never been to a game and generally viewed sports as a drain and a distraction to the academic reason to be (what a dud I was!).  At Alabama, though, it is hard to ignore football.  I went to a few games when encouraged by fellow grad students.  I rooted for players that I had taught as students in Anatomy and Physiology.  I listened to the games on the radio while doing my field work on Saturdays (nothing else was on the radio, unless you wanted to listen to Auburn).  I even went to the '79 Sugar Bowl when a friend got tickets and invited me on the road trip.  I had gradually become a fan, but, fully expected to one day leave Alabama and leave behind college football.  I still remember the conversation when it came time to buy student season tickets in the fall of '81.

Ginger, "It's time to buy season tickets."

Michael, "I have never bought season tickets.  That is almost $80 and I do field work on Saturdays."

Ginger, "You will buy season tickets and we will go to the games."

Michael, "Oh."

For her part, Ginger grew up in a family steeped in Alabama football.  To say that graddad was a fan was to entirely miss the passion. Ginger was simply raised Crimson.  Vandy be damned, she was going to "The University."  But,Ginger's football tradition was further shaped by years of sorority life - beautiful girls dressed to the nines, neatly groomed boys in three piece suits and starched shirts, bourbon poured from flasks into stadium cups of coke, shakers and yelling "ROLL TIDE" on beautiful fall afternoons when victory was virtually assured.  Life can be beautiful sometimes, and, oh to be young...

And roll they did.  They won national championships in '78 & '79.  Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant reigned over this kingdom like an invincible deity.  If asked the question from ghostbusters, "Are you a god," there would have been no question.  From the hounds tooth and tweed hats that he wore, reminiscent of the time when a gentleman wore a hat, to his posture leaning against the goalpost watching the teams warm up, and the observation tower on the practice field, he was a transcendent presence.  While students sometimes made fun of his gravelly grumblings and seeming besotted confusion on his Sunday afternoon game replay show, in the fall of '81 he was nationally recognized as the greatest college football and he was ours.

The '81 season had not been perfect, however,  having lost to once arch rivals Georgia Tech and tied (yes that could happen in those days) a perennially weak Southern Miss team.  Perhaps it was the pressure of Coach Bryant closing in on the record of the winningest college football coach of all time.  There were whisperings of Bear having lost his edge.  There was a young black quarterback (never before at Bama) and discipline issues with a talented but cocky running back (Linny Patrick) who had just never really produced as expected.  Still, with one game left in the season, the record of 314 victories had been tied and a victory over our hated rivals Auburn, who were even more reviled because they were now coached by a Bryant acolyte who had turned coat, would seal the record.

Also in '81 Ginger and I were approaching the end of our grad school days.  There is no other time in your life when you are so immersed in the process of intellectual becoming.  I am sure that it is the same for law school and medical school.  It is a selfish time of total dedication to this chosen academic profession and it is an insular and esoteric world not fully appreciated by people outside of the process.  Your community is small, dominated by fellow grad students and professors.  A large university and even a city spins around you mostly unnoticed while you read journal articles, debate the merits of the latest theory, and imagine your work to be on the edge of breakthrough.  Married grad students were rare and all but one that we knew at that time were divorced along the way.  Perhaps it is a sign that four couples also got together during these years and, to my knowledge, all are still together after 30+ years.  Having been there for several years and being nearly finished Ginger and I were medium sized fish in this small pond.

The biology department had gotten some grant money and over a year had the opportunity to bring in truly top scientists for multiple days of interaction with students and faculty.  We got to hang out and receive advice from people like Edward O. Wilson who had done both undergrad and Masters at UA before going on to Harvard to become the top celebrity scientist in ecology.  During the week prior to the Auburn game, a couple of guest scientists were leading a workshop in Ginger's field.  They were actually developing mouse embryos in vitro, or outside of the female's body.  Imagine that, in 1981, actual development, though short in duration, of embryos in a "test tube" incubation chamber and Ginger was learning the procedure from the two guys who developed it.  Although tops in their field, these guys were fun loving down to earth guys who insisted on being called Tom and Norm.  These were seriously fun guys, as well as being great in their field, and for a week Ginger & I were their social guides taking them out for fried catfish, to off campus bars, and generally having a great time, sometimes including an undergrad pre-med girl (Beth) who tagged along.

