Your Mother Drives a Fiat

One of the things generally overlooked about The Beatles' "Let It Be", penned by nominally Catholic Paul McCartney, is the title, and its context within the lyrics: "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: 'Let it be'." Over the years, some of the overly analytical have seen "mother mary" to mean what in that era was also called "mary-jane", or marijuana – "420" to you young whelps. Thus pretty-boy Paul is hinting to us that he thinks best, or most calmly, with his system temporarily altered.

Others note that his mother's name was Mary, and that she died of cancer when Paul was fourteen… less than a year before he met John Lennon, aka //oo\\. These analysts see a wistful looking back to younger, more innocent times – especially with the Beatles juggernaut fraying heavily at the edges when they recorded his song. (This image is far sweeter than that painted by John's later bitter, aching ode to his own mother – killed by a drunk driver around that same time – in his characteristically simply named "Mother".)

Granted that today is Mothers' Day, here in the Disunited States. But I see in Paul's lyrics… Mother Mary herself, Theotokos, mother of God incarnate, who stood and watched powerless as her son died before her eyes.

Blow the dust off your Bibles, and flip open to Luke 1 (our Protestant cousins can find it in the dark, and are already there; for you Catholics unschooled in which books are where, it's about three-quarters of the way in). An old high priest by the name of Zechariah is confronted by an angel, and is told that his wife would bear a child who was to become a great prophet and who would pave a metaphorical path through the wasteland to his cousin, Jesus: John the Baptist.

To paraphrase a bit, Zechariah made a colossal blunder. We assume he recognized this being as an angel… yet doubted him – and this even when he knew full well that angels come to us straight from the Throne of God. He said to the angel, "Oh, yeah? Prove it. In case you didn't notice, the Mrs. and I are too old to have children. It ain't gonna happen."

Don't doubt an angel bearing great tidings – they have a direct line to the Front Office.

So this angel (a particularly mighty one named Gabriel, who was last seen some centuries earlier warning King David himself – and thus all of Israel – both of a coming devastating series of conquests of their country, and the coming as well of their longed-for Messiah) took note of his chilly reception. Wong answer, Zechariah: when you meet Gabriel, you fall on your face and do exactly what he tells you, up to and including taking on an army with the jawbone of an ox, to willingly jumping off a cliff.

And you don't tick off an angel. They might be messengers of the divine (it's what the word "angel" means in the original Greek), but they're not merely messengers: they also have some serious powers.

So Gabriel struck this old man speechless (and probably deaf, too) as punishment. Okay, I'd accept that too, if I were Zechariah (and he did) – sure beats being turned into, say, a pillar of salt, or dead on the spot.

Now, about half a year later Gabriel comes down again and visits young teenage Mary, daughter of Anna and Joachim (no, they're not in the Bible – but neither is the word "Presbyterian"), consecrated to the Temple as were many first-born. Gabriel brings similar word to Mary: she, too, would conceive and bear… not just a prophet, but the new (ah, though metaphorical) eternal King of the Jews.

Mary is an ideal role-model for all Christians: she was educated, and she wasn't stupid, yet she had a genuine humility about her, and a total trust in her God. She didn't doubt this angel, but did admit she didn't understand how this could be possible: though betrothed to marriage to Joseph the carpenter (who was very possibly a somewhat older man, and widower with children), son of Jacob, son of Matthan (etc.), she had even earlier committed herself to a life of devotion and consecration to the God of Israel and to his temple.

If angels smile, then I suspect Gabriel smiled indulgently at Mary's utter trust even in the face of the unknown she was being called to. So he explained that the conception would not be done via the usual route of human sexual mechanics, but rather through the power of God Himself which reaches into all of humanity: the Holy Spirit. Most of us – even those wise enough to be face-to-the-flagstone at this point – would look up and say, "Wait a minute. What was that?"

(Interestingly, the terminology Gabriel gives is very similar to that used in biblical descriptions of the Ark of the Covenant, which – as both your Bible and Indiana Jones will testify – carried the very real and powerful presence of God Himself. ("Ark", by the way, means "chest" here, in the sense of a protective container – e.g., "treasure chest". This has nothing to do with Noah and his floating menagerie.) So some modern Catholic mystics/theologians (e.g., convert Scott Hahn) realize that Mary became a modern-day
Ark, both metaphorically and literally; this shows up also in the Book of Revelation (11:19-12:1), where she is actually identified as the Ark of the Covenant.)

Anyway, the angel's answer satisfied Mary, and she said, simply, "Then I am God's servant. Let it be done to me just as you've said."

And there are those three words: Let it be.

Much of the Catholic Church's work is still done in Latin (publications, etc.), even while the Masses (services) and most day-to-day work have largely been conducted in each country's/region's own language for forty years now.

In Latin, as in pretty-much every language except Esperanto (which is artificial anyway), the verb "to be" is highly irregular. This means that the forms of the verb don't follow the kind of pattern that's common to most verbs. In English you have "I talk, you talk, s/he talks, we talk", etc., or even the somewhat irregular "I have, you have, s/he has". No; with "be", we've got "am, are, is; was, were; be", and all that… in one verb. Brother!

So in Latin "to be" is – anybody remember this from High-School Latin? – "sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt", or "sum, esse, fui, futurus". Fratrē!

And what we render in English as "let (her, us, them)" + "[verb]" is called the subjunctive – a big and uncommon word that just means that this form of the verb expresses a wish or even desire for something to be/happen (sometimes referred to as "contrary-to-fact conditions"). E.g., "let them eat cake"… English, being a devolved, mongrel language, can't express the concept in a single word, while Latin and its descendants (French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian, Romansh, Italian, and others) are in this instance the heart of precise brevity. Thus, Latin: "superemur"; English: "we would be conquered".

And in Latin, "let it be" has long been said as the simple "fiat"… yes, just like the humble little Italian car.

This long, long lecture has been (well, besides in honor of Mothers' Day) to provide the setup for a stinky pun.

After Mass today, I sat awhile with pun-loving Father Paul. We were discussing some serious items of the church: Eucharistic ministry, icons and other images, and so on. Finally, having leapt and bounded through a millennium or so of Church history and doctrine with him, I got ready to go and turned the spotlight to lighter fare.

"You know there's sports in the Bible, right?"

He looked at me askance and raised a grey eyebrow. "Really," I insisted. "Look at the very first line of the first book Genesis 1:1, 'In the big inning'. And in the New Testament, it says that the prodigal son stole home – there's baseball in two different places."

Do you know, Father Paul was actually half smiling at this. So I plowed on: "There's also tennis – it says in the Old Testament that Uriah served in the courts of David".

"That could also be handball," Father acknowledged. And he segued into, "Did you know the Bible says it's okay to drive foreign cars?"

I was baffled a moment, and twisted my face up – then interrupted to say, "Yes, that's right – Mary's Fiat!"

Father nodded. "And it also says that the Apostles were all in one Accord."

I was still laughing five minutes later as I got into my Honda and drove off to breakfast.

Pundemonium: Aurelio Goes Fishing

Even while deep inside I contemplate metaphysics and Catholic mysticism; while driving to and from work and elsewhere listening to music ranging from hauntingly, softly beautiful John Michael Talbot, to rather shallow seventies and eighties charters; while bustling about the office trying to meet the needs of a corporate Director, his staff of three-and-half managers, and their own staffs; and while working with my willpower to start jogging/running a mile a day (may have sprained an ankle leaping off a high stream-bank yesterday evening; so what!)…

Even while all this is going on, still there are plenty of even shallower and sillier things happening around me at home, work, on the road, and just in my spinning head. Let’s have yet another look at the office.

Ben Thayer, the above-mentioned half-manager (i.e., his corporate title includes the word "Management", but not "Manager") continues with his own share of twisting our mangled-Saxon language. The other day, he was on the phone with an offsite colleague, discussing a corporate-wide, ongoing management-improvement initiative known as Full-Spectrum Leadership.

Trained in law, highly skilled in IT, and quite the fan of sports (a graduate of
Georgetown, he was a member of "Hoyas' Loyas"), he also has a bit of smarts to him. So on this call, I heard him say, "Do you remember learning in school about how lasers operate? They call it a ‘coherent' light – by controlling that process they're able to make it come out in just one particular spectral color – red, green, and so on. I've got a question: if it's called ‘full-spectrum' leadership, is it the opposite of ‘coherent'?"

I'd love to've heard her response.

Ben also sheds regular rhetorical questions on me, which I derhetoricize by answering. That same day, he walked up to my desk and asked simply, "Do you need more patients for a paradox?"

I responded without a pause, "Yes; twice as many." Ben began walking away silently. I called after him, quoting Robert Heinlein in "All You Zombies" (not to be confused with the eighties song): "And don't forget – ‘any paradox can be paradoctored'."

Recently one early afternoon, he came up to me with his lunch: some kind of sliced-meat-with-greens in toasted bread with some garnishments – I mean, garnishes. He asked, "Who was the comedian who said, ‘I would not join any club sandwich that would have me as its member'?"

As he walked back to his cubicle, I answered idly, "I believe his name was Reuben."

Ben responded instantly: "You and your rye sense of humor!"

I shook my head (though by now I was out of his sight) and observed, "Still sowing your oats, I see."

Our colleague Aurelio, who sees after some of our department's interests in Italy, has been developing a masochistic interest in puns. When I related this exchange to him, he chuckled admiringly and admitted, "I was just listening to Hall and Oates… and they were haulin' oats!"

He's been getting better at this pretty quickly. He emailed me last week (from maybe six cubicles away), asking me to walk down for a pun he'd come up with. So, sure; I went down to see how the student was putting into practice the course of study I'd been teaching him by sorry example.

Earlier that day he'd been laughing about a pun I'd used a while back, but had long since forgotten: How do Germans tie their shoes? Answer: With lots of little knots-ies. This must have inspired him, since now he asked me: "What is Italy's most hated seafood?"

This was so out of the blue that I groped for an answer, before offering the lousy, "Cala-Mario?"

Aurelio chortled in polite condescension, then answered: "No. Mussel-ini."

I gave him the groan that one deserved – I'm proud of the boy!

It's not all pun and games at work, though. I contribute to lightening the general morale by doing my best to keep my candy-bowl full – and not with cheapo, dollar-store third-rate knockoff candies, either. I keep a custom mix of several known brands, trying my best to include at least one or two different dark chocolates in there as well. (Ben and Gülden both like dark; whereas Electra's coworker husband once made a hilarious face of disgust when he ate one unawares.) Indeed, any of the folks from my department (and others, including denizens of several other floors of offices) do their best to deplete the bowl pretty quickly, while grumbling that I never put anything in there that they don't want.

So yesterday, I blinked in amazement at the rapid depletion of this sweet resource as I refilled the bowl once more – just beyond the top – and brought it over to Senior Manager (and boss) Mick. "Look at this!" I marveled. "I brought in two bags of mixed-variety Snickers, a bag of Snickers Dark only, and a bag of Peanut-Butter Cups. And this is all that's left!"

Mick, a regular customer (and still rail-thin) glanced at the bowl. "Brought them in Monday?"

"Thursday, actually," I admitted, and turned to put the bowl on the low ledge atop my cubicle.

This seemed to distress Mick. He vowed, "Then we'll have to pick up the pace."

The Mouse That Wept

Last week I received, and then sent around my circle of closer friends and coworkers, a cute little inspirational piece, interspersed with what looks like children's drawings of children playing; you've probably seen it, or any of thousands of its ilk: 

TODAY'S INSPIRATION

HOW TO STAY YOUNG
1. Throw out nonessential numbers.
This includes age, weight, and height.
Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.

2. Keep only cheerful friends.
The grouches pull you down.
(Keep this in mind if you are one of those grouches!)

3. Keep learning:
Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever.
Never let the brain get idle.
"An idle mind is the devil's workshop." And the devil's name is Alzheimer!

4. Enjoy the simple things

5. Laugh often, long, and loud. Laugh until you have to gasp for breath.
And if you have a friend who makes you laugh, spend lots and lots of time with him or her!

 

6. The tears happen:
Endure, grieve, and move on.
LIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love:
Whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.
Your home is your refuge.

 

8. Cherish your health:
If it is good, preserve it.
If it is unstable, improve it.
If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips.
Instead, take a trip to the mall, even to another country, but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

And if you don't send this to at least four people - who cares?
But do share this with someone.

Conservative friend Anon E. Mouse is good for sending these out, too – and sometimes I'll pounce on her gently for assuming that the Dalai Lama, or Saint Thérèse, has ever had time to write such treacle. Still, some folks like a high-sugar e-diet, so who am I to deny them?

Anyway, I generally include her when I pass one along; she responded to this one:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 9:44 AM

Thanks AgingChild, funny how on days when you really need encouragement emails seem to appear out of nowhere. Thanks earthly angel. Regards,
Anon E. Mouse

I answered:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 10:00 AM

Glad to pass along, of course! Remember from kindergarten: if it's a fun toy, or a giggle-making joke or inspiration, share it with the rest of the class so everyone can enjoy it!

But "angel"? Plllpp! Wrong window, ma'am. I just pray to be His clean and simple vessel or/and conduit. Trouble is, my own agenda too often clogs the pipe, so at times too little of the good stuff comes through; sigh.

Come to think of it, though, that doesn't stand in His way – if I'm supposed to pass along a good word to someone who needs it, the word gets through anyway… and He gives me a hug, too, on His way past to picking up the person in greatest need of being held and embraced.

Even being peripheral is a little blessing in itself. Amazing how much He has to go around!!

Regards,

AgingChild

But it wasn't simply a matter of a merely lousy day Mouse was having:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 10:10 AM

Yea, I do remember AC. Sometimes just don't know how to handle disappearances by the ones I love. It's Carlie the impish 6 month old corgi who weighs in at about 12 lbs. She's missing since sometime yesterday, but this isn't the first time. Last time we lost her was when it was really cold in January and she was 5 lbs.; F2 [Mouse's husband] found her with the goats. This time he's looked in all the fields, went to the neighbors and no Carlie. I have a very hard time with this freedom bit for the pups. We have foxes and maybe even coyotes around. I've already lost 2 cats, Raffi the first month after moving in and Quilla his sister in January right after Carlie was lost and then found. I'm not sure I can continue with this emotional rollercoaster ride. Regards,
Anon

I'm no real dog person. I'm the odd (straight) man who really likes cats, and has no desire to have a dog – though I'll play with friends' and neighbors'. So my empathy wasn't as sensitive as she needed, but I was still able to put my heart in her place:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 11:57 AM

My friend, to say that "animals'll be animals" is no consolation when a warm, fuzzy, and affectionate – and vulnerable – critter is gone and, for all you know, just might be lost forever.

One of your own most awesome traits is the size of your heart; you see it right away in how you've embraced F2 and his kids… and in how you really worried about that ahead of time, too. You've seen it, too, in aching for your parents' health, and tears over the passing of your last dog. The cost to you of such a heart is, of course, that this deep-loving heart can also be deeply wounded.

You know that there simply is only so much you can do for these four-legged charges of yours: feed, clean, and shelter them; train and play with them; teach them where the boundaries are… and of course love them totally. Yet short of chaining them down, locking them up 24/7, and keeping every one of them on half-foot leashes, they are still at the mercy of nature: weather, instincts, and so on.

And each time one of them steps outside – where wilder, colder, more aggressive creatures lurk – your animals do take a risk, of course… and they take your big and vulnerable heart with them. You can't change this about yourself without obliterating a very essential piece of what makes you… you. This is a big part, too, of what your husband and children love about you (as do your friends and colleagues). The hurt is okay.

I don't know if our pets and other animals have guardian angels – although some are most definitely our own earthly guardians. Rest assured that God has entrusted them to you, and does expect each of you to be their physical caretaker here on Earth (and knows you can do this beautifully well). So you do want to be sure you're fulfilling this role as their caretakers. And indeed, you do already do all you arguably can to ensure their safety, security, and good health.

Beyond that, and your reasonable peace of mind, trust them back to Him and His care when they're out of your reach. And let it be a consolation, not frustration, that He didn't make you master/mistress of Earth, with the power to protect every child and animal from all threats… we're each expected to do what we can as vulnerable creatures ourselves, but we still have to leave the rest to Him.

The five hardest and scariest words for me to embrace are "Jesus, I trust in You" – and I've been working at that for several years now. It's not easy… but it does reassure us of His embrace those times a warm-and-fuzzy creature has returned to Him… as he will do for those whom we love when our own moment is in His hands.

Regards,

AC

Generally my words can give Anon some deep consolation. But not this time:

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 4:33 PM

Hi Acey, Thanks for your encouraging email, but I don't know if I can go through the emotional continual upheaval. Just in case you wanted to see the trio, from right to left is Marlo (½ corgi, ½ beagle), Milar (9 mo. Male) & Carlie (6 mo. Female) who at the moment is lost.

