Thursday, September 30, 2010

Band Geeks

I am a band geek.

I claim that title despite the fact that I’ve not touched my cornet / French horn or any other band instrument in about 30 years. They’ve been toted from home to home over time and finally hit a garage sale a couple of years ago and are presumably taking up space in someone else’s closets now.

But I still claim the brotherhood of bandgeekdom. Like the Masons or the Mafia, once initiated you belong for life. I don’t think anyone belongs wants to go through the indoctrination again, at least not if it’s anything like it was in the 70’s.

So I support all things band. Not all things musical. I didn’t get that gene, and probably have the only iPod in the world that has not a single song on it. Mine is full of audio books instead.

Band, though, is the alternative to sports programs for the kids who want to do something besides run or catch a ball. It teaches a lot of the same life lessons, albeit a bit more gently at times. I’ve shown up at the Band Booster Booth in towns I lived in – when I had no kids and hadn’t been in that band – and helped cook burgers for hours to fund their upcoming trips. It was a debt of honor and I was glad to “pay it forward” that way. I support just about any band program out there.

At least, I did until yesterday, when I was listening to NPR (which is where I get most of my news). They had a guest on All Things Considered named Walter Pincus, who is a journalist for the Washington Post. He’s written a series of articles on the cost of “military music”.

I won’t go into the details here, but you can find the first of the series at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/08/23/AR2010082304711.html.


Pincus was at an event where Secretary of Defense Robert Gates had said that there were more musicians in the military than the Foreign Service has officers – a dubious distinction at best, and probably not one that I would have said in public, had I been in his position – which lead to some investigation by the journalist.

So he asked the military how much the bands were costing.

This would seem an easy enough question to answer. After all, one would assume that the military keeps track of who is assigned to what job, and then from that we could chase records and extrapolate how much was paid to them, what their benefits cost, how much was invested in equipment, travel, housing, etc.

Quicken can track this for me; I imagine that the US Military has a slightly more sophisticated program that would be able to spit out a ledger or a pie chart or something that would give us an idea of how our tax dollars are being spent.

Nope. The Marines (the oldest of the bands, incidentally, and the one led by John Phillips Sousa for many years) were the only ones who came back with anything close to a number -- $50 million dollars.

A year.

Now, as you try to wrap your brain around that number, consider the fact that the Army was the only other branch of service to offer a guesstimate as to how much money they spent.

$198 million.  Every year.

Of course, the Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard are not to be outdone. They just didn’t answer the question.

The military argues that the bands are essential to recruiting and goodwill efforts. I might buy half of that – it’s nice that the President gets waltzed in to music, and it’s appropriate for the office. The choirs (and remember, the numbers above are just for THE BAND, they have nothing to do with the choirs that perform with them at times) and bands do some great holiday concerts and you walk away from them tapping your toes and feeling a bit better, so they do build goodwill -- but recruiting efforts?

What do they recruit besides musicians to be in the military bands?

Traditionally, they’ve brought music to the masses by going to rural communities and playing free concerts, providing an exposure to a variety of musical types that those in the hinterlands would have been otherwise denied. This was championed by Mr. Sousa when he was in charge of them.

In 1890.

Since then, there’ve been a few changes. There’s this nifty thing called an iPod – or any variety of knock-off portable music players that can be bought for anywhere from $20 to $500 -- that allows someone in even the most remote areas of the country – or the world – to get whatever type of music that they want. Plug it into a few more electronics to run the sound through some speakers and SHAZAM – you got music exposure to the masses for a one-time fixed cost. You MIGHT need 3 personnel to handle those events – one to drive the truck and a couple of guys to set up the speakers (they are big and heavy, and we don’t want anyone to get hurt), but that wouldn’t seem to be skilled labor that would draw a high wage.

One band – let’s even be generous to say we need a dozen of them, spread among the various branches of government – ought to be enough to make a few recordings, put in special appearances and still provide the goodwill that is sought.

I am among the most liberal of individuals. We donate regularly to arts programs, Public Television and Radio, and any number of other cultural events. We by season tickets to local community theaters, even when we suspect that sitting through some of the productions may be pure misery (usually because of the uncomfortable seating in the municipal auditorium, not because of the particular play).