On the last day, Norm (the older guy) suddenly said, "before I leave, I want to meet Bear Bryant."  Ginger's major professor (Ron) said, "I think he is pretty busy.  He IS trying to become the winningest coach of all time AND beat Auburn this Saturday."  Being bold, however, and having faith in The Bear, Ginger called up the athletic department and told them about the visiting scientists that would like to meet Coach Bryant.   "Of course," they said.  "He's not here right now, but he should be back soon.  Come on over and he will see you."

So Tom, Norm, Ron, Beth, Ginger & I jumped in a car and drove over to the coliseum, an impressive structure that housed the basketball arena and the athletic offices.  We walked up two flights of stairs and into the receiving office of athletics.  There were three admin desks, each with footballs resting on pedestals signed by Alabama football legends like Joe Namath, Kenny Stabler, Lee Roy Jordan, and Johnny Musso.  On the walls were large aerial shots of the Rose Bowl, Sugar Bowl, and Orange Bowl stadiums before any of these were in domed stadiums with teams lined up to run a play at mid field.  Our excitement levels grew as we realized the greatness that resided here.

Shortly, a phone rang.  "Coach Bryant will see you now."  The attractive mid 40s lady escorted us down a long crimson carpeted hall past the offices of coaches of other sports and assistant coaches.  We came to a huge door with a plaque that said Paul W. "Bear" Bryant Football Coach and Athletic Director.  She knocked before entering and when the door opened there stood The Bear dressed in a suit.

The next few minutes is sort of a blur.  He apologized for keeping us waiting, saying that he had just returned from attending a funeral and remarking that, at his age, you start doing that more and more.  He politely asked what Tom and Norm did and listened while they tried to explain in awestruck tones.  Part way through, he laughed and said, I'm afraid that is all over my head.  Noting the camera that Ron had with him, Coach asked if we wanted to take a few pictures.  There was one of Tom and Norm with The Bear and one of Mom and Beth with The Bear.  Sadly, I was too shy and stupidly aloof to get into one of the shots, but, I was there.

Soon our time was up and we were ushered out.  We were all walking on air.   Tom and Norm were like kids who had just visited Santa Claus, talking constantly and pumping fists in the air.  Ginger was the hero that day, having had the nerve to dial the phone and arrange the audience.  As soon as we got back to the Department she called her daddy to tell him.

Norm and Tom left that afternoon with many thanks and fond goodbyes.  Ginger may have seen them at a science meeting, but I never saw them again.  Waiting for time to take them to the airport Tom and I were shooting hoops in the back lot of a local bar.  He asked, "So, you and Ginger, is it serious?"  It was the first time anyone had ever asked that.  "I guess so," I said.  "It is good so far."

That Saturday we were in the South end zone student section of the Iron Bowl at legion field.  I still had no clue as to how important that game was to both fan bases, but I knew that Alabama would fight hard to make Coach Bryant the winningest of all time and Auburn would fight hard to prevent it.  The game was close and hard fought with momentum swinging back and forth.  In the 4th quarter Linny Patrick (the running back who had been perennially in the dog house and generally failed to live up to expectations) took over the game ripping off multiple runs of 10-20 yards.  With the game finally secure, it was the first time I remember doing the na na na na hey hey goodbye song or rammer jammer (a truly obnoxious cheer where the band plays dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt " Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn. We just beat the hell out of you, rammer jammer yellowhammer give em hell Alabama).  What great fun!!!

Alabama had won, Coach Bryant was the winningest coach, and I was in love with this beautiful, brilliant, and confident girl.  It all fit together somehow.

In January Alabama lost its bowl game to Texas.  The '82 season was disappointing with four losses and discipline issues on the team.  Coach Bryant retired at the end of the season, but won his last bowl game, the Liberty Bowl on a cold night in Memphis.  28 days later he passed away.  I-10 was shut down as the motorcade took him from the church in Tuscaloosa to the cemetery in Birmingham.

That May Ginger and I were married.  I married into an Alabama football crazed family and found that it fit pretty well.  It sort of all came together one gorgeous fall afternoon.

Curmudgeon in London

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There was a great Warren Zevon song from the 80s called Werewolves of London.  It was one of those great songs that had a catchy opening chord progression hook that is instantly recognizable and pulls the listener into an otherwise silly little song about that “hairy handed gent who ran amok in Kent.”  Interestingly, the chords (DCG) are the same as the chords from Sweet Home Alabama but are played on a piano, rather than a guitar, and with a very different syncopation.   Still, great songs start alike, sort of, and the chorus of “Ah-oo werewolves of London…” is a fun howl.  You can find it on Youtube and with only a little bit of messing with the phrasing, you can turn werewolves into curmudgeon and use it as the score to walking about town with a scowl. Now London is a great city with impressive sites and beautiful people.  To a certain extent, living here (even for a short time) is a privilege.  Still, it is congested, at times dirty, and not without its irritants that become curmudgeonly complaints.  Here are a few in no particular order:

 Gum on the streets – The streets of London are not paved in gold.  They are paved in gum.  In the busier parts of the city you literally cannot put a foot down on a sidewalk without stepping on a flattened disc that is now an integral part of the pavement from gum spat upon the street.  I really cannot imagine that that many people chew gum and, really, that that many people just spit it upon the street.  The evidence is right there, however, and  it is obvious.   Fortunately, it is usually dried and does not stick to your shoes, but it is there as a reminder of boorish behavior.  Yuck!

 Get that out of my face – In Houston, many intersections have people at them selling flowers, or washing windshields for money.  In Anchorage, the mid-town intersections are frequented with people with signs that invariably say something compelling like “wounded vet,” “homeless and hungry,” or “God bless you,” and they walk up and down gazing into the windows of cars stopped at the traffic light attempting to make eye contact and elicit a charity.  Those kinds of things occur a bit around London, but the pervasive and, I find, irritating thing is people giving away papers.  There are a number of soft news publications that are distributed around town and given away free (or, in some cases, with an implied hint for a donation) at entrances to tube stations and other high foot traffic areas.  These are basically flyers filled with advertisements around some modest stories masquerading as news.

So, I am used to Houston Press and Anchorage Press real estate offerings and other local news as being free give away rags available to the public.  The difference here is that, rather than simply placing a stack on a stand and letting people take it, if they want, here they hire unfortunates to hand them out and apparently train them to be aggressive in how they do it.  So, at the entrance to the underground, the exit from the underground, the top of the escalator at the office, every two blocks on the local high street someone is shoving something at you and saying something like Daily News(?).  On weekends shopping sometimes you have to pass the same person 2-3 times and still they stick the damned thing in your face.

It is a really small thing and really no inconvenience, but to Mr. C. it feels like the drip drip of water torture of invasion of space and interruption.  I try to signal, leave me alone, don't stick that crap in my face, I don't want it by refusing to acknowledge their existence.  Still, they stick it out there and ruin my day.

Stroller warfare - I will admit to being a part of that generation that turned the pretense of parenthood into a noble enterprise, rather than something that just happened to us.  We purchased and proudly displayed cautionary baby on board signs on our cars warning, and expecting, other drivers to take special care in proximity to our precious cargo.

Living in upscale Hampstead, however, the young parents, or their nannies, are seemingly everywhere taking up way more of their fair share of the sidewalks and commanding right of way, as if to scream, " I have a baby here, can't you see."  So often, I have to stop or step aside to accommodate these baby benz's with their plastic rain covers and little platform on the back for older brother or sister to stand upon.  I get it, hauling 1-2 kids around with you and dealing with all the crap is a pain.  Still, that is not quite my problem and I am not a second class citizen, simply because I am not pushing a pram.

While on the subject, I also have a curmudgeonly grudge against pre-school scooters.  Imagine the razors that were employed by adolescents in the early 2-thousands to jump curbs and skate around neighborhoods on a skateboard that had a handle.  These scooters are like that but have two wheels on the front to increase stability to the point that they are used to give wings to British tykes in the 3-5 year range.  These little s---s buzz around the sidewalks flying ahead of their calling parents and mindlessly tripping running old farts off the pavement.  Of course these beautiful British children obediently stop at each street, so as not to be flattened by cars.

Attack of the mummies - privileged British children, especially girls, have perfected the act of calling for  their mother's in a way that drips of superiority and selfishness.  Mummy, I have done my homework.   Mummy, may I have a pudding now.  Mummy, MUMMY, MUMMY I demand your attention.  Enough said....

Walking abreast - In the 60s there was a popular comic called doodles that took random quick scribbles and made something funny out of it.  Imagine one large circle next to several small circles.  That was a mother cannonball walking her bb's (ha ha ha).  One of those doodles that caught my adolescent attention was one with two stick figures on either side of a large circle with a smaller circle at its center.  This was two men walking a breast (snicker snicker).

That is not what I am talking about here.  What gets my goat is groups of people walking down the street or corridors mindless to the fact that their preference for walking beside one another forces others to avoid, step aside, or stop altogether to avoid being run down.  In my view, we must share the space that we collectively inhabit, and my right to hang with my buds should give way to free passage.  To be honest, this is certainly not unique to London and well cultured Brits tend to be hyper vigilant and aware of their impact of those around them, issuing a "sorry" in place of what Americans would say "excuse me" for.  London is, however, a city of many people and many cultures and not all are as aware, or, caring.

Connected and clueless - Okay, this is truly not a London only experience, but given the congestion of London streets and walkways, it becomes problematic.  We have become a world of people who are connected electronically but disconnected personally to other people, or, our surroundings.  We get on airplanes and trains, and collect in public places ignoring those around us, in favor of our handhelds flipping our way through cursory life.  Now, in London, it is considered rude to intrude on others around you by gazing at them, or, listening in to their conversations.  Everyone effects the thousand yard stare, so as not to intrude.  So, what else to do with your eyes and mind, but to engage in on-line or electronic games, and yes, I use my kindle.  It becomes an irritant, however, when people walking down the street are unaware that they are approaching someone and force them to take evasive action or stop completely, simply because they were selfishly clueless.  I want to snatch their device and smash it to the ground while yelling, "get into your life."

Enough rants from a COF (cranky old fart).  I do truly enjoy living in London.  Congestion aside, it is quite the life experience.  Ginger & I jumped on the Tube last sunday and were quickly at the Tower of London, strolled across the tower bridge and along the Thames to London bridge.  Not bad.

 

Wedding Update Part One: Thank God for Etsy

bride1 I finally feel like I'm making some ground on the Whole Wedding Thing. In the past couple of weeks, fast approaching my two-month engage-iversary, we've checked several big items off our to-do list.

Premarital counseling: Because everyone needs a good counselor. Our Pastor from Canvas Church, Chris Parrot, will be leading out premarital counseling. Unfortunately since Jarrod is in North Dakota and not traveling to Houston as often as he thought he would, we'll be doing perhaps the first-ever teleconference premarital counseling. We've got that scheduled for June.

Wedding dress: By Olivia Zavozina at Nordstrom. This was the fifth place I went (David's Bridal, Blush in Austin, BHLDN, Impressions and finally Nordstrom). I was so burnt out on wedding dress shopping I was seriously considering just buying one online. Then my bridesmaid Sarah Neill asked if she could go dress shopping with me and she set up the Nordstrom appointment. We were all the way at the end of the appointment when I showed my consultant Rachel a dress I liked online. She went and pulled the dress and said, "let me tell you why you won't like this." Well, I did like it and I'd finally found my dress.

Shoes and earrings: In the moments following purchasing the dress, I had a mild freak-out in the Houston Galleria parking garage and started The Endless Scroll which is when you (I) scroll for an embarrassingly long amount of time looking for The Perfect Thing. Sitting in the parking lot, I bough a pair of shoes, earrings and brooch to wear with the dress. Though the purchases were for sure impulse buys, it's a weight off of my shoulders that I know longer have to worry about those things.

Veil: I bought mine on Etsy. It's a dead-ringer for the pricey veil I fell in love with at BHLDN but cost only only a fraction of the price.

Reception tables: I'm thrifting glass from Goodwill and that is going well. And its just another reason to hit all of the thrift shops...like I needed a reason.

Reception site: AvantGarden. This art house is really special to me because my church has done art shows at this venue for several years. It's cool that now I can do my wedding reception here as well.