Just made up some lost flyers to post; F2 walked through the woods around our neighbors property; no luck yet. Regards,
Anon E. Mouse

There was little more I could offer her. I don't have the power to cause stray animals to return home. I can pray for them, too, but the world can be cruel and a lot more black-and-white and uncompassionate where animals are involved.

Sent: Wednesday, May 02, 2007 5:01 PM

How cute! Of course they'd win and keep your heart!

Marlo really does look part beagle! And your other two corgis look a bit like short-legged, short-haired shelties with more muscle. Thanks, and good luck to both of – all three of – you; thank God also that you each have the other to lean on for strength while waiting (and working) for Carlie's return.

Regards,

AgingChild

I've heard nothing more since, so I assume Carlie's still lost. I think God gave us animals to show us examples of total love and devotion (and at times utter dependence), and also to showcase for us the painful need to let a loved one go when s/he's out of our protecting arms and sight.

All things, and all living beings especially, return to God. This can be a bit easier to bear when we remember that God is closer to us than our own heartbeat… and so if our loved one – be s/he pet, friend, parent, child – is no farther away. Sometimes you don't even need to close your eyes. Why, the tears can leak out quite nicely even if they're wide open.

Open Heart, Open Mind: Closed Door

I mentioned last week how some email correspondence has had me contemplating (and pontificating on) the nature of relationships, particularly one-on-one, marital (or marriage-bound) relationships. I did want this once, very badly – as I think Erich Segal once said, while too many married men wish they were single again, I as a single man long wished to be married again.

Almost twenty years ago, and for a handful of too-brief years afterward, I had the opportunity – and encouragement from her – to do so, and should have, should have, should have. But I was utterly stupid, stubborn, and selfish. And that door closed for me for good almost fifteen years ago, with me weeping on my daughter's shoulder in an airport, an intercontinental jet having just disappeared from view, taking my heart with it.

But never mind the melancholia; I carry that regret to the grave, its impact has shaped the course of my life from that day (before, actually), and its effect has left my heart unable to reciprocate fairly, considerately, and openly with a loving woman (and – at least for me – men are out of the question).

So in my own personal terms, as I've mentioned before, my mind and heart and soul are set on the priesthood, or avowed religious (i.e., monk/brother), and I've simply no intention of another such relationship. I can't absolutely assure the universe that a bolt out of the blue won't strike me, and have me taking vows of a very different sort. And women are still beautiful.

But… I want to give more, and to many more, than I could through marrying… and the shambles I was quickly left with, those two times I gave dating a try again since that airport afternoon, have shown me that I can't and shouldn't so give myself away. So I closed the door some years ago.

This I find a relief… and all of womanhood agrees.

About a week and a half ago, Sharon – a Jewish friend of some years – sent me the following email:

Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 2:45 PM
Subject: Question

Hi AC, I've a question for you. If you were looking to date again, are there certain requirements you would want; i.e., skinny, Catholic? Reason I'm asking is I work with a woman who is Catholic and she's looking to meet someone. Like me she works for [a contractor] but at [our company's] office in [a nearby town]. Anyway, she's not skinny, which is why I'm asking. Anyway, just thought I'd ask.
Sharon

Bless her furry heart! I answered, most gently (knowing I'd mentioned a desire to take religious vows):

Subject: RE: Possible/Partial Answer

Hi, Sharon!

Out of curiosity more than interest, I've sometimes surfed the Craig's List personals (most of which are spam). Most of the "W4M" ads seem very superficial, or too vague. Yet on the other hand, I suspect most men are very unrealistic in their expectations.

If I were to date again (and I do consider it, but never for long anymore), I know I would be most keen that my victim / brave soul / girlfriend be Catholic (for commonality of faith tradition), or possibly Jewish (for tradition, heritage, and because Judaism has always interested me), since I'd be dating with the objective of finding a life-partner, a la Lennon's "Grow old along with me". But this is behind me; I have to focus on my soul now, not my heart.

If a man in his 30s or 40s, or older, took the time to really think about it realistically, he'd pretty quickly toss the dream of a Pamela Anderson type. We can't live off fantasy any more than we can live healthfully off a diet of steak and ice cream. So both man and woman would have to be cautious (both likely to have been burnt in their own pasts), yet also willing to go out on a limb with honesty: "take me as I am", yet even more so "I want to be better, inside and out… and want someone to grow with".

She should look for a man who is okay with admitting he has flaws in figure, marriage, employment, and so on. Not a real loser, of course, but someone who accepts he is less than perfect, though unwilling to accept that learning and improving are all behind him.

Thus by the same token she should be up front that she's not Twiggy (if anyone remembers her anymore), or Calista Flockhart… yet is also far more than any outward appearance, and does not kowtow to any man's (or woman's) superficial standards. It's healthy, and future-forward focused, to want to better oneself in more than just income… and I find this attractive, and suspect a sensible man would as well. If she sees her flaws, then she's less likely to expect her man to live on his own pedestal.

She might get even more mileage if while being honest about her build/figure, she not focus too greatly on it… and also show a sense of humor (we men desperately need this in our women!) about it. In that vein, I think I'd advertise myself as a "Tigger spirit in a Winnie-the-Pooh body"… except I do usually wear pants out in public. So perhaps she could say she'd "totally failed the Rosie O'Donnell test for reasons of my sweet nature, not figure". (A mere "BBW" says too little.)

Other ideas: "Roseanne Barr without the mouth"; "handyman special"; "a real loving armful"; "just you try wrapping your arms around me!"; and so on – the idea being, of course, to be upbeat, versus beat up.

I hope some of this helps!

AgingChild

And she answered:

Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 4:06 PM
Subject: RE: Possible/Partial Answer

Hi Acey, Thanks for the information. I think she will find it very informative. I told her a bit about you and thought I'd try, though I also did mention that you are considering the monastery at some point.

How are things going otherwise with you?

Thank you,
Sharon

Yielding this last from me…

Sent: Thursday, April 26, 2007 4:48 PM
Subject: RE: Possible/Partial Answer

Quite fine; thanks! I really appreciate the "plug" (not to make light at all of your intentions!!). Sometimes I almost wish I could be "available", but I really want to be part of something bigger and greater than any one other person. It sounds like a cheesy cliché to say this, but I want to give what I am and what I know and what I feel… to a whole billion people, and more.

And I continued with a brief summary of my 5K-trudge in Pennsylvania, before signing off:

Anyway, take care… me, I'm still catching my breath!

AgingChild

It still feels dismissive, you know. I do appreciate that a matchmaker considered me… and a little bit of me inside actually hurts, having turned the unknown woman away by gently pointing out that closed door – when for so much of the last thirty years I longed to be half of a whole, and had left the same door wide open, waiting.

Now so open a door would be too distracting: the noise of traffic and feet passing by outside, wind blowing dried leaves (and spring tree-blossom-petals!) and litter and rain and snow and startled birds in.

Still, the curtains are pulled back, and I keep a light on. But it's so I can better see what I'm doing. And whenever I wish, I still can look out the window.

Lovely out there. Now, back to work.

46:31

That's right, folks – I gained nearly two minutes on my last 5K.

This particular run/race/schlep (the latter being more my form) was in that quaint, large small town in west-central Maryland, Frederick – home of an Orioles farm team (more farm than team), the Keys, who are named after erstwhile resident Francis Scott Key. Town's just down the road from Camp David, so some Fridays when I've been in Frederick at just the right (or wrong) time, I've seen Marine One (and a decoy) flying over, northbound. 

Most interestingly, anyway, the evening run was not through the cobblestoned downtown (an awesome little town to stroll through: antiques, restaurants, quaint shops, etc.), but was essentially two laps through a cemetery (where Francis Scott Key is buried, by the way)… with a finish around the Keys outfield.

I'd been trying for weeks to get the rest of the family to join me, starting with older brother Sarge, who ran a 15K right after my last 5K a couple weeks ago. But he'd already registered for an event the next day (tomorrow) and won't ordinarily run on back-to-back days. Younger brother Doc had plans with his daughter; first sister Mew had plans; her athletic son Siege is having knee trouble – though her husband Arn might be able (he didn't). And second sister Alicia is about three months pregnant… and lives in Boston. 

So I turned to family friend and actual Frederick resident, Chuckles. She's legally blind, and writes scripts for various TV shows – from "The Simpsons" to "King of the Hill", "Star Trek", "House", and so on. I hope to begin posting some of her scripts here or on a sister blog I'll set up specifically for her work (which is copyrighted, thank you).

Chuckles' mother and sister are both buried in that cemetery (section QQ), so that may have been her inducement – yes, she joined me for the race/trudge. (My family adopted her – she was once our neighbor – after the sudden passing of her sister, and then her mother, just a few years ago.) She's been ill, having lost (for reasons still unknown, despite some of the best minds at Johns Hopkins throwing their hands up in the air over it) in excess of ninety pounds over the last few years. I think they passed over to me, in fact. 

Her finish time was just over forty-nine minutes… which basically means that I can barely run faster than a seriously ill, blind woman! What's worse, I got passed once by a really cute little Asian-American girl, all five years of her (and her mom). I passed her again, but a little later she passed me once more, and I never saw her again… so I can't even run faster than a five-year-old girl! I'm laughing about it, though. I finished, all right?

Credit, though, goes to brother Sarge (even though he bailed on me!) for getting me started on these things, and another "Sarge" of sorts, neighbor Rosie, whom (along with her well-toned daughter) Chuckles and I almost literally bumped into, milling around and stretching before the start of the race – and an extra brownie point to her for helping me shave off that almost-two minutes. Her daughter is a marathon-runner (and vanished seconds after the starting-gun missed me). Rose is a compact, fifty(?)-something grandmother who serves as drill instructor for a boot-camp style exercise regimen. And like her daughter, she too runs marathons, half-marathons, and so on, with impressive frequency. 

I soon had Chuckles somewhere behind me (and I apologize to her for the view); Rose, though, downshifted and stuck by me the whole way through. She pointed out better methods of breathing, and made other pacing suggestions, all of which I appreciated, since that cemetery had a number of slopes and long hills that my shins and hips made painful note of. Her encouragement and presence by me had me running (well, trotting) for longer spans than I have before, even though the slopes had me walking (though fast) more than I wanted. And at one point Sergeant Rose literally pulled my leg (and ankle) to get some of the shin-splint pain down to a more tolerable level.

This event, by the way, was for many (maybe most?) of the participants, including Rose Jr., an easy warmup for tomorrow's marathon, also in Frederick, Maryland. Pass! But for them it was literally a walk – well, pleasant run – in the park. 

PS: I'll link up some photos once they're online.

PPS: Thanks again, Sergeant Rose!

PPPS: And thanks for putting up with the browbeating, Chuckles – see, even sick and handicapped, you can still almost run faster than a man!

 

Pundemonium: The White and Wrong of the Sweet

I haven't had an internet connection at home since sometime over the weekend. So these last few evenings, I've been trying to figure it out – and I'm not any kind of pro on getting onto the internet, establishing/troubleshooting connections, etc.; I'm much better with programs, and a teeny bit of coding. The connection icon in the system tray showed a signal was getting through at some 11.0 Mbps, or "Excellent"… so why wasn't my older-build Internet Explorer kicking in? 

Dunno. I blew out IE 6.0 and reloaded it from an XP-Pro OS disc I keep handy (and that's another sentence I would have been clueless on a few years ago). No go. Well, then I wiped out the Linksys driver and reinstalled that one, too… nope. So this evening I tried a hardware approach: went to the main router (pronounced "route-er", folks, not "rout-er") and firewall-PC, and began unplugging and replugging various connections, powering down and up, and tested on that unit. 

Sometimes your car refuses to budge, even if you can get the engine started. No, the engine won't start. But lights come on (and someone is home) and bright, radio and HVAC run fine, ditto horn.

Battery seems charged fine, right? Maybe a little corrosion? So you pop the hood, unhook the battery, pour some cola over the terminals, hook back up. On older cars, you take a hammer and tap the starter, maybe turn the fanblade counterclockwise a couple rotations (with the keys out of the ignition!!). Slam the hood, shake the car a bit, maybe kick a tire to make sure the pressure's okay, then get in. 

Car starts fine now. 

There was a debate in front of my desk a day or two ago. Hugo – who rarely touches my candy-bowl – sneered at the mini white KitKat bars (also have dark and regular, plus Reese's mini-cups). He insisted white chocolate isn't chocolate, and began reeling off some regulations covering composition, etc. 