Supporting the arts is important, but with the economy and the budget in the state it’s in, is this REALLY the best way to spend our tax dollars to protect the United States’ interests?

Maybe we need a few less musicians and a few more Foreign Service Officers.

Friday, September 24, 2010

The Loss of a Child

The following is a letter to the family of Valerie Hamilton, a 23 year old woman who disappeared and died under mysterious circumstances a few days ago.  Her father was the Assistant Chief of Police in Hickory when I started here, and subsequently moved on to be the Chief of Police in Concord, North Carolina a few years ago.

Dear Merl, Susan and Sarah,

When you turn on the television and see something about a tragedy that’s happened, it’s easy to think, “That’s so terrible,” and move on to whatever is next on your agenda. We can do that because whatever is happening has happened to “them”, out “there".

It’s when you recognize a name on the story as someone that you know, not just an anonymous face or public person, but a human being with whom you are actually acquainted that things start to take on a different meaning.

It was not until other people I knew online started posting messages that I realized the young woman they were talking about was your daughter and sister. When you moved from Hickory, she was still a teenager. I remember meeting both of your daughters once downtown at some event, but it was one of those passing things. They were being polite, meeting someone that dad worked with but really eager to get on with the fun.

What I remember, though, is thinking that you brought them up right. They engaged in conversation beyond “yeah” and “nah” and they endured my questions and comments better than most young ladies would. I had a chance to watch you interact with them, too, Merl. You were firm about something – I couldn’t hear, but knew the facial expression. In your firmness, though, it was also obvious that you loved your daughters with all your heart.

When the story first broke on the news, I had the typical reaction. I commented that the girl’s parents must be sick with worry over what happened to her. Then I heard the name and realized that I knew this family.

The grief and concern of your family was suddenly up close and personal. It was no longer the pain of a parent in the abstract. It involved someone I actually knew and I hurt for your family as you went through the tragedy of first looking for Valerie, and then the grief of finding her and realizing that she was no more a physical part of your lives.

I can’t say that I understand how you feel. The anguish of losing a child, especially one who you’ve nurtured to the point of young adulthood, is beyond my imagination. The emptiness of knowing that nothing in your life will ever again be the same must be overwhelming, and I ache for you.

The support and concern of your friends – both the ones you knew were your friends, and the ones of which you weren’t necessarily aware – is obviously appreciated but is nothing compared to the yearn for just one more hug from your daughter, and the “I wish” thoughts that will inevitably creep into your minds in the future.

I wish she’d still lived with us instead of moving out on her own.
I wish she’d just come for dinner that night.
I wish we’d talked with her more about being aware of her surroundings.
I wish I could trade places with her and make her all right again.

I admire the way your family has shared your loss with others, and the concern for young women like your daughter that you’ve expressed. Merl’s message on national television that, “We have to educate our young women more about their personal safety,” is heartwarming. The fact that you can see through your own grief with concern for others says a great deal about your character, even in these darkest of times.

It did not fall on deaf ears. We have talked with our own teenage children about how they have to be constantly vigilant of their surroundings, and how people are not always what they seem. We have insisted that they watch the news coverage of your tragedy, and they’ve begun to comprehend why we continue to hold the reins and worry about their desire for freedom from oversight.

I mourn for your family. Not only for what you’ve gone through, but for what I know you will go through in the future. Because of Merl’s career in law enforcement, you know what will happen in the court proceedings, and in the media. Stories and speculation will come out, and some of those things will hurt, even if you know in your heart they are not true. You know your daughter and her character, and because of that you know that some of the things that will be said – and accepted as accurate – are simply not.

Do not let this speculation hurt your memories of your daughter whom you loved and raised. She was a good and caring person, with goals and dreams for life and contributions to make. You know the true essence of her being, and no matter what anyone says, that cannot be tarnished. She was, and always will be, your little girl and sister.

Whatever good may come from this, no matter how much time passes, I am sorry for your loss. No parent should ever have to endure the loss of their child. I hope you know how much others care for you and share your pain and would like to take some of that burden for you. I also know that we cannot, that this burden falls uniquely to your family.

So many of us are thinking of your family. I hope you feel that through your grief and that it brings you some level of comfort.

I hope you find peace, and know that you are in the thoughts of the many friends and acquaintances who hold you in our hearts.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Wildlife and Weekends

If you come to our house on a weekend afternoon, say, between 2 and 4, you’re likely to get a somewhat frosty reception.

It's not that we don't enjoy company.  You see, that’s nap time. As we approach another decade of life, we not only appreciate naps, we need them. We get up at the same time every morning, weekends and holidays included. “Sleeping in” means staying in bed (usually awake) until 6 in the morning.

So weekend naps are a time-honored tradition. It’s when all the chores stop, we retire to separate parts of the house, one to the bedroom and the other (usually me) to the recliner in the den. I either listen to something on NPR or put a book on my iPod, usually something that I’ve already listened to so it won’t matter if I doze off and miss part of the story line.

That’s what I was doing this afternoon. It was a good nap, too, because el Doggo Importante has learned that he can lie on my lap and doze, too, if he’ll sit still.

The dog didn’t understand the concept of a “nap” at first. While he’d start off on the floor at my feet, he’d pop up every 15 minutes or so as if to say, “Still napping? OK, I’m just checking in case you wanted to throw the ball or something. You go back to sleep, I’ll check back in 15 minutes or so.”

This usually got him relegated to doggie jail (i.e. his downstairs crate) for a while.

Nappers don’t have a lot of tolerance for interruptions for the most part. That’s why we don’t want to see you – no matter how much we love you – between 2 and 4 on weekend afternoons.

So today was a good long nap. I’d finished all my chores, so there was no lingering guilt about napping too early. Both the dog and I were just waking up and stretching, victims of small bladders.

We'd just gone outside to do our business (the dog, not me) and when we came back in heard a shout from the stairwell.

“THERE’S A SNAKE IN HERE.”

My response was incredulity – we’ve never even seen a snake in the yard here before. More likely, it was the string out of my gym shorts that the dog had decided to pull out the day before that he’d been hiding around the house.

The shouts from the hallway convinced me that the “drawstring” was now moving, and I needed to help contain the savage beast.

Neither of us like snakes. We’re not especially afraid of them but have no desire to share the house with them. Our goal, therefore wasn’t to kill him – besides, snake guts are bound to be a pain to clean up – but rather to just GET HIM THE HELL OUT OF THE HOUSE.

This meant that one of us had to watch him while the other found a “snake containment device.”

We have a lot of stuff in our basement. There’s a lot in the kitchen, too, but nothing seemed to scream “Snake Carrier” right off the bat. System requirements were pretty minimal – mainly, big enough that nobody had to touch the snake and a lid to keep him (or her) inside during the relocation process.

Ever notice how when you need something the most you can’t find it? There was a big bowl in the kitchen – 2 of them, even – and the lids are nowhere to be found. Fortunately, a plastic bin presented itself in the avalanche of stuff in the pantry as I frantically dug for a solution.

Mr. Snake, who was shrinking in my mind from the murderous 12 foot python he was when I first saw him IN THE HOUSE to a more manageable 18 inches, wasn’t moving very fast, fortunately, and was content to stay on the stairs for a while – although he was obviously headed for the bedrooms.

If he'd gotten to the bedrooms, it was a cinch there would be no sleeping in this house until he was found again. If he disappeared, well, we’d just have to move into a hotel until we could sell.

Now, as anyone who knows us knows, we are full-figured adults. The grandeur of our house means that two people our size can pass shoulder to shoulder on the stairwell.

They cannot, however, dance and jump to avoid a poisonous snake.

Snakes are all deadly poisonous. I just know these things.

At first, it looked like he might go into the bin on his own. Then he turned around to attack, sticking his tongue out at us.

Tongue movement is, of course, the primary indicator that a deadly poisonous snake is about to attack and eat two full-sized humans. 

Michael Jordan wishes he had as much hang time as we did on that stairwell.

Fortunately, Mr. Snake kind of coiled up on a stair, which meant that we could take the lid and encourage him into the bin from a safe distance, clapping the lid on and sealing him in.

That's just what happened, as soon as we came out of the air.

Where he came from we have no idea. Painters have been working around the exterior for the last week or so, and some of the windows have been open. The basement was open some yesterday as well, and he could have come in that way although that’s a LOT of steps to manage for a creature with no legs.

After a brief stop at a friend’s up the street to confirm the “You ain’t gonna believe this sh*t” factor he was dropped off at the cemetery, not as an occupant but as a resident. There’s a creek through it and a lot of undergrowth that looks like the perfect snake habitat.

Regardless, it’s better than having him coming into the bedroom to surprise us.


Sunday, September 12, 2010

Who's Your Daddy?

I did a test that traces your DNA.

Not that there were any questions of paternity of children lurking out there. Thankfully, that’s one issue that I’ve never had to worry about. The testing was not court ordered but rather a test to look at your genetic origins to find out from whence your ancestors hail.

The method is the same, though. You take a Q-Tip that’s kind of shaped like a lollipop, rub it inside your mouth to get a few cells and a lot of spit, then smear it on this little card that you mail back to the testing folks.

In a few days, you get an email with your “DNA Report” outlining your heritage. The results can be pretty surprising.

The report gives some technical stuff that I don’t understand first. No surprise there, that’s one way that the medical establishment justifies the cost of something – by providing test results that nobody can really understand. After a few pages of that, though, it gets to the stuff you really want to know – “Who’s your Daddy?”

Not your immediate daddy, so Mom and Dad, you can curb your indignation. Nobody’s making any accusations. Instead, it looks at your genealogical origins back across several generations.

The first part tells your “deep ancestral origins”, which it says are the groups up to about 500 years back from which a person originates. The second part is your “Global Population Match”, which is your closest genetic relatives today, and the third group is your “World Region Match”, which shows the genetic match over major regions of the world and interactions between historical groups in those areas – i.e. “who’s sleepin’ with who” on a larger scale.

So here’s the kickers that make little sense to me given what I thought I knew about my family history.

For the “deep ancestral origins”, my DNA matches to “Central and Southern Iraq”. It’s kind of a surprise to learn that my country of birth is at war with my location of origin. I also have a hard time wrapping my mind around that – I’d always thought we were from western Europe. While I have little doubt that there was a travelling salesman or two in the family tree, I wouldn’t have guessed that!

Then, it gets even more interesting. Said salesman – I’m betting he was in either Fuller Brushes, vitamins or some other form of snake oil or a travellin' preacher -- apparently had a pretty large territory, because my “Global Population Match” is European – Aboriginal (Western Australia), followed by Central Iraq.

The World Region Match comes back to Arabian, with the next prevalent being Northwest Europe. Apparently, Australia didn’t work out and the salesman was transferred to a newer region. A colder location, which to my mind isn’t much of a promotion.

What does this say? I’m not sure. I was surprised at some of the results, but then humans have been moving around and breeding with most anything – er, “anyone” -- that would hold still long enough for eons, so I guess it shouldn’t be too surprising that things are not as clear-cut as one would expect. It probably doesn’t make any real difference in my life, other than to provide a bit of trivia.

If anything, it serves to confirm that we are all, in fact, of one tribe or family and no matter what we think our heritage may not be quite as we’ve been led to believe.

And travelling salesmen have been the same throughout time.

If you can’t live without this tidbit of information about yourself, you can go to http://www.dnatribes.com/ and they’ll set you up to learn these things about yourself.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

A milestone

As of today, there have been 4,970 visits to this blog since I started it.  Thanks to everyone who continues to show up to validate my efforts, if not my existence.  Please share it with anyone you think might be interested, or who might be coerced into reading it because you asked them to, and don't be afraid to comment.  Disagreement isn't necessarily a bad thing, and who knows -- one or the other of us might end up changing their mind.

Burn, Baby, Burn!

The problem with free speech is that some people chose to exercise their right, even when it may not be the best thing to do for them or anyone else.

The latest dust-up in the media seems to be over some self-ordained and self-anointed “pastor” in Gainesville, Florida who’s scheduled a “Koran” burning to happen as a memorial of 9/11.

Without a doubt, he has a constitutional right to engage in this particular form of hate-speech in the United States. In reality, it’s not that much more abhorrent than the speech happening in numerous Christian churches around the country and he’s joined by the likes of Fred Phelps and his crowd, among others. http://cornerat8th.blogspot.com/2010/03/freedom-of-hate-speech.html . Combine them with a lot of the other hate-mongers hiding behind religion, and you can see that there’s not a nickel’s worth of difference amongst them. It’s more a question of who’s ox is being gored.

Of course, whether doing something is legal and whether it’s a good idea aren’t necessarily the same thing. As a society, though, I think we’ve responded inappropriately.

The reality is, this “church” has about 50 members. It’s not associated with any denomination, the leader has no credentials and no education other than an online-degree from an unaccredited internet organization. He’s been ousted from another church he started in Germany for playing fast and loose with the money. In reality, he is little more than a pimple on the butt of humanity and the whole thing would go away if we’d just ignore it.

This isn’t in our nature as Americans, though. We are going to exercise OUR right to free speech by shouting down those with whom we disagree.

The problem is we give validity to this guy by giving him publicity. Media trucks have inundated Florida for days now, poking their microphones in front of anyone who looks likely to provide a comment. In reality, most of the world wouldn’t have ever heard about this group had people from the President down not given him the publicity he so ardently craves by trying to talk him out of his stunt.

Here’s the news flash.

He is no more lead by God than I am the King of Siam. He’s a flim-flam publicity man seeking to grab his 15 minutes of fame to supplement his online used-furniture sales business. If he thought he could get more publicity by burning the Montgomery Wards catalog, he’d be pilin’ those up for a BBQ. He’s not going to call off his bonfire.

I predict, since he’s been denied a burn permit by the City of Gainesville, that he’ll use THAT as the lead to argue that he’s being denied his rights to free expression of religion by not being able to burn books. There will be great media footage of him with a can of lighter fluid in one hand and a match in the other as the sheriffs handcuff him and haul him away singing, “Just as I am”.

Publicity is publicity. He doesn’t care what form it takes, because it keeps his name on the front page of the paper / television / internet for a little bit longer. He may even be able to parlay the matter into more coverage when he either defends the criminal charges or files a civil rights suit arguing that his have been abridged.

The way to avoid all of this is to follow mom’s advice to me when my little brothers were annoying me.

“Just ignore him, and he’ll go away.”

Grandpa, understanding the dynamics of brotherhood a bit better, had slightly different advice.

“Why don’t you turn around and knock him on his ass?”

That’s probably not appropriate here although it might be infinitely more satisfying, and mom’s gentler approach would achieve the desired result.

Had this wack-job received no publicity, he might not have gone away entirely, but the limited number of people who would have found himwould have quietly noted, “Hmm. Look at that kook,” and gone on about their business.

No Islamic mobs in foreign countries accelerating incidents of violence against Americans. No outraged militants trying to blow things up here.

Well, at least not any more than might otherwise exist.

At times, Americans are our own worst enemy, inflicting far greater injuries to ourselves as a country than any foreign entity could. We do this as a culture, and we do it through our acceptance of 24 hour news coverage of even the most inane issues. In part, that freedom is what makes our country so great, even with it’s flaws. But a little self restraint might not be such a bad thing occasionally.

The only reason I can think of to have media coverage of such an offensive event is to see whether or not they’re serving Kool-aid at this Bar-B-Q, and who’s going to drink it.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

The Disappearing Internet

Apparently things posted on the internet disappear at different rates. I suspect this is one of those little-understood qualities of mechanical devices, like the crisis detector in the photocopy machine that makes it stop working when you absolutely have to have copies within a short period of time.

I think it’s connected to the detonator that makes the print cartridge need replacing and explode on you whenever you’re wearing a new white dress shirt and have 45 minutes to get to an important appointment 30 minutes across town.

Things posted on the internet seem to disappear as well, at least, when they were somewhat useful or interesting and you’re trying to find them again. The speed with which they disappear is apparently tied to their usefulness to the person who is searching for them.

An essay about some particular current event that isn’t merely the ranting of a madman, but makes points that you want to consider and reconsider while you ponder through the choices would probably disappear within just a few hours, especially if you failed to note the web address for it.

A poem that happens to hit a chord and you know that it’ll mean something to your friend who’s struggling through chemotherapy right now and feels a bit homely because all of her hair has fallen out might last longer because of the empathy of the Universe, but it might not, too. Karma is fickle that way.

That cute video of a kid playing with a bunch of puppies that made you smile and would brighten the day abit will likely hang around longer because 4,283 of your closest friends, and their closest friends who like to hit the “forward” button will send it to you. It will disappear the day before you decide that it would be perfect to go in the PowerPoint presentation you have to make the next day.

Try to find something that’s really important, though, and your day will be shot. Those gigabit-in-a-haystack searches are remarkably frustrating when it’s something that you really, really want to find.

Other things, of course, hangs around like kudzu on a vacant lot, especially if it’s about you or someone you love and maybe is a part of your life that you’d just as soon have go away. You can hardly kill the stuff, especially when it is something that probably shouldn’t have been posted in the first place.

The picture put on the front page of the newspaper under the headline, “Local Man Arrested for Embezzlement” or the piece about foreclosures that chooses your house as the one to spotlight, for example.

Given the fact that so many things that you’d rather not have broadcast to the world are publicized, I’m amazed at what people put on the internet voluntarily, either on social networking sites or even just general blog or informational pages.

It’s easy enough to do inadvertently if you use those forms of communication. You forget that you’re not in a private conversation, but instead are blasting out the topic of discussion to whomever happens to come across it. We like to share, and get in the habit of putting photos and personal information out there.

Pictures of your kids. Or your parents. Or yourself that aren’t especially flattering with some self deprecating comment.

Sometimes those come from your “friends” (or “frenemies” – people who are ostensibly your friends, but do not have your best interest at heart). What real friend would put a picture of you lying passed out next to a toilet in a pool of your own body fluids after having overindulged, especially if they’ve taken permanent markers to decorate you before commemorating the event with photographs?

Don’t believe me? Check out http://www.latenightmistakes.com/ to see what’s been posted.

Before the internet those types of events were kept somewhat discrete. There might be a photo, but it was a hassle to get the film printed, and then there was only one negative. If you were really unfortunate, an unflattering pic might make it into a high school or college yearbook, but usually faculty advisors exercised some discretion there. The images that weren’t chosen might pop up again at class reunions, but your kids aren’t there to see that and after that much time, well, frankly who cares?

Unless you were truly a famous person, it was likely that the hubbub (and the evidence) would die quickly, except maybe to your immediate family. They tend to remember everything stupid you did through your entire life, and siblings, especially, like to remind you of these incidents at inopportune moments.

Like when you’re chastising your own child for doing something, especially when that child wasn’t aware that yeah, at the same age, you and a friend broke into the friend’s parent’s liquor cabinet, drank an entire bottle of schnapps and then went to a church revival meeting and insisted on singing in the choir.

Being reminded of that will take the steam out of a good parental lecture, but it’s not blasted for the world to hear or see. It’s a gentle jab from your brother reminding you to take it easy on the kid, lest other stories be brought up from the distant past!

Now, though, many people seem to lack discretion on what they post about others or even about themselves.

Those involved in custody disputes over children frequently find that pages of photographs – sometimes with their own comments – get printed out and entered into evidence when their ex is attempting to alter custody.

You can be the greatest mom in the world, but if pictures of you drinking a mixed drink the size of a mixing bowl while holding your two year old with the caption, “Casey’s first Margarita” is posted, even in jest, that’s going to have an impact and NOBODY is going to believe that it was just fruit punch in the glass.

Even worse than that, put pics of your new love interest on there, resplendent in his orange jail coveralls and talking to you on a telephone receiver through a glass pane with the caption, “Only 8 more weeks until my Sweet Baboo gets out!” and see how fast it takes a judge to enter a new custody order there.

Those things hang around forever, self-inflicted wounds that are memorials to a person’s stupidity.

Maybe the only hope is that someone will need the piece about the stupid thing we did, and it’ll disappear forever. That’s tough to coordinate, though.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

It Takes a Village

It may take a village to raise a child, but it takes a heck of a support team to get a senior citizen off on a trip.

We were reminded of that this week. We’re off at Myrtle Beach – the only trip of the summer, and Hurricane Earl be damned we were going. As it turns out, that was a great decision. Earl went north of here and we didn’t get enough rain to even moisten the pages of my trashy novel. Other than a few clouds one day, you’d never have known that weather was anything other than perfect from the beach.