Ceremony site: First Christian Church. The ceremony will be held at First Christian Church. This is where Canvas Church has held Christmas Eve services the last several years. Our church meets in an elementary school, so unfortunately that was not an option, but we are both so excited to be able to have our ceremony at First Christian.

Room block: We have a room block set at Hilton Americas in downtown Houston.

Save the Dates: Ordered those today!

Meanwhile, I have a million little projects going on. I'm learning calligraphy so I can hand-address the Save the Dates - so don't you dare open it and chunk it in the trash. Really though, I might cry. Just kidding.

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When I think of you, I think of roses.

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MomandMeDear Mom, When I see roses I think of you. Roses remind me of hours spent tending the dirt gingerly pruning  each plant and a look of simple content after days spent in the sun. Watching you tend your garden growing up provided me with patience for nature and an appreciation for the attention needed to bring beauty into our world. I hope that one day I have roses so that you can come to my garden and help me tend them.

Another thing that reminds me of you is Goodwill. Countless hours spent sifting through rows upon rows of used clothing to find that one marvelous thing that some silly person thought was of no use or out of style. It always has amazed me how skilled you are in this endeavor. As much as I may have protested in high school about wearing a used formal dress I am incredibly proud that my dress seldom cost more than $50 and was always unique. It set me apart from the rest of my class and I have you to thank for that. Not to mention, it instilled in me an appreciation of unique used clothing. Why buy something new when you could buy something used for a fraction of the price?

Mom, above all thank you so much for being my Girl Scout leader and encouraging me to continue participation in the program. Many women I know started scouts but quickly left simply because they didn’t have a leader like you.  You made scouts fun and took it upon yourself to ensure that we were given diverse experiences and skill sets. Because of your dedication I and other girls were able to horseback ride, sail, rock climb, start a fire without accelerants, and most importantly view the world from other peoples’ perspectives.

I would not be who I am today without your love and guidance.

Happy birthday Mom - may your day be filled with sunshine, roses and love.

Sarah

 

Cause for celebration

Something big happened yesterday and I will take a few moments from my busy schedule to recognize it. On the surface, it was a small thing. The U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear cases in which several lower Federal courts had found that States' laws banning same sex marriage (SSM) were unconstitutional. Ok, so they declined to hear these cases, so what? That means that the Supreme Court looked at those cases and determined that there were no issues there that were unresolved. In short, SSM is now legal in all of those states that were trying to get their laws banning it upheld AND in other states that are covered by the Appellate courts that had made these rulings. Another way of saying this is that the Supreme Court essentially said that the issue is not worth their time. BOOM! It might have been more satisfying, had the Court decided to hear the cases and officially rule on the issue, but In one decision, they determined that there is no merit upon which to challenge SSM. Suddenly the number of states where SSM is legal changed from 11 to 30. I am sure that some of these states will attempt new banning legislation and, essentially fight a stop gap war. There are also states that still have banning laws that have not been challenged, but the war of attrition has begun.

Not only are more states now in the legal marriage category, but, since the states included are many of the more populace states, we can say that a majority of the same sex couples in the country can now legally marry.

So, why, aside from just being a general live and let live as long as it doesn't hurt anybody liberal, is this cause for celebration enough for me to set my lunch chilli aside to write? I will admit to a personal journey. Like many, my view of gltb was that it was, at least, aberant, if not quite abhorent. From there, my kids and their friends showed me the path to tolerance and the joys of being the gltb "friendly" house for a bunch of high schoolers. From there, it was still a journey accompanied by some kicking and screaming to get to the full embracement that is now our lives. Somehow, the tolerant attitude was not quite as easy when the gay person in your midst is your son (sorry for that Todd).

The difficulty of this journey was, in part, a sadness that a parent feels for their child when they see a future that is not what we had hoped. As a white, male, intelligent (somewhat), affluent, middle of the road adult, I have limited experience (ok I'm short) with being reviled or legally limited for what I am. But to look down the road for my son and think that he would always be unjustly hated or dismissed by a segment of the population and would be denied certain basic rights, like choosing and forming a life long recognized commitment with someone that you love, was a sadness that was difficult to bear. I came to realize, though, that of the many ways that our children may face challenges, being gay was certainly not even close to being the worst.

In part, that is because the world is changing. I believe that, in the past, gltb people had limited choices. They could deny their sexuality and live a life devoid of sexuality or that special love that has a sexual basis. Despite the views of the catholic church, I am not convinced that this is a great option, or one that actually and truthfully works. They could deny their true sexuality and try to live a straight life. After nearly 30 years I am haunted by a memory of witnessing a man in a volvo with a child seat in the back engaging in a surreptitious hook up in a city park. How sad. They could admit their sexuality and live a life of closeted relationships, one nighters, and living on the wild side. OK, so maybe that doesn't sound that different from other youthful lifestyles, but we are programmed to pair to be happy. We also know that the wild side is not a healthy place to live for long.

So, now our sons and daughters and friends and neighbors are a bit less reviled for who they are. Gradually, they are gaining the right to openly seek and find someone to fall in love with, marry, and share a long and healthy life together (or not). When I look at all three of my kids, that is one of my greatest hopes.

And, do you know what? The world has not ended. The streets are still safe from gltb people chasing down and having their way with unwitting heterosexuals. The walls of our churches and governmental buildings are still in tact. In fact, I would say that the moral fiber of our country has been improved. The path to love has been made a bit less bumpy and a bit more feasible. Love, isn't that always a good thing? And, I am exuberant.

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Curmudgeon Chronicles - Lost Youth

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At least for guys, our minds tend to get stuck in the age range of about 18-25. No matter how old we get, or the changes that come into our lives, our mental image of ourselves is in that time when we were, “like a rock,” least bounded by responsibility and complication. The potential for our lives’ trajectories were still open to us and not determined by choices already made and realities realized. Though our horizons may expand as we gain experience, we largely cling to the cultural experiences that shaped us during this time. Maybe it is because, while these are the years of greatest potential, they are also the years when we are making the choices that will most shape our lives. There is always a special quickening, though, when we hear the music that formed the backdrop of our youth. So it always comes as a surprise when we catch a reflection of some paunchy gray-haired man in a window and realize that that strange old person is us. We ignore the realities when we stare straight on into the mirror in the morning only seeing ourselves from the familiar angle that has changed only incrementally over the years and benefits from the sucked in gut. It is those shocks of the odd angles that others see and sudden realizations or our inability to run, lift, play like we once did that catch us off guard and shock us with the truth.

It was just such a shock that I experienced the other night. We attended a concert by a guitar player, songwriter named David Bromberg. Until I left home in the late 70s to attend graduate school in Arizona, my music experience was largely dominated by what we called top 40s radio. FM radio with specialized stations, that carried broader musical spectrums, were only just emerging. For the most part, we had only heard the top 40 hits at any one point in time. I was only vaguely aware of genres like blues, bluegrass, and jazz. But the music scene was also exploding at this time. The divisions between rock and folk and country were disappearing. I also was discovering an entire awareness of music that people were tapped into that I had been previously unaware of. This was influential music and performers that were often shaping the music that the pop artists were distilling and presenting to the masses. Knowledge of these performers was a special badge of coolness, at least in my mind, and made you feel a special sense of superiority when people perused your record collection and asked, “who is David Bromberg, or Doc Watson, or The Leo Kotke.”

Bromberg was, is, an excellent guitar player who surrounds himself with other excellent musicians and plays a diverse palette of music from blues to bluegrass. Though I had never seen him in person, I had heard enough concert recordings to know that he peppered his performances with wise-cracks and mid-song despairing love-lost stories and been-done-wrong diatribes that leave the audience shouting "whoo" when he strikes a nerve of shared heartache or indignity that everyone has felt at one time or another. So when mom discovered that he would be playing at UAA, I was excited to re-immerse myself in the world of the hip insider and, yes, youthful righteousness that I had once associated with DB.

I first realized that I might be in trouble when miss iPad research (mom) asked me to estimate how old DB is. Knowing that I am close to 61 and he is older than me, I generously guessed 68, fully expecting him to be closer to my age and much more accomplished at a young age during the 1970s. “No,” she said, “he’s 75.” Still, I was hopeful of catching the spark and returning to what was. After all, the people who know about DB are the same people who now know about Nickel Creek and going to their concerts you see the entire spectrum.

I badgered mom and we got there early. I might admit to ridiculously early, but that is never really possible in my mind. As people filtered in, I realized that this was an entirely over the hill group of people. There were gray hair and paunches everywhere and even a bit of doddering going on. There were old men with pony tails, even bald pony tails, and women who had once been hippy chicks but were now gardeners and grandmothers. There were canes for Chrissakes. Wait, where are the cool people? Yes, people our age know about DB, but aren’t there a lot of youngsters that know about him too. I did spot one 30 something guy with a hot 20 something girl, but otherwise, if the hair wasn’t gray, it was dyed. Is that the extent of cool in Anchorage?

DB and his band came on stage and burned their telecasters into a blues song, but, the energy wasn’t there. He looked like an old man with baggy jeans pulled too high. Actually, the music was there technically. I could close my eyes and hear the mellow voice and bluesy runs of a tight band. As long as my eyes were closed, I could call up the years when this music was so dear. Several times he went into his mid-song asides and the audience and I enjoyed them, but there was a disconnect. When he did a soliloquy about losing the love of his life because of his wayward behavior, or, about how that b done him wrong, we all knew that these experiences were far in his past and far in ours. We are now a generation that would be more likely mourning the loss of long time friends and life partners to the big C than the hot passions of youthful intrigue. That is not to say that those experiences do not continue to burn in our hearts, but, that we have surrounded those yearnings with scar tissue, developed wisdom, and traded cool for connoisseur.

The musicianship was sublime, though there were missed licks that never would have happened 35 years ago. Almost fittingly, he did not perform the songs that he is known for, like “Mr. Blue” and “I Like to Sleep Late in the Morning.” Those were for a different time. The third encore and final song of the evening was performed quietly out in front of the microphones to a rapt and silent auditorium. Instead of a rousing sendoff, it was a sweet goodnight and subtle goodbye.

And, if you listened closely, you could just hear the early snores.

Etiquette question: Eating guests' food

Dear family, I have a question for you. I have guests coming over for a potluck this evening for church. I told them I would make macaroni and cheese and I did. However, it was very late last night when I made it and I was very hungry...so I ate some of it. I felt guilty even even as I dug my fork in. I'm not sure, but it seems like when you come a potluck, you expect the food to be undisturbed. So, what do I do? It's, of course, baked mac and cheese, so the fact that the corner is missing is quite obvious. Am I just being a freak or is this in very poor taste?

E

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Curmudgeon chronicles #2 - From Boors to Buttheads

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Mom & I had a wonderful long weekend in Seattle. The weather was fantastic, the shopping was productive, and the food was excellent. Follow mom on facebook to get a fuller idea of our weekend. That will not be the topic of this curmudgeon post. In our time out, we had repeated experiences with people exhibiting what I consider to be boorish behavior. Now I realize that there are a LOT of people in the world today and that public venues, like restaurants, pack customers in like sardines, such that we cannot help but observe the events at nearby tables, or overhear conversations that we may, or may not, want to hear. Behavior of fellow patrons crosses into the neighborhood of rude and insensitive when their conduct begins to needlessly impact the quality of my experience. It seems that many people these days simply conduct themselves in public, as if they are the only ones present, or at least, the only ones who matter.

I also recognize that I am increasingly hard of hearing. The more background noise there is, the more difficult it is for me to hear the conversation at my table, which can be irritating for both the speaker and the listener. So, in fairness, I start off with a base level of pissed off.

My first harangue against bad behavior was directed at a table of late 20 - early 30 something women. It only took a few moments to understand that these 10 women were having a party. Most of the behavior, though, was not offensive. The brief rendition of happy birthday for one of the women interrupted conversation at all surrounding tables for a minute, but it came and went. Not a big deal. The girls were having a good time and lots of conversation and laughing and posing for pictures was going on. My problem was essentially with one member of the party that clearly had never been taught the concept of an inside voice. She bellowed. She howled. She pontificated loudly and, seemingly, endlessly to the complete destruction of any chance to have a conversation. After a while, others in the party became aware of the turned heads when the banshee cried and gradually stopped engaging her in conversation.