Ben's ears sprang up, and so did he; he strolled up to the desk. "Why don't you weigh in on this," I invited. "So to speak." (Pun ignored.) 

Ben pointed out that his wife is some kind of badge-carrying official with Federal Consumer Affairs Bureau, and – while helping himself to several mini-cups – he began spewing out more regulations, including recent changes… but didn't seem to be coming down on Hugo's side. 

At this point Priscilla wandered up – the talk of chocolate had had an irresistible subliminal effect on her. While she was reaching for a sweet, Ben flung a rolled-up foil wrapper at Hugo, and missed by a country yard. "Terrible!" he admitted, admitting, "That's because I'm not left-handed." Then, glint in eye: "But I'm still sinister." 

"At least half," I corrected, remembering – like Ben – the Latin origin of the word. 

Hugo, firmly: "No; he's all sinister." 

My face must have lit up at this instant, as I suddenly recalled a real stinker of a joke. Ben's eyes grew wide, and he blurted "Uh-oh." He whirled about and began hustling away (this is impressive in a six-foot-plus man who must weigh in excess of 300 pounds). "That's it!" came his voice, already around the corner – "I'm out of here!" 

(This is much the same reaction my older daughter takes when she sees me struck by stinkfully punny inspiration… though she usually immediately orders me to keep my mouth shut to avoid the embarrassment.) 

So I turned to Ben, who was still standing in front of my desk (when did Priscilla disappear? I think she got caught up in Hugo's wake), smiling in curiosity at what kind of rotten egg I was about to lay. 

I asked him, "Did you hear about that guy who had his whole left side amputated?" 

Ben tilted his head back, thinking gamely (though lamely), but he quickly conceded, and rolled his eyes back to me in acknowledgement. I continued, "He's all right now." 

Without comment Ben about-faced and began dragging himself in obvious pain back to his cubicle – but then stopped, and leaned into the cubicle of the boss who sits behind me. (Mick and Ben have done dueling puns more than once; Mick – tall, thin, half-bald, soft-spoken; could be a career accountant – is so dry in the humor department that he practically crackles when he speaks; utter deadpan and thus easily underestimated.) 

I couldn't see, but Ben must have leered mock-tauntingly. "Did Mick hear that one?" 

Mick, taciturn; very dryly: "I heard." 

My eyes widened – this man's hand-in-glove with our mutual boss, the Director, and with his boss, one of the VPs. "Sorry, Mick!" I blurted. 

Mick: "Not as sorry as I am." 

I think earlier that same day, Mick and Ben were urging me to go to Florida and get a job on DisneyWorld's Jungle Cruise ride, since the "guides" toss about outrageous puns. Having been no nearer Florida than Savannah (and that twenty-one years ago), I gave them a "Do tell" look. 

Mick took the ball. "Why did Captain Hook cross the road?" 

I shook my head in bafflement; I couldn't make a connection. "Because he was wearing alligator shoes?" I offered weakly. 

Mick shook his head. "To get to the second hand store." 

This morning… was it Priscilla? No; Gülden, my lovely Turkish coworker. Gülden brought in something I dubbed a Danish pizza: picture something pizza-sized, -shaped, and -cut… but the whole thing is a Danish breakfast-pastry, each slice being filled with cherry, apple, or cheese. Yum! 

By close to quitting time, there was still one slice left, and Priscilla set it out on the group-table near my cubicle. With Hugo standing nearby, Ben made a beeline for it… and cut it in half. I verbally pounced and gave him a hard time, with apologies to Priscilla: "No man does that! If I ever see half a donut, half a cookie or brownie, or half a slice of Danish there on the table, I know one of our female coworkers cut it – it allows her to have it, yet not have it." But a man doesn't do that! We just gulp it down; we wimpier men might wash it down with a diet cola, of course… 

Ben grinned. "But I cut off the good part", he said, muffled. He pointed at the remainder that Priscilla had dropped on my desk. Sure enough, it was just crust and sweet glaze; Ben had purloined the much sweeter apple filling, and little else. 

"You get your man-card back!" I proudly proclaimed. He was redeemed! 

"And he screwed everyone over," Hugo pointed out. 

"Right!" I added. "Now that was lawyerly."