If you got in the water, it was another story. There were significant undertows that pulled even someone with as much ballast as I have from their feet pretty quickly. I have a rule about never getting in water deep enough that you can’t see your feet, so it wasn’t much of an issue. Besides, there’s no bar service at the beach here, whereas there frequently is at hotel pools.

Our trip, though, coincided with one long planned by our Colombian Uncle who lives in the apartment. He’d saved for months and had a little inheritance from his mother, so he decided to take a trip that he’d always dreamed about – an Alaskan Cruise. As it turned out, he’ll come off of that cruise and get on another ship to go on a cruise that will take him from Vancouver, British Columbia down toward South America, through the Panama Canal and over to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. 

Someone who lives here (not me) is a master at trip planning and ferreting out deals on these kinds of things, and he did all of the work on this trip, just as he does on the ones we take.  My primary job is to get the stuff into the suitcases.  As a result, the traveller's itinerary is all set out, everything is paid for and he's got tickets in hand, connections are outlined and shuttles are booked.  Short of getting on a bus with 50 other senior citizens and having no discretion whatsoever in what happens, it's about as preplanned as a person can get, thanks to the dozens of hours put in planning the trip.

Did I mention that my job is to get all the stuff in the bags?
All in all, he’ll be gone six weeks. He even gets a stop in Colombia and visit with a friend that he hasn’t seen in years.  During that time, we have full custody of Yoko the dog. Coordinating last minute details from the beach, though, has been something akin to moving enough supplies to support the invasion of a small country.

Because we’re gone, Yoko needed to stay with someone for respite care. A friend who’s been in love with him since adoption offered to take him home to visit with her husband and their dog (a big loveable boxer named Marley) for the weekend. I suspect that, aside from just a love of a puppy, there’s an ulterior motive here. She’s been campaigning for a small dog to come to their house for a while, and this is a chance to show her hubby how adorable they really are.

Given the photos that have already been swapped via phone, it appears that the puppy invasion is going to work.

Prisoner exchange had to be coordinated, though, which is one of those events that makes you appreciate the fact that your kids can drive. Jordan picked Yoko up at the house promptly at 4:00 on Friday afternoon along with his overnight bag (which I packed, too -- did I mention that I'm in charge of packing?) and carried him to the hospital, where he was offloaded and went to Morganton for the weekend. The only thing he didn’t seem to appreciate is that he was riding in his crate rather than seat belted into the front seat. Getting him into the seatbelt harness and then attached to the seatbelt takes considerable experience and more than one person, so the idea was jettisoned in favor of the crate, which was going as his crib anyhow.

The trauma of being without Yoko lead to no less than 5 tearful telephone calls from his daddy. One wonders how he’s going to survive 6 weeks without the dog, but the issue was apparently not that he was gone, but rather that he was with a stranger. That will resolve once we’re back home.

The next issue was to get him to the airport to load onto the Hickory Hop (the shuttle van between the Hickory Airport and the Charlotte Airport) by 6:00 on Saturday morning.

Step up the next child, who’s been working in the hospital cafeteria all summer and is used to a shift that starts at 5:00 in the morning. Alarms went off in our Myrtle Beach suite at 4:30 in the morning, text messages and telephone calls were exchanged and we confirmed that the passenger was up – having slept fitfully worrying not about the plane but about the dog – and Taylor was on his way to the house to load the luggage and drop him at the airport.

When the issue of worries about the dog came up AGAIN, Taylor told him to, “Just get over it,” which was apparently sufficient.

Out of the mouths of babes . . . .

So Eliseo is now off on his big adventure. Cell phones are wonderful, when they’re not a curse. He’s got a squeaky new one that he’s practiced operating for a couple of weeks, and Verizon coverage will go over most of the places that he’ll be so we can help with anything that’ll may up, although most everything has been anticipated, booked and paid for online. He’s got notebooks for different aspects of the trip that outline where he’s supposed to be, contact points and individuals and activities he’s anticipating.

Maybe the “village” concept doesn’t end when a person is grown. It just goes into hiatus until we’re old enough that the village, which is by then composed of different people included in your family of choice, steps up again to see that a person is warm and fed and clothed.

And maybe gets to go on a fantastic trip so there are great memories and stories and pictures once the body won’t make those trips any more.