memory loss

My memory isn't what it used to be. In fact, I'm afraid the electrical connections that once lit up my internal thought processes have lost their brightness. Before, entire storage spaces in my mind were brightly lit allowing me to access the most obscure information you could imagine. Now, those spaces are dark, occasionally lit by the flickering of a soon-to-be extinguished bulb.

I'm not as bold in conversations with friends and less so with strangers as a result. I fear for the stalled silences that immediately accompany a lost thread of knowledge or train of thought. Before, I could summon up the names of books, movies, authors, actors, plot lines, artists, etc. at the drop of a hat. Often one small association would trigger a string of thematically connected ideas that could dazzle even the most adept of cocktail conversationalists. Now I'm reduced to something like, "you know, the actor who played the general in that Sylvester Stallone movie where he went ballistic." Such are the ravages of age upon the cognitive process.

I try to keep my mind sharp with little exercises. I do the word scramble each day in the newspaper. I string together meaningful phrases out of the letters on license plates in front of me (e.g. GSC could equate to "girl scout cookies" or "go shoot coyotes"). I exercise every day (well, almost). I systematically go through the alphabet in my mind whenever I forget something, like the actor example above. ("Abraham? No. Bob? No. Collin?" etc.) Sometimes this methodology yields results but even when it does, it is often minutes sometimes hours after the initial thought should have been completed - a far cry from my "sharper" days.

I saw this phenomena creep up with my parents which does nothing to quell the internal terror. The only solace I can derive from all of this is that my older friends all seem to be suffering from the same malady. Our conversations no longer run smoothly as they sputter and stall upon those lost associations and references we used to grab readily. An astute onlooker could undoubtedly identify those moments of silence and stupor where both parties look at the ground in embarrassment (and in the vain hope that there might be some clue as to what we are looking for there on the ground). It all goes down easier when I know I am not alone.

In the meantime, in a real pinch, I can always go to my iPod. At least I can Google enough of my memory fragment to find the component I had forgotten. I try not to rely upon it too much though. I'm convinced that the iPod, like the calculator, has become a crutch that discourages us from more active mental participation. I suppose I'll know I'm in real trouble when I forget how to use the iPod or forget what the iPod in my hand is entirely. I do hate this memory loss thing. But then, by that time, I won't remember what it was that was troubling me.

rangefinder cameras revisited

Seriously, if you're not into cameras or have little patience with other's obsessions, be forewarned, you may want to skip this post.

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything and wouldn't you know that inspiration would be found in my penchant for conspicuous consumerism? Way back in March of 2010, I praised (in more detail than any but the most rabid of photographers would appreciate) the joys of rangefinder cameras. I won't bore you with a re-hash of that post, but am compelled to say that in retrospect, my purchase of the Panasonic GF1 while motivated by the similarities (at least in appearance) to the rangefinders of old, was totally misguided. In truth, the GF1 is a digital camera with a similar body style that offers interchangeable lenses, but in action, it does not possess enough of the rangefinder's DNA to qualify as a modern-day substitute.

I refer you once again to the photo below to clarify.

The key feature of a rangefinder camera is the optical viewfinder in the upper right-hand corner of the camera (a Leica M3) displayed above. While single-lens-reflex cameras became the eventual standard for news photographers, sports photographers and consumers in the late 60s and early 70s, the blessing and curse of this design is that at the precise moment of exposure, the mirror that allows the photographer to see through the lens that is capturing the image, flips up to totally obscure the viewfinder. 

The rangefinder on the other hand, offers a clear view of the framed subject at all times since the viewfinder is simply a "window," clear glass if you will. In a sense, with SLR cameras, the decisive moment becomes the indecisive moment as you may or may not have captured what you intended. True, the digital cameras of today offer almost instantaneous feedback, but to the PURIST, in the spirit of a rangefinder camera, the decisive moment is still the moment when you depress the shutter release button as you compose through the viewfinder. (OK, OK, some of today's digital cameras offer electronic viewfinders eliminating the blackout problem, but the view is propagated by a micro-miniature television screen which makes it somehow offensive to technophobes such as myself). And so in an attempt to right my past wrong, I have recently purchased the new Fujifilm X10. 

The first thing you should notice, now that you've been trained to spot rangefinder cameras, is the optical viewfinder just to the right and above the lens. It is this one key important feature that qualifies the X10 as a modern-day rangefinder and one that is lacking on almost every digital camera today. Sadly, the display on the back of these cameras has become de riguer these days. Cameras should not be held away from you, they should be snuggled against your face(which incidentally, helps steady the camera in a way not achieved otherwise). 

And similar to the classic rangefinders, this camera sports a vast array of manual controls, those things called knobs and dials that have somehow been eliminated with touchscreens. You actually have to twist the lens to zoom in and out rather than push a lever that actuates a motorized zoom lens. How innovative is that? I suppose I'm betraying my reactionary ways here, but you should know I was "classically trained" as a photographer. Cameras were mechanical marvels back then, operated by gears and intricate internal mechanisms that coalesced in a perfect symphony of movement to adjust the lens opening, the shutter speed and align the film in the proper spot to capture a moment of time. Somehow the decisive click and tactile feedback of the shutter mechanism of those cameras proved to be immensely satisfying, unlike the electronic beep or simulated shutter sounds of today's devices. Yes there are more electronic parts than mechanical ones in the Fuji X10, and yes, it is a digital camera. But, Fuji has incorporated the interface and operation of those old rangefinder cameras in its latest model. There is a reassuring feel and look of a camera once more versus the evolving face of digital image capture devices (have you seen the Lytro?) I can return to my roots with this camera, back when I was first inspired to create images. Remarkably, I've found the "fun" again in shooting photos.

supernova

Just this past week, astronomers in California discovered the closest, brightest supernova in 25 years. In essence, it is believed to be the sighting of the first hours of a super-dense white dwarf star (containing more mass than our own sun), exploding. This blast hurls matter in all directions at nearly one-tenth the speed of light - matter that ultimately will form the building blocks of other stars and planets.

Last night, around midnight I went outside to see if I could witness the supernova. Supposedly,  the zenith of the supernova's brilliance was to occur sometime between last night and this weekend. I looked patiently around, trying to find the Big Dipper, the landmark via which the supernova could be located. I utilized my Planets app on my iPod Touch to mark the position of the Big Dipