Christmas

Every year, my plan is to get all of the holiday activities finished early so I can sit back and actually be present in the moment for Christmas week. Every year I fail, so it has actually become my quest to simply fail less than in previous years. I was doing very well this year until I got sick, but it helped that my daughter was here with a Christmas fire in her belly after two holidays spent abroad.

This is how this year stacked up:

Avoid malls after mid-November: I actually exceeded my goal here and did not set foot in a mall after the first week in November. That one was easy since that last time it was a little scary how people kept trying to spray fragrance on me and examine my hands for dry skin all over the mall.

Buy 4 pounds of butter, or cause 4 pounds of butter to be bought: Check.

Buy fifth pound of butter after an unfortunate accident involving glass in the cookie dough.

Make English Toffee--this year we were blessed with the spontaneous manifestation of the miraculous toffee parakeet (see photo). We may be putting it on EBay, so stay tuned.

Pick out a Christmas tree from Dean Mueller's front yard and stash it in the garage until my daughter, the Christmas slave, (she prefers elf) was home home to decorate it. Yes.

Get all presents wrapped and mailed on time. Sorry Mark.

Finish all knitting projects. Almost. It is difficult when pairs are involved. The hat was done, the scarf was done, but only 1.5 socks, and 1.8 slippers were finished.

Make and eat several really large meals in the days leading up to Christmas. (Ring in the New Year with leftovers, and more leftovers.) Despite well-meaning advice to go for restaurant take out, once the fridge was full, there was no choice but to empty it.

Play games with the family. This year it was bridge, food trivia, and Rock Band 2. We could have played more of all of them, but the need for sleep kept interfering.

Avoid seeing commercials where couples give each other a Lexus with a big bow on the roof and it is a surprise. Especially the version where the small child is in on it. First of all, this woman has emptied the family bank account or taken out a very large loan and her husband is oblivious. Then she tells the kid what she's up to and he apparently doesn't spill the beans to Dad five minutes later. I succeeded for the most part, but I am clearly still bearing the scars of having been infuriatated during previous years.

Listen to just nice Christmas music and nothing annoying. This is extemely challenging and remains a goal for next year.

Get and give presents that can be folded into the household possessions within 24 hours. I need help with the edibles this year. Chocolate anyone?

The ultimate goal, of course, is to make the holiday less commercial and more fun. The very best part his year was having both the kids at home...second best was probably the butter.

Contagion

I have had a flu shot for the past eleven years and it has been at least that long since I have been really sick. I was starting to feel complacent and apparently this may have caused my biological guard to drop. Whether it was that, or the possibility that the flu shot manufacturers missed the slow boat from China this year, I am here to tell you, there is some nasty stuff going around. Should you be so unlucky, here is a bit of advice for getting through it at home, surrounded by your loved ones.

First of all, if your loved ones are surrounding you, make them wear surgical masks at all times. The holiday photos will be memorable. In case you are wondering why the patient wouldn't be the one wearing the mask, it is because you will be having enough trouble breathing without the extra interference.

It starts with a sneeze and sudden nose congestion, as if you had just been exposed to something that makes you allergic. At this point you have about 36 hours to complete your holiday preparations and lay in supplies before an alien takes up residence in one of your sinuses (yes, just one, but that is more than enough) and your nose starts to run.

Here is what you will need: chapstick, aspirin, or the equivalent, lots of Kleenex (I recommend the kind with lotion--this is no time to pinch pennies) and lots and lots of liquids. Don't worry about food--you won't want to eat. Nor should you, for reasons that become clear on day three. Charge up your phone--it is an excellent way to summon your caretakers from other parts of the house, though they may not fall for it a second time. Attire: Docker drawstring men's pajamas and a really old Tshirt are just the items you need to transition from day to evening, and straight into bed, if you aren't there already.

Forget reading anything more involved than Dick and Jane, catching up on correspondence. etc. You won't have the energy and your feeble attempts to accomplish anything will only make you feel worse. On day four I attempted a Humphrey Bogart movie, but the suspense regarding who killed Maria, and why, (and what was the deal with the cousin?) continued even after the final credits rolled. It was simply over my head. I had more success with CaddyShack, and watching it twice helped me pick up the subtle plot nuances that I missed the first time.

The good news is that by day six, you will once again be able to leave the house with a portable Kleenex supply small enough to fit in a purse or several pockets. You may even be able to operate heavy machinery, such as a car. One final note--to our friends who invited us for a lovely dinner on day two--if I had known I was going to get that sick I wouldn't have exposed you to me. Or at the very least, I would have brought surgical masks for everyone.

Chow Chow Chow

Today productivity was back up, but morale took a hit. Buddy got too hungry for his own good--or maybe it was a tranquilizer hangover--but either way he went after some food in one of the traps and ended his little adventure. One of the security guards spotted him last night and called Animal Services so that he didn't have to spend another night in the bitter cold.

We missed him today. No doggie drama to update, no big red dog to spot out the window, cruising through the parking lot. I actually heard someone suggest a visit to the animal shelter, just to say hey.

I'd like to think that the next time he escapes (and I'm sure he will) he'll head back our way. I think he had a pretty good time with the whole episode. I know we did.

Chow Chow

Buddy's story continues to fascinate three office buildings and significantly slow productivity. It appears that it is not true that the owners tried to lure him home, nor is the next rumor accurate: the owners are away and he escaped from "doggie daycare." Well, actually it turns out that the owner is away in a sense--he is in jail and Buddy escaped from a relative's house. This version I have from credible sources--our security personnel whose job it is to know these things and also to chitchat with the animal control folks all day long.

The other true facts are these: he has been on the loose since December 2nd, and one reason that he has eluded his captors for so long is that a group of animal lovers at one of the office buildings has been feeding him and provided a shelter of sorts. This seemed shortsighted when I heard about it, but I am beginning to wonder if Buddy would rather freeze to death than surrender, in which case they are prolonging his life.

Yesterday Buddy flaunted his foxy tail all over the upper parking lot until a small army of animal control cars staked out the area. Then he was nowhere. This morning we were updated at the quarterly all-staff meeting, so everyone knew the plan was to drug his food today and slow him down enough to catch him. I heard several people around me mutter "Run, Buddy run!" and I realized that this is a dog who is rapidly becoming some sort of folk hero.

I am also beginning to wonder if there isn't some sort of supernatural element to all this. Buddy ate his hot lunch laced with tranquilizers and, although he was a little disoriented, he still managed to recognize and elude the enemy with a dose on board that should have caused a serious nap at the very least. And then there are the cars--he seems to have some rudimentary reading skills and will not approach any of the vehicles emblazoned with "Animal Services." It is as if he has decided that he does not need any kind of "service"--not even from the attractive female Chow that was brought in yesterday for friendship and maybe more.

Buddy is smart, and he is wily, and he is rapidly running through every Animal Service trick in the book. Given the manpower invested so far, I would not be surprised to see the ultimate bait out in the parking lot tomorrow: a guy in a County blaze orange jumpsuit with cuffs around his ankles.

Chow

The woods around my office building are full of wildlife. I have see deer, rabbits, a fox, wild turkeys, and (you may recall) the area was even home to cougar for awhile. This week the local fauna was joined by a chow. When we originally got the email, it was termed a "stray" dog, but this is clearly not the case. This dog is a runaway.