Dinner the next night started in a similar way. Tables packed into a small space with poor acoustics. Sound levels that made conversation somewhat difficult, despite the fact that most people were being only as loud as they needed to be. There was one table, however, that attracted attention. Everyone at that table seemed to be yelling. Now it is normal that voices go up when good times are had, but there is necessary, there is normal, and there is jerk. The women at the table were loud periodically. The men were loud always and, surprisingly, far more interested in their buds than in the attractive young women who were trying hard to stay in the game. Now this was a fairly nice restaurant. Maybe it wasn't FANCY, but it was definitely 4-5 star. It was not the corner bar and, my expectation is, that people should behave accordingly. So, it was with a sense of relief when I noticed the party rise to leave. Though I should not have been, I was shocked to see the two guys stand and walk away from the table with no attention to the women. There was no pulling out of chairs, no fetching or holding of coats, not even allowing the women to go first. I suppose there is a recognition that women are capable of standing, putting on a jacket, and walking on their own. Still, the total lack of chivalry, and even attention, was amazing. I found myself hoping that these buttheads would be going home alone. A lyric from an old Graham Nash song says that " a hobo or a poet must kill dragons for a bride."

So, remember, there are others around you. Use your indoor voice. Be nice to your ladies, or, expect that your men be nice to you.

A favorite bar shutters

Jarrod and I went to a favorite bar last night and sadly came to the conclusion that it will be closing soon.Known as one of the only spots in Houston willing to pay the high tax for smokers to light up indoors, the bar has a large, impressive humidor in the center. As the bar began to slide, cigarette smokers began to replace cigar smokers. Thin, well-bred women, the AKC of dog breeds type women, were replaced with the stretched and dyed, nipped and tucked type women who lure men with exposed seams of skin instead of perfectly coiffed bobs. It even started showing sports games last year. They didn’t seem to mind as basketball seeking, Fubu and ECHO sweater wearing men replaced the buttoned up professionals. The beautiful waitresses began to fade, too. Like moths to a brighter light, they’re gone. Last night there was just one, not beautiful, wearing glasses with her hair pulled back in a bun that she probably tied up while still wet from the shower. The quick one she grabbed while rushing to get changed from her other job. At a waffle restaurant. The old waitresses were never rushed. They never had another job, or a life. The bar was just that. A perfect picture where men ruled and women were problem-free. The final nail in this Mantopia’s coffin was the smoking ban. A breast cancer clinic moved in upstairs and who-knows-what moved in next door. The property management made the decision to revoke the bar’s privilege to smoke indoors or out. There are a lot of bars in Houston. There are few things that make them special. But this one was a place where young unimportant men could spend a little more than they could afford and purchase a cigar and whiskey and feel successful, important, elite for a short while. But now that’s over and the bar, Jarrod and I decided, will continue to slide.

Dad's award winning baked beans

Thanks to Emily, these are now award winning baked beans. Is it, perhaps, a bit ironic that the prize for best beans is free gas? This recipe has its origins in a recipe that I got from my mother.  It has been changed through trial and error over the years to become something that she would no longer recognize.  If you have seen me make these, you know that I just do this by feel, so the measures are approximate.  You may have to adjust things a bit, but this will get you close. 

2 - 15 oz. cans of Van Camp’s Pork & Beans drained

4 strips of bacon chopped into ¼ inch segments

½ sweet yellow onion finely chopped

¾ cup brown sugar (light or dark)

¼ cup white vinegar

1 cup barbecue sauce (I use Masterpiece hickory smoked)

¼ cup maple syrup

1 tablespoon yellow mustard

1 tablespoon worchestershire sauce

1 heaping teaspoon ground black pepper

½ teaspoon ground chipotle pepper (or cayenne)

 Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.

 To drain the beans, I usually just partially open the cans and then lay them on their sides in the sink until the liquid mostly drains out.  If you want to use a colander, you can, but it is not necessary to go that far. 

 Brown the bacon in a skillet.  When the bacon is beginning to crisp, add the onion and cook the two until the bacon is crisp and the onions are cooked through.  Set aside.

 In a mixing bowl combine the brown sugar and vinegar.  The sugar should dissolve and the consistency should be about that of a thick syrup. 

 Add bbq sauce through ground chipotle stirring to mix.  Add onion & bacon including the drippings.  Add beans. 

 Spray a 9x13 glass baking dish with Pam.  Add bean mixture.  Bake until most of the liquid does not slosh when you shake the dish (about 45 minutes).