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Archive for April, 2007

I knew a kid named Mattie whose family lived in an old farmhouse on the edge of town. They had a big yard with various trees, including a small cluster of plum trees by the big open field we used for playing baseball. Mattie loved those plums; the only problem was, the bees liked those plums, too, and he’d get stung, and run crying into the house for his Mom’s first aid.

Later, sting medicated with ointment, he’d come back outside, and drift closer to the little plum orchard again.
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Best birthday wishes

Imagine standing in line at a new museum in Paris, a long line, projected to have an hour or more wait, and someone coming up and announcing it’s their birthday and giving the last ten people in line a ticket to celebrate.
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While I was in high school, some forward-thinking teacher showed us the movie The Strawberry Statement, in class. It stuck with me, so much so that I later found a used copy of the book it was based on, by James Kunen. It’s set in ’68 during the student protests and the takeover of the administration building at Columbia University.

In hindsight, it’s easy to think the anti-war position was a popular view, but in a very immediate way The Strawberry Statement brings home how embattled they were, how much of a minority they felt (the jocks, for example, called them “pukes”), and not just the spontaneity of the moment but a feeling of newness, or everything being up for grabs.
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My Twins lost two out of three to lowly Kansas City and got swept in a two-game set at home by the Indians. They’ve lost four of five, and to the teams I picked to finish 4th and 5th in their division. Okay, it’s still early. Still I’m concerned about one Justin Morneau.
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Imagine being able to vote your heart and your conscience, having a chance to choose the candidate who best represents your views, without having to sacrifice pragmatism. And doing it in a couple months of campaigning, rather than a couple years!
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Being older, now

I heard the voices at 4:27, according to my alarm’s digital display. Loud voices, carrying from the neighboring apartments. I lie still, listening, then heard the words “call the police” clearly. I got up and stepped over a slumbering dog to our upstairs window, and peered out through the levelors at the apartments.
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Someone sent me an amusing little story recently, as told by a physician driving her then-four-year-old daughter to preschool.
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