Today he was out of the woods and in the employee parking lot. He is a beautiful dog with a fox-red coat and a tail to match. He will approach humans with a curious, friendly air as long as he is not too close and they pretty much ignore him. They were trying to ignore him today, but it was clear that many people felt uneasy about turning their backs on him while cleaning their cars in the parking lot. At about 2pm, the animal control guy showed up and tried to entice the dog into the back of his jeep. There ensued an OJ-like chase around the parking lot with the dog trotting briskly up and down the rows of cars and the animal control jeep in hot pursuit at five miles an hour. Very amusing to those of us watching the "Buddy" show. That is, apparently, his name.

We know this because his owners showed up a day or so ago and tried to get him to come home, but he would have nothing to do with them, preferring to fend for himself in the wild. Now teenage runaways--that's sad, but everyone knows that teenagers are volatile and unreasonable at the best of times. A dog, though, Man's Best Friend, that's just plain embarrassing. Especially a dog named "Buddy."

At this point the place is littered with traps and food in the hopes that Buddy will get hungry. After watching him outsmart the animal control guy, I think it is more likely that they'll end up with a fox, a raccoon, or maybe a carnivorous turkey in those traps.

Lots of possible outcomes here--I'll keep you posted.

Chilly

Almost no work got done today, between discussions of the impending storm, and plans for tomorrow, when we are getting possibly 12 inches of snow. This year is shaping up like last year, with snow every other day, beginning December 1st. The first reaction is weary. Already we (I use the term loosely) are tired of shoveling, but we need to also remember the beauty of this season: fresh snow in the moonlight (we don't really see the sun after daylight savings kicks in), the fresh scent of dry air at 10 degrees F, and the sparkling jewel that was my car in the parking lot tonight, encased in a quarter inch of ice.

All afternoon there was the nostalgic stream of school closings. My children used to tune in to the local radio stations, waiting (usually fruitlessly) for the Madison Schools to close. The few days this happened were legendary and wonderful; time home with walking errands only, all activities cancelled, the drama of major weather occupying every thought. Today at work, I could feel the yearning. If the office doesn't close tomorrow, there will be some 500 severely disappointed adults. We might have to all just call in sick.

Complexity

I was desperate and had only one place to turn. There I was, home alone, with the power to choose the evening's entertainment on television and I could not make it work. All three remotes with half-remembered successes from past TV viewings were not jelling into both a picture AND sound experience on our home entertainment center. So, I made the dreaded call. "Honey? You are forgiven for leaving home with all of the turkey and stuffing leftovers after Thanksgiving. I can't work the TV. Can you help?"

"Okay, Mom. Are you looking at all three remotes? Pick up the longer black one and look for the red button on the upper right that is labeled 'source.' Press it twice."

I did, and it worked. I was amazed at the fact that my son was able to visualize the remotes in a house he doesn't even live in anymore and diagnose the problem that quickly. I do feel a need to defend myself--I am not a complete moron, but every time I master the home entertainment center, the components change. Our most recent acquisition doesn't even HAVE buttons on it and required yet another remote to be added to the array.

It made me think about that age-old question. What is complexity? For me, it is three remotes with a total of 157 buttons and a differing pattern of button-pressing needed to watch a DVD, watch TV, play a CD, turn the speakers on in the kitchen, see a picture that corresponds with the sound, etc.

So what if we were to translate 157 buttons into a different idea? A party, for example, with 157 guests, a combination of friends and family with food, drink, mingling, etc.? I don't want to single out any one gender, but just for example, let's talk about men. Would a man be able to separate those he has met from those he has not? Distinguish between work related guests and personal friends (ooh, that was an embarrassing story that may get shared at the office!)? Will he know who is a daughter/niece and who is a trophy wife? Will he know not to launch into cute baby stories with the woman who is struggling with infertility? Will he tell that hilarious anecdote with unfortunately recognizable characters--"oh my God, Sandy, I didn't recognize you--didn't your hair used to be a different color?" You catch my drift.

Stop and consider--if we admit that complexity comes in many forms, let us contemplate that the same individual who could help me operate the TV over the phone was unable to negotiate the ethics making off with most of the turkey and all of the stuffing from the family refrigerator. This was apparently more complex than visualizing and understanding 157 buttons on three different remotes. Complexity and gender: dolls and trucks are only the tip of the iceberg.

Cowgirl Creamery

Three or four years ago we made a trip out to California for the wedding of a niece. It was one of those first trips without expensive and opinionated children along and we had a great time. On our final morning in Sebastopol, my sister-in-law helped me shop for a travel picnic at Whole Foods. I was simultaneuously introduced to two cheeses: Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove and Mt. Tam from Cowgirl Creamery.

Later that day, as the airline staff passed out revolting and inedible sandwiches (not just my opinion as it turned out), I unpacked my picnic and was soon the center of attention and envy of at least seven rows of seats in each direction. That it replaced airline food was only one of the factors that made that picnic indelible--the other was the cheese.

Back in Wisconsin I rushed to my local WF for more, only to be told that Mt. Tam is only shipped in cold weather so that it arrives in good condition. Starting in October I pestered the cheese staff about every two weeks, and at least some of them seemed just as anxious to lay hands on some Mt. Tam as I was. The Humboldt Fog became an occasional treat and source of mystery--how do they get it to ripen backwards from the outside in?--but Mt. Tam was never available. Eventually, like a best friend breaking the news about an old boyfriend, the cheese staff told me there would be no Mt. Tam for Wisconsin cheese junkies. I moved on, but I did not forget.

If this seems a bit melodramatic for the subject of cheese, I only want you to understand why, last week at WF, the sight of a cake of Mt. Tam (MT TAM!) actually caused my heart to speed up, and even more significantly, caused me to pay an outlandish price in these lean economic times, to take some home with me. I am babying it a bit--making sure it gets to the right temperature for eating. I did have to taste a wedge to determine that it was not at peak ripeness yet. My husband pointed out that it doesn't look good enough anymore to set out at Thanksgiving. I laughed and laughed--what made him think I was going to share? In fact, didn't the death threat if I were to come home and find it gone tell him anything?

I look at it this way--whatever I paid for it is still cheaper than the plane ticket to California would have been, had it come to that. Although I did go on the website, and the creamery tours look mighty tempting---plus we have relatives in the area. I am sure we are overdue for a visit.

Cooking

The antidote to many things, cooking is the perfect activity on a cold November weekend. My usual approach is to make a recipe more or less as written the first time unless there are obvious flaws, like ingredients I don't like. I tried a couple of new things this weekend with mixed results. Our CSA bestowed many sweet potatoes this year and I am not a huge sweet potato fan unless someone else has deep fried them to crispy crunchiness and provided some sort of tasty dip. I was on my own with the sweet potatoes this weekend, so I researched the cookbook library. The next best thing to frying, which I don't do well, was cooking several pounds of SPs whisked through olive oil on cookie sheets in a 500 degree oven, with a corresponding pan of five red onions, cut into rings. The result was supposed to be golden puffed SPs with a complementary melted onion component. I should have been suspicious when the recipe specified that the onion rings should not touch each other more than necessary. That many onions (4 actually--I was already anticipating the problem) were more of a heap than a layer. Total cooking time was to be 25 minutes on a side and the first 25 minutes went pretty well, although there was no puffiness to be seen. I flipped everything and slid the pans back in the oven exactly as specified (flip SP pans top to middle, and back to front, leave onions on bottom rack). I set the time to 20 minutes and it should have been 10. When the timer went off, I pulled out a really burned mess. Unless the final five minutes is when the sweet potatoes separate from the carbon char and puff up into golden slices, this recipe was a failure. To add insult to injury, the house still smells faintly of burned sugar.

The other recipe was one I got out of Friday's newspaper and it was totally worth stealing the paper out of the lunchroom before the workday was quite over. I won't bore you with the details, but it is a soup that involves sherry, brandy (I used pear brandy--necessity being the mother of invention--"didn't we have anything cheaper?" asked my husband), 30 cloves of garlic, potatoes, gorgonzola and 2 cups of heavy cream. I served it with micro greens as a garnish and fresh wheat bread on the side. Oh My God.

Tonight we had the antidote, and this is an improvisation:

Drizzle a tablespoon of sesame oil in a non-stick 9x 13 pan. Place a 2 lb salmon fillet in the middle, skin side down. Surround the salmon with a bunch of lancinate kale, de-stemmed and shredded. Smear 2 teaspoons each of freshly grated ginger and garlic on the fish and drizzle Tamari over fish and greens. Cover with foil and bake at 350 for 20 minutes. While the fish is cooking, make white rice (sticky rice would be good, but I didn't have any). Uncover the fish and add 2 cups of fresh spinach, and salt and pepper. I am partial (okay, addicted) to Penzey's Roasted Szechuan pepper salt blend, but it is not essential. Re-cover and bake another 10 minutes. Remove from oven, flip fish and remove skin. Add 2 cups fresh arugula and cooked rice to whatever proportions look right to you. Mix everything together (fish will break up and rice will soak up pan juices). Serve with more Tamari at the table.

I am hoping this will help scour last night's meal from my arteries.

Confidence

It is such an elusive quality, confidence. It isn't aggression, or bravado. It is really hope, in its strongest form. We overuse it these days--"give us an estimate and then tell us your percent confidence in what you just said." It is nothing but a wish transformed into numbers--10% confidence, 75%, how certain are we that our prediction will come true? On Sunday I projected a wish to a friend, with 100% confidence. I told him that I was certain (and I was) that he would see another Wisconsin Spring. I told him that he could contribute a guest blog entry to my CWord blog because I would not presume to write about the reality of living with Hepatitis C.

Last week he voted. This week he is dying. All of my confidence cannot float his lifeboat to May and make my prediction come true. I wish it could.

Cinema

I don't like repetition and seeing a movie once is generally enough. I made an exception tonight for "The Professional" which I have seen a couple of times. That is one fine movie in a genre I don't usually watch the first time. Natalie Portman is great, and the supporting cast is flawless.

Combo

It is such a fifties word, "combo." As in jazz combo, not a band, but something else, more casual. I thought of this word on Monday night down at Mickey's Bar. This is not a place we go often, but with new ownership and a promising chef, maybe we should. Anyway, Monday is a bad night to go out, and a good night to stay home in the "leisure wear," watching what there was no time to watch on TV over the past week. We were out because our friend the painter (profession), guitar player (hobby), and former cab driver (source of actual money) is playing a regular Monday night gig at Mickey's and we said we would show up. To make sure we did, we arranged to meet mutual friends, and that worked far better than the Monday night notation on the calendar for the past three weeks.

The band set up in a corner of the bar, chatting with each other and customers. Our guitar-playing friend walked over the to table to acknowledge that he learned valuable guitar lore from my husband, in addition to how to shave. Apparently that made a whole new look possible at age 22. The place was pretty full for a Monday, I thought, but what do I know? I am usually at home in leisure wear at that hour/day of the week.

The line-up was interesting: in addition to our friend, there was the documentary filmmaker on keyboard, the guy with a past (and a voice) on harmonica, and the attorney on stand up bass. And then there was the music--blues, French cafe music, folk standards. The guitar player's landlady was tapped for some harmony, and (lead by our table, I think) the whole bar joined in for The Sloop John B. The musicians seemed to enjoy the singalong, though I noticed they trotted out some original stuff immediately after. We didn't know the words, but it did not prevent some from humming along with the chorus.

We left reluctantly, but still past our Monday night bedtimes, and as we walked home, my husband said, "what did you think of the combo?" I was stunned that he had pulled that dated word right out of my head. So it made me wonder, "what is the difference between a band and a combo?" It must be that corner of the bar, remembrance of shaving lessons, singalong, multiple genres, fun, casual musical experience that makes us think of a combo. Maybe also the fact that they have no name, as well as no record deal, and no cover charge. No more bands for me--from here on out, it is combos all the way.

Crossroads

Pre-election jitters--how to manage? I really don't remember ever being this nervous before. Of course, in retrospect, I should have been at least this nervous last presidential election, but I couldn't believe we (as a population, as a citizenship) could be that stupid. We were.

I am taking nothing for granted this time--especially the political where-with-all of my fellow citizens. The unfortunate thing is that I still have only one vote, and one voice, and not too many venues to exercise it in. This is one, but I suspect I am preaching to the choir. In the case of my blood relatives, I had better be preaching to the choir.

So, what I am doing to manage pre-election anxiety:

Took two sick days last week and laid on the couch catching up with two weeks of newspapers--also started a couple of books. Watched no TV.

Thought about the possible places I could move to if things don't happen as they should on Tuesday. I have had a number of spontaneous offers, but I believe all of the potential hosts don't really think we can elect a Republican again, so they feel safe making the offer. I hope I don't have to disabuse them of that notion by showing up at the door with a suitcase.

Ate bacon. 'Nuff said.

Watched my husband move 3000 pounds of stone for a raised kitchen garden in back of the house.

Made three cakes in one week.

Thought about a vacation in Norway with my Republican aunt--that's how much I love her!

Donated money for pizza for the Obama workers during the last four days.

Made mac and cheese with a whole head of roasted garlic in it, along with a pound and a half of good Wisconsin cheddar.

Reviewed the hate mail being generated by the Republicans in the final days, took Tums to combat the outrage--sad to say it was ineffective.

Let's get this election over with, let's make history, let's do the right thing, let's move forward. And for God's sake, let's do it before I move up a clothing size.

Candidate II

We don't tune into the Letterman show every night, but often enough to have caught Letterman repeatedly skewering McCain after McCain stood him up for an interview with Katie Couric instead. So tonight McCain appeared on the show and I have to give him some credit for guts. I am sure his aim was to bring the constant one-sided badgering to an end. I am sure he thought he could handle anything after all this time on the campaign trail. I am sure he thought he could dangle a future appearance by Sarah Palin out there and Dave would go easy on him. I am very, very sure that he misjudged this move completely. For those of you who haven't seen the show yet, I don't want to spoil your fun, but Dave was the clearest debate winner we have seen to date.

Catastrophe

Two true stories from one week: A couple is walking in San Francisco and they hear a horrible screech and a thump. They turn in time to see the body of a bicyclist hurtling through the air. The man runs to assist while the woman calls 911 on her cell phone. As the man reaches the victim, she is clearly in shock. He starts to reassure her that help is on the way, but she clutches him and repeats over and over "I can't afford this--I can't afford this."

A woman teaches for many years and then become disabled. She is fortunate to have an insurance policy that guarantees her 90% of her salary, with annual cost-of-living increases. She also qualifies for Social Security Disability benefits and Medicare, not to mention a mention a pension fund based on her years of work and pay-in to the state retirement fund. All of these were earned benefits. Her last retroactive cost-of-living increase went to the attorney who is handling her bankruptcy. Why is she filing for bankruptcy? It is the cost of her medications, or more specifically, the copay for her medications. This runs to $1200 a month, give or take a few bucks. When her copay exceeds $5000 in a given year, she qualifies for "catastrophic" health cost assistance. The problem is that year after year of waiting to qualify for assistance with her copay have taken a financial toll. This not the result of compulsive gambling or shopping--this is the result of living with chronic illness in this country DESPITE years of productive, tax-paying work and contributions to the systems that are supposed to provide protection.

We have heard for years that we can't afford a universal health care system in the United States. Our citizens travel to the "third world" for medical procedures that they can not afford at home. Every discussion of this important issue includes horror stories from England or Canada detailing the waiting periods for a CT scan. There is no discussion of what Canadians or the British (and many others) have, that we don't--basic health care for all--and how much that saves everyone over the long haul in health care costs. There is no discussion of systems that combine public and private health insurance. There is no discussion of what the bail-out of Wall Street and the short-sighted car manufacturers would have bought us in basic health care for our citizens. There is no discussion of the fact that --in the face of rapidly rising health care costs--most insurance carriers are operating on a for-profit basis. Who generates the profits?--not hard to guess.

Hurricane Katrina--catastrophe? Yes. Fallout from Hurricane Ike in the form of torrential rain and flooding (pictured above)? Well yes, in some areas. Rising gas prices? Maybe. Health care delivery in this country? Yes, Yes, Yes!

Cats in Costume

Cruel or cute? All I can say is, judging from this cat's expression, revenge will be taken.

Cancer

This isn't what I intended to write about at all, but I am frankly frightened by what I am reading during our final weeks leading up to the election. The serious press seems to be at last waking from the dream/nightmare of the last eight years. As they groggily shake their heads to clear them, they are beginning to lay bare the truth behind some of the propoganda being promoted by the McCain campaign, the "Roveian" tactics that have been so incredibly effective for the Republicans. (The not-so-serious press is too busy rolling in the delights of a VP candidate with a photogenic face and accessories, but more on that later.) It is hard enough to watch the ads that claim Obama will raise taxes--not true for the vast majority of Americans--or see how ridiculously easy it still is to use scare tactics and disseminate falsehoods--- "repeat a lie ofen enough and it will be believed" It is even more difficult to contemplate those subjects not being discussed.

So let's talk about cancer. In particular, let's talk about skin cancer. There are a couple of kinds that most people know about: Basal cell carcinoma is the kind that lots of fair-skinned northern European types get once they hit middle age. The dermatologist removes it in an office procedure and it is a pain, but not generally deadly. Melanoma is the other one. It can affect anyone, and it can show up anywhere, not just in areas that have been overexposed to the sun. It spreads aggressively, to the point that some surgical procedures call for mapping the downstream lymph system and removing it along with the mole in question.

My half-sister was diagnosed with melanoma on her shoulder blade at the age of 34. She had spent a few years living in Arizona and was a real outdoors type. She was fortunate enough to have excellent health insurance and she was successfully treated. In October 1999, 10 years after she was declared "cancer free," she decided to move from Arkansas to Colorado. Her doctor gave her a thorough check up to serve as a baseline for her new medical providers in Colorado--in the course of this, a nodule was discovered in her lung. It was just sitting there quietly, causing no symptoms yet, and we all felt that she was extremely lucky to have had this diagnosed by happenstance, much earlier than it would have been otherwise. Also on her side was her otherwise good health, and excellent health insurance and access to care. Needless to say, treatment was aggressive. Eight months later, at the age of 45, she died of metastatic melanoma to the brain.

This is a sad story, but in the case of my half-sister, there were no national implications. Her death did not impair the running of a nation or result in a stunningly unqualified politician taking up the reins of our government. While some of you might argue that we have had a stunningly unqualified person at the helm for the last eight years and nothing too bad happened, let me remind you that plenty of bad things happened. Even so, as much as I have been unable to watch our President in action (can anyone forget him getting the giggles when the mayor of Hamburg, Germany referred to her people as Hamburgers?) it could be far, far seriously worse if Sarah Palin gets keys to the White House and the code to the direct line to the Kremlin--(howdy neighbor!) among other things.

I suppose I could be accused of using the same scare tactics that have been so effective for the Republicans. I have a couple of things to say about that. First of all, some of you may not find this scenario scary ("kind of a babe" in the White House!) but you should. The second is that everything I say here is true, and has nothing to do with spin. Finally, (alright, three things) this is a reason to NOT vote for McCain. There are plenty of reasons to vote FOR Obama that have nothing to do with the McCain/Palin ticket. Check them out, use your healthy brain, and vote.

Candidate

We can deny the fact that global warming is not caused by man. The question is can we take that risk? Palin seems to be an intellient woman but, is misguided if she thinks, she can take on congress as VP.I think she is being used by the powers in the Republican Party, Boy what a chess game.!!!!!
Lillie, richmond, USA
Not sure bout bears, and warming. But i do know that i had my first child at 16 and I raised 4 by myself & my mother is a wonderful person! Stop bashing Mrs. Palin for her kids! Does anyone know the politics of raising kids? Obviously not! Shut up until you have been in her shoes!
Robin , Munford, USA
Palin is radical and not qualified to be President but neither was George Bush. If that's the kind of leaders the idiot Republicans want to put in power so be it. George Bush couldn't even spell the word science let alone understand it. Palin can't understand it either. Obama all the way for me.
Paul S., Cary, NC, USA
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/environment/article3987891.ece

Dear Robin,

I am confused. When you say I should shut up until I have been in her shoes, exactly what do you mean? I have raised children, and there weren’t politics involved. It was more about earning a living and providing them with an education and the kind of family values that are talked about a lot in Republican circles but not always carried into action. I am very proud of my children—one of them is a Peace Corp volunteer and the other teaches the children of single mothers who are furthering their education.

I am sure your mother is a wonderful person, but is she qualified to be Vice President of (one of) the most powerful countries on earth? I have no interest in bashing Ms. Palin for her kids—how many she has and what kind of parent she has been is not really the issue. Her political experience and the opinions she holds that can affect my life as a citizen and the trajectory of this country are the issue. Frankly, Robin, I find her lacking in experience and I find her political views revolting. If I understand you correctly, I may not have the authority to speak on this since neither I nor my children were parents at the age of sixteen, but I hope you will reconsider here. After all, she slashed funding to programs aimed at women just like you.

And Robin, I am sure you are a busy person, but please check into the bears and warming at some point before you vote.

Sincerely,
Melissa

Chiles

It was just a matter of time before this C word got posted, and what better time than the annual harvest of chiles from my garden? This year has yielded a pretty good crop but I again failed to label my plants. I thought I had, but either I was wrong or evil garden gnomes are laughing at my efforts to identify my produce. Today I grilled and peeled an assortment of peppers that included either New Mexico chiles or Italian frying peppers. Both delicious, but with a real difference in heat and recipe application. At least in my own garden I know better than to plant anything I wouldn't eat. I can't say the same for peppers acquired at the farmer's market.

Yes, yes, I know, free will, and all that, but here is what happened. I was looking at a basket of jalapenos and wishing they were serranos, when I spied a basket of long wrinkly members of the capsicum family. When I asked about them, I was told they were too spicy for me. Too spicy for me???? Of course they are, but what self-respecting person walks away from that sort of challenge? I am not sure because I am confident that no one I know would do anything but plunk down two bucks to buy the lot and that is exactly what I did. Now I have a problem. I have no idea what these are or what I should do with them. I went entirely through my Chile Pepper Encyclopedia by Dave DeWitt and I did not see anything that resembles my unidentified capsicums. I did find the following entry though, which is worth sharing:

"In Guntur, as in other worldwide hotbeds of chile consumption, those who do not eat chile are viewed with concern, if not suspicion. The people of Guntur attribute the abnormal avoidance of chile to several causes: the offenders have lived abroad, are from out of town, or have married someone from a less fiery state."

Guilty on all three counts and, I have to say, there is no state less fiery than Appleton, Wisconsin.

But back to the problem at hand, is there anyone out there who can tell me what it is I bought at the farmer's market? Extra bonus points if you can provide a recipe that uses them in some edible and delicious manner.

Conscience

I will admit from the very start that I am not a regular reader of the Catholic Herald, so I am indebted to local columnist Bill Wineke for putting me on to this. A few of you are glazing over already--Catholic Herald? Bill who? Stick with me here--I am about to break open a sex scandal of major proportions. But first, let me back up.

Apparently, on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of Pope Paul VI's Humanae Vitae position paper upholding the Catholic stance on contraception, Bishop Robert Morlino wanted to say a few words. He initially said them to church staff members, but his speech was published in the Catholic Herald on July 24, 2008, just in time for the anniversary.

According to Bishop Morlino, the trouble with moral decay in the Catholic Church began with the decision of many Catholics to follow their consciences instead of the edicts of the Pope. Once that Pandora's box opened, it was only a short step for church leaders to follow their "own consciences in terms of sexual misconduct." So, essentially, the consciences of some church leaders, in the absence of listening to anything the Pope might have to say, lead them to believe it was okay to molest children. Disagreement with the Pope's opinions on birth control was just the first step towards pedophilia.

For those of you who believe I am sitting on the skinny end of a tree branch with this, let me quote Bishop Morlino...

"Once bishops, priests and others decided they could use conscience to excuse them from obedience to the truth, as taught by the Church-when bishops and priests started giving conscience the authority to determine moral truth, rather than obey the truth as taught by the church, it is not surprising that some priests and some bishops started to follow their own conscience in terms of sexual misconduct.

The rejection of the Natural Law and reason, in the rejection of Humanae Vitae because of a misunderstood notion of conscience has lead to all of these terrible consequences and on top of it all too, the sexual misconduct scandal with some priests."

Bill Wineke has his opinion about this when he says "Dismissing it (the clergy abuse/bishop cover-up) as a manifestation of a contraceptive mentality is to do a disservice to the priests and the people in their pews." I agree with him completely, but he has ignored the larger question here--who is ultimately responsible for the sexual misconduct scandal in the Catholic Church?

I think some of you already know the disturbing answer to this question: Jimminy Cricket, guilty right down to his shiny little spats. The evidence is overwhelming. Who kept saying "let your conscience be your guide?" The Blue Fairy. And who was the conscience? Jimminy Cricket. Who was reaching the masses at just the right time? Exactly! Have we had priest sex abuse scandals before or since? This is the smoking gun here...not only were some priests ignoring the Pope, they were listening to Jimminy Cricket and the Blue Fairy instead. Not since the Teletubbies scandal have such supposedly benign characters warped our sensibilities so severely. I hope we can find it in our hearts to forgive, but Disney has a lot to answer for on this one.

Corked?

We were tired when we pulled into our no-frills motel--it had been long day of travel and we had had a late lunch instead of dinner. Plus, after sitting in the car for many hours, I wanted to walk. We "discussed" our current needs with each other, and I approached the desk clerk to asked if she could (ha ha) recommend a place within walking distance for both ice cream and wine, She barely paused before pointing us to a Perkin's Restaurant with a full bar. I was stunned.

Although there was indeed a bar, it was smokey, so we opted for the restaurant tables. We sat waiting for service for so long that I was able to eventually master the solitaire game left on each table. (The solitaire game should have been a clue to the average wait for anything on the premises, but it had been a long day.) Pretty soon, after awhile, after time had lost all meaning, the hostess came up and apologized for the waitress who was apparently overwhelmed by the duties of socializing with two other tables of local folks (how did we know? by their police uniforms).

Anyway, the hostess offered to get us our drinks and we ordered. This was not difficult as there was only one option in white wines. After a very, very, very long time (okay, time had not completely lost meaning) she returned with a soda and a glass of cold Chardonnay. She apologized for the time it had taken and told us that she had really had some problems opening a new bottle (where was the bartender? I wondered). She went so far as to remark that it seemed as if the bottle was mocking her--we all laughed. The wine was no worse than I would have expected at Perkins and I was comforted by the fact that the bottle had had a cork.

Some five or ten minutes after I toasted my Solitaire triumph with my cold Chardonnay, the hostess approached and asked for my glass of wine back. It seemed "there was something wrong with the bottle." Corked? Tom snatched up the glass and wafted it under his nose. While I tried to explain to both of them that the wine seemed fine, the hostess insisted that she needed to remove my glass and would bring me another. I sent it off, still a bit bewildered, but sure enough, back came another Chardonnay.

Some time later, when the waitress came to take our order we asked her what the problem had been. She airily informed us that the hostess had broken the neck off the bottle of wine when trying to open it. She looked at me. "I knew what had happened, but didn't realize that she had served you out of the broken bottle," she explained.

Wow. There we stood at the exact intersection of honesty and stupidity.

I feel fine so far, though my attorney says I am not out of the woods yet. I'll keep you posted.

Camping

Camping can be a wonderful thing. For me it is about preparing and eating food in the open air, the smell of the campfire, the wind in the pines, an interface with the natural world that is a little closer than the one I experience from from desk at work, or my urban backyard. It is also about adventure, since nature is always a bit unpredicatable. The last time I went camping we had a tornado evacuation from our tents in the middle of the night, and two visits from bears. When you are in a tent, a visit from a bear can be pretty terrifying, even if said bear is more interested in bacon grease left on a grill than in the contents of said tent. You just never know.

This year, three couples and an extended family headed north into the depths of the Hiawatha National Forest in the upper Penninsula of Michigan. Experienced campers all, we were ready for anything—or so we thought.

We arrived on Saturday on a gorgeous, sunny day and set up our tent and screened picnic table shelter. We were a little nonplussed by the small village next to us, populated by a dozen people and a dog, and anchored by a huge RV and a large pickup truck, but they kept to themselves. We had a plan for locking our food in the car each night, but bears and other wild creatures were no problem at all, for reasons that slowly became clear. The campground faced a small blue sparkling lake marred only by the motorboat that pulled tubers (not potatoes, the other kind) in a tight circle for several hours. Nevertheless, we found our friends in scattered sites and, over the constant whining from the motorboat engine, we had fun sharing beers on the small beach on the lakeshore.

The next morning we were surprised to find that the entire neighboring village had decamped without even waking us in our tent. By the end of the day, we would miss them, desperately.

Around noon, a new group arrived—an RV and several trucks in the adjoining site, other groups scattered around the campground, with all of their teenagers clustered together in a site adjacent to ours on one corner. Within minutes of their arrival, Megadeath and their ilk boomed at top volume from the teenagers’ powerful car speakers, and continued until we asked the parents to intervene at 11:30 pm.

The next day was spent away from the campground in an exploration of the beautiful National Lakeshore. Shortly after our return at 7pm, Megadeath started up again with an effect not unlike having teeth drilled without novacaine. At 10pm, the hour when all audible electronic music was supposed to stop, we asked the parents to quell Megadeath, and requested that the camphost make an appearance to enforce the rules at site 28, equally loud, though in a different genre. The camphost made one slow circuit in his Pinto, the music dying on his front bumper and swelling at his back. Shortly after his ineffectual patrol, I wandered over to site 28 and asked them to turn off their music. The volume level of the music pouring from the open doors of the pick-up would have resulted in a police call in any more urban area. They irritably turned it down a notch but would not turn it off. Our friends who abutted their campsite reported that it played all night—again. Sleep-deprived, they planned to pack up and leave a day early.

We enjoyed a relatively quiet evening, turned in, and planned to leave a day early with the last of our friends. When we woke up on Tuesday morning, it was to find that we had ignited a campground war of sorts. Campsite 28 made his displeasure known by means of a two-fingered salute and slow rotation in view of our friends, We did not have a direct view, so had invectives hurled at us as we broke camp. Site 29 had not spoken to us since apologizing for the attack of their three dogs as Tom walked the path to the latrine. They were clearly trying to stay out of the line of fire.

Our next door neighbor at site 31 amused himself by standing at the edge of his site with a pugnacious stance, radiatating anger and staring at us for almost three hours—from the time we woke up to the time we drove away. When Megadeath started up again at 10am or so, we asked the teenagers to turn it down. He screamed at them to turn it up—because we might leave faster—and then screamed that we were unwanted, should leave, and never return. Damn—I was all set to book another Hiawatha camping vacation! Then, in a classic Bre’r Rabbit move, Mr. Site 31 decided that the teenagers were not annoying enough and he cranked his own music to everything his truck could produce. His taste in music was much more bearable to us, and once Megadeath was drowned out, we were able to continue breaking camp without screaming, though we did have to lipread as we coordinated our efforts. Tom noted that he played “Now You’re Messing With a Son of a Bitch” no fewer that four times—a subtle move that was lost on me.

The fantasy ending to this story: Shortly after we pulled out, a forty foot RV rumbled in to take our place. A bunch of burly retired law enforcement types spilled out of the huge pick up and unloaded a couple of cords of wood before firing up the generator on the RV. Popping the tabs on their beers, they opened the doors of their pick up, cranked up their sound and started in on 8 hours of the best of international opera, until precisely 10pm.

The real ending: We drove away with one more stop—the campground dumpster. We drove slowly down the road and hadn’t spotted it yet, when we saw a woman walking towards us. We stopped to ask for directions to the dumpster, but before I could open my mouth, she introduced herself as one of the women camped in Site 31, and tearfully apologized at length that her husband and his immature friends had ruined our vacation, not to mention serving as horrible role models to all of the teenagers camped with them. I thanked her for her words, but as we drove away I felt nothing but sadness for the fact that we could drive away, but she could not, or had not.

Fantasy ending number 2: For Ms. Site 31, this is the last straw. She has had it with Mr. 31’s anger at her, at their kids, at the world. She can’t stand his friends and she secretly longs to camp in a tent instead of an RV. She leaves him, takes the kids, and ends up with a really nice guy who owns the Ace Hardware store in Munising.

Now that really is a fantasy.

Crambe Cordifolia, Chapter II, June

Consumer Credit

Two "C" words--how could I resist? Although this is a serious problem for many, and never more so than when the economic bubble bursts, leaving soap on all of our faces. Credit is how we give up our free will and indenture ourselves to the companies that provide convenience at a terrible cost. Credit comes in many forms--there are the loans that make big dollar purchases like cars and houses possible. There are the unexpected catastrophes like your house being ripped in half by torrential rains with no flood insurance, or a medical emergency with inadequate coverage. And then there are the small luxuries that add up and up and up.

After a recent conversation regarding the family credit card bill (I would like to pretend it was a conversation I was having with myself, but that would be a lie) I decided I would pay more attention to what went on the credit card. I left the house for a round of errands with the following items on my list: 2 yards of silk ribbon for baby booties, a present and card for a couple having a joint surprise birthday party, the book for my book group, a half gallon of milk, and a loaf of bread. Here is how it actually went:

First stop for silk ribbon--I bought one yard instead of two. (Disclosure: there was only one color available that I liked).

Second stop: kitchen supply store where I did not buy anything, but arranged to bring all my knives in for sharpening next Saturday.

Third stop; Penzey's Spices for the birthday present and a jar of "Barbeque of the Americas" (jar was empty in Arcadia--must be good).

Fourth stop: Borders for multiple birthday cards (we all know what the price of gas is these days--better stock up), my book club book and a book for my Aunt who is celebrating a major milestone birthday. I resisted the current issue of "Selvedge." but made note of the next issue which is all about Indian fabrics--a must have and due out any day.

Fifth stop: Whole Foods, always a knee-weakening experience at check out. Here I bought artichoke spinach dip because I like it and my party guests last weekend snarfed it all before I got any, two loaves of bread (couldn't decide) some Roman tuna salad ( I was feeling really hungry by then) and the very necessary gallon of milk. I did not get a pound of the grilled chicken Cobb salad. (Disclosure: they were out of it, even after I made the deli guy check in back.)

So, this is how it happens on a small scale, in my house, every weekend. It all adds up. How can I fault the consumers out there who were lured by the granite kitchen counters as opposed to the formica, the in-ground pool and 2 acres instead of the urban apartment rental? Well I can't really--I know it feels, I know what they are thinking. I know how easy it is to talk yourself into whatever it is you desire. But there is one important difference--what I want is not outside my purchasing power. These tugs of war are between savings and earnings, not earnings and debt.

It is easy to take the moral high ground when you have means, and I am not saying anything new if I point out that our culture is skewed towards the material, but I would like to say that these internal battles can be fought on a more modest scale than where they are fought by many. We need to keep joy in our lives, which is difficult when there is also debt, but joy can be cheap if we can free ourselves of cultural expectations.

.

Credo

Everyone needs one or two and this is a pretty good one, from Mary Oliver's poem "Sometimes." I have to also include part three of the same poem though, because it is so beautiful.

3.

Later I was in a field full of sunflowers.
I was feeling the heat of midsummer.
I was thinking of the sweet, electric
drowse of creation,

when it began to break.

In the west, clouds gathered.
Thunderheads.
In an hour, the sky was filled with them.

In an hour the sky was filled
with the sweetness of rain and the blast of lightning.
Followed by the deep bells of thunder.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lightning brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Crambe Cordifolia--Giant Colewort

Three or four years ago, my friend Joe asked me if I would be interested in a sprig of a Crambe Cordifolia--Giant Colewort, or maybe he offered it as a Giant Sea Kale (same family). Of course I said yes, without hesitation. Joe is in the business of raising flowers, and he likes to experiment with unusual varieties of cut flowers--in fact he may well be the source of the term "cutting edge." Anything Joe grows, nobody else does, and it is always interesting.

In this case, by interesting, I mean like something out of a science fiction movie. Not since I ended up with a Torch Tithonia in my very first seed pack of "garden mix, " have I been so impressed. My little sprig grew to well over five feet tall and produced an umbrel of white flowers the first year. The second year it dwarfed my perennial bed and I realized that it needed more space--like an open prairie. Lacking one, in the middle of the city, I did the next best thing and moved it into the neighbor's yard. They don't garden, and we do, so we get to use the extra space. It obligingly grew in the new place, but also in the old place. I turns out even a smidgen of root will produce a plant of giant proportions the very first year (apparently my gardening ability had nothing to do with it). So, every year, I look for a new recipient/victim in the gardening community to host my Crambe Cordifolia.

This year I thought I might have the perfect answer--the Perennial Exchange Party. It is a wonderful event that brings together neighborhood gardeners to exchange cuttings and divisions of favorite plants. I have been attending the party for several years but have become increasingly demoralized by the lack of interest in my offerings. This is due, in part, to the rule that each plant must be identified, and I have only a vague idea of what is in my garden. Rather than bring a division of some fabulous plant with no name, I fall back on the familiar. This year I decided to bring my volunteer Crambe, though of course this necessitated an emergency call to Joe an hour before the party. Even though my call reached him at the grocery store, he was still (bless his heart) able to come up with the botanical name of a plant he gave me several years ago. I labeled my healthy-looking Crambe and headed out. When called upon to describe my offering, I gave it my best shot, though in retrospect the "science fiction" allusion was perhaps not a big selling point in a neighborhood of compact yards. Nevertheless, a guy with a "what the hell" gleam in his eye picked it up in the second round of selections. It is the best I have done so far, so no complaints there. Now, I am worried about next year, when the same guy shows up and tells me that his yard is nothing but Crambes. Actually, that will realistically take two years and I just can't worry that far ahead.

Cougar

This was the email that was broadcast to the entire company this past Friday afternoon:

"The Town of Madison police just informed me that there was a confirmed sighting of a Cougar in the early morning hours today (1:30 to 2:00 a.m.) The sighting was South of the Coyier Building near the pond on the Old Holtzman Property. I recommend that you not walk the walking path for a few days. Hopefully, it has moved on. When walking on the path, I recommend that you do not walk alone. We will follow up with the Town of Madison police next week for future updates."

I was a little disappointed at the lack of buzz generated by this message--after all, it is not the usual Friday afternoon email. Besides, I had some follow up questions. First of all, who was lurking near the pond on the Old Holtzman Property at two in the morning? How reliable can a person be who is engaged in that kind of lurking behavior? Second, what constitutes "confirmed?" If there is photographic evidence, it should have been attached to the email. That way, with curiosity satisfied, no one will be tempted to walk the walking path to get a glimpse. And, on the subject of the walking path, when choosing a companion, what is the best approach? Someone large and burly who could intimidate the second largest cat in the Americas? Or someone small who could be thrown to the feline in case of an emergency? I have a small friend but she already won't walk the path because of snakes. It is highly unlikely I could talk her into it when there is a cougar stalking and ambushing in the area. (Never mind the obvious question of what kind of friend I am to even contemplete such an idea.)

I plan to stay off the walking path, but I read up on cougars so I would know what to do if I met the critter in the parking lot. Playing dead is a bad idea, and so is running, although outrunning a cougar is not something I ever realistically had in my survival toolbox. I think it comes down to looking menacing and waving a weapon, and I think I could do that--at least if the cougar can't tell the difference between menace and complete panic, and if I could use my car keys in some lethal manner.

It turns out that cougars (or Animalia, Chordata, Mammalia, Carnivora, Felidae, Puma Concolor)don't normally live this far east, so it is exciting to have one move into the area. I really do hope I get a chance to see it--as long as it can be done from a glassed in conference room overlooking the pond on the Old Holtzman Property during normal business hours.

Cobbler

If I ever find myself living in a science fiction movie--the kind where everyone has to survive on their wits--I am heading straight to Peg's house. She can grow food, cook it, spin dog hair into yarn, drive a dog sled, and make shoes from scratch. She also used to be an attorney, and you just never know when that might come in handy. I am not sure what I would bring to the table in a survival situation other than the ability to knit the dog hair yarn into itchy sweaters, but that might be enough.

Anyway, Peg is a person who took a sharp turn in her career and became a shoe repair apprentice. That is apparently the only way to learn the trade these days. It is a bit of a dying art, which may be one reason she has been so successful since starting her own shoe repair business. It is really surprising how many directions "shoe repair" can go. This week one of her jobs is a leather motorcycle racing suit that took the brunt of the damage in a crash, sparing the driver. Before she gets to that, though, she has a whole box of shoes that date from the twenties and thirties that need repairs. They are being worn for the filming of "Public Enemy" and have been too fragile in some cases for the demands being placed on them. New heels, new elastic, glue for peeling soles, but no polish or refurbishing that would make them stand out in the movie.

I wondered initially why a film company wouldn't just make fake period shoes with new materials. When I saw the shoes, it made more sense. Almost 100 years later we have a stylized idea of what shoes looked like in earlier periods--it would be hard to come up with the variety of designs that actually existed. Costume companies collect period garments and shoes--they are unique and totally authentic. Unfortunately they are also old and that's where Peg ("Cobbler to the Stars") comes in. She'll be working most of the weekend to get them done before next Tuesday when filming resumes.

So here are some of the shoes--consider this a little movie preview. I know I'll be looking for them when "Public Enemy" hits the big screen.

Chimichurri

I can't seem to be able to get enough of this condiment/sauce/marinade lately. It is said to have originated in Argentina, but it has certainly spread all over since then. One version I really like came from my friend Mary in New Zealand. I don't know where she found it, so I can't attribute it beyond that, but it is delicious and worth passing on. It is good on fish, or pork, marinated and then baked, or as a condiment to grilled food. It is also very good mixed into rice.

1 large bunch cilantro
1 large bunch flat leaf parsley
8 cloves garlic, crushed
1 t sea salt
1 T ground cumin
1 T crushed dried red pepper
1 T sweet paprika
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

Mince the herbs, and add the rest, or do the whole thing in a food processor. If using for a marinade, heat gently before pouring mixture over whatever is being marinated. This is a good mixture for kitchen experimentation--whatever you make with it will taste good.

Compensation

This is a big subject and one that I probably shouldn't tackle without knowing more about economics, but really, these days I have to wonder if anyone knows anything about economics. Even in a capitalist society, you have to be willing to feed society at large, because if you don't, who will be able to buy the products and services from which you expect to profit? And you are selling products and services, right? Wait, maybe not--maybe the big profits these days are made in the virtual shell games, not unlike the guy in Times Square with the walnut shells--damn my luck, why can't I EVER win at that?

But I digress. What has really set me off is an article in USA Today about Executive Compensation in 2007. Now, you can call me naive, but I always thought that kind of money was made by the people who had ideas, founded companies, took risks, and worked hard to make them pay off. Every company was founded by somebody, right? I don't begrudge those guys their fortunes. Or take the Nobel Prize winners, the innovators, the maverick geniuses who changed the world. By all means, retire in luxury, and thanks for the big ideas.

But these CEOs--I don't get it. Why are they so special? What makes their MBAs better than the average MBA? Why are they worth millions in a society where almost everyone else is worth so much less? Why are they paid a fortune for walking in the door of someone else's going concern and keeping it going? (Or not-this does not actually seem to be a problem when it comes to collecting bonuses, stock options, and whatnot.)

This is what I have been thinking about. I have approached this from a few different angles to see if I can begin to imagine why pay packages of up to 83 million dollars per year are justified, and I keep hitting dead ends. Here are some of them.

Leadership: Well, 4 of the top 10 CEO packages are for heads of financial institutions (Merrill Lynch, Goldman Sachs, American Express, JP Morgan Chase). If you have picked up a newspaper in the last several months, I don't think I need to elaborate here. One of the headlines in this same USA Today section of newspaper reads "Some firms eye performance-driven pay plans." This rendered me speechless (and temporarily unable to type). What a concept, eh?

Consequence of error: This is something businesses use to figure out the relative responsibility and corresponding pay packages of positions within their companies. I think that the consequence of error for someone who is being paid 83 million dollars PER YEAR would be annihilation of the entire planet. We are still here, so he must be doing a bang-up job. Thank you John Thain.

Risk: This is a somewhat related area. If you are willing to shoulder an entire large company and assume all of the risk of the decisions being made, you should be compensated accordingly. I believe that means the people who really deserve compensation are the shareholders, who have taken it on the chin in a big way while those who fed them to the flames suffered not at all. No, wait, not fair. G. Kennedy Thompson of Walchovia was docked almost 2.5 million from his 18.5 million dollar annual pay package. Time to tighten the belt at the Thompson household!

There are certainly other industries where people are paid large salaries and I don't want to single out business. Within reason, I can kind of see why this makes sense for sports. Athletes can have enormous talent and make a lot of money for a franchise. At the same time, their playing days are limited, their risk of career-ending injury huge. Because sports are for the young, they may have short-changed education and be ill-prepared for other careers. They may need to live on whatever they can earn in their salad days for a lifetime.

Entertainment is similar in terms of shelf life, and most entertainers pay dues for many poverty-stricken years. Those entertainers with star power and the grit and good fortune to make the big time , well I don't begrudge them a more than decent living.

But here is the thing--I can't be Meryl Streep or Brett Favre for a day, or even a minute. But I think I could be the CEO of any company for a day. I don't think the company would be any worse off, and all I ask is the prorated salary for that one day. That, and the name of a good retirement consultant.

Cairn

Next week is the dog's 14th birthday. He is a Cairn Terrier (think Toto, but since he is a midwestern dog he is a little beefier). Although I have never confused him with our children (he does not have a driver's license and he is cheaper to feed), he has a definite personality and is a member of the family. I was reading an article recently about the ability of animals to communicate verbally or using signs. It is fascinating to think about what animals might tell us if we can figure out a way to remove the barriers to our communication.

A few years ago, I participated in a wolf howl. Some twenty of us drove out into the forest in a yellow school bus with a guide. We tiptoed out of the bus and stood in the road in the pitch black night. Our guide began to howl in a wolf-like manner. After several attempts in a few locations it was a thrill to hear a den of juvenile wolves return the greeting, though I couldn't help wondering if humans howl with an accent. If we ever manage to communicate with wolves we can ask.

Our Cairn is a pretty good communicator. A short sharp bark means he wants to come in from outside. A long volley of barks signals a squirrel or the mailman. The other night he sat at my feet and emitted a growling, groaning sort of sound that clearly said "I want to throw up and I need some help finding a good spot to do it." (We finally settled on a place outside by the fence). He has a greeting for when I come home from work which involves tail wagging and two figure eights through my legs. On weekends when I sleep in and he sees me for the first time, the traditional greeting is a touch of the nose to a foot. He is becoming an elderly dog and I will miss him when he is gone.

My daughter talks about bringing her young dog, Rayo, here from El Salvador, but I think the culture shock would be too severe. She says they have two types of dog toys in El Salvador--those that don't squeak (rocks) and those that do (chickens). I don't think a chicken chasing dog who is used to looking for fun with his dog posse in the quebradas would be happy in a country of licenses, crates, leashes, and brightly colored fake fur toys. The Cairn agrees with me.

Crocus

It has been a hard winter here.  We had record-breaking snows, alternating with sub zero temperatures from the first of December until very, very recently.  The number of inches of snow has been exceeded only by the number of times I have complained about this winter to anyone forced to listen.  And I am not alone.  The collective sigh of release and relief whistled around the city this weekend like a March wind in April.  This weekend the crocuses bloomed.  Between Saturday when the color began to unfurl, to today when the petals opened in full display, we have been rapt in our appreciation of this Spring milestone.

So when my friend Annette described the devastation of her crocuses as "heartbreaking," I didn't think she was overreacting.  There they were this morning, her favorite deep purple variety.  This afternoon while she napped, unsuspecting, something snipped them off an inch from the ground.  She thinks it might be the neighborhood rabbit that has been living on birdseed and (she admits) apples tossed into the yard when the snowfalls were especially deep.  

Spring bulbs are an act of faith.  They are like the little paper flowers I loved as a child--the shells that are dropped into water that produce a paper bloom, except that the payoff takes six months instead of six minutes.  I raced home to make sure that my own crocuses were intact.  They were, but as I stood there looking at them, I began to wonder if the rabbit didn't have a point.  We plant them for beauty, the rabbit eats them for survival.  Doesn't the rabbit have more of a claim?  Did the act of tossing apples into the yard create a sense of entitlement? (just kidding here).  The real question is, when we mess with nature by helping a rabbit survive the winter, we should perhaps not be too outraged when he eats our crocuses in the Spring?

Creativity and Constraint

Blogging is a daunting idea. When you can write about anything, where do you start? In my case, nowhere. I have a lot of interests, maybe too many, and I tend to flit from one thing to another and then back again. The wide-open possibilities of blogging paralyzed me.

Many years ago I read an interview with an architect who had just won a major award for a small chapel. The part of the story that stuck with me was the architect's explanation for how he had come up with his design. The site was beautiful, but difficult, and the budget was small. The limitations imposed upon him allowed his imagination to take up the challenge and create something unique.

It took me no more than two minutes to find the details on the internet. The architect was E. Fay Jones and his chapel, Thorncrown, (http://www.thorncrown.com/index.html) sits in a forest setting on a hill in Eureka Springs, AK. It is as impressive as I remembered. E. Fay studied with Frank Lloyd Wright and that influence shows in the marriage of the structure and the site. The wood and stone were produced locally, and everything had to be small enough to be carried along a narrow track along the hillside. These constraints influenced both the design and and the actual methods of construction. According to E. Fay, none of this would have been possible had he been handed carte blanche and a big budget.

For me, the story of Thorncrown Chapel provided the catalyst to actually put ideas into print.  All I needed, in fact, was a constraint.  I am not sure why the letter C appealed to me, but once I limited myself, everything opened up.  So, as silly as it seems, I will write about subjects that begin with the letter C.  If there is something I want to write about, and I can't come up with a CWord to describe it, then I have failed the challenge I have set for myself.  I will see how far I get without cheating.  I do believe this is more than a gimmick--we need challenges to succeed, and cheating is an exercise in how we meet challenges versus manipulating the rules to suit ourselves.  Contemplate that at whatever level it suits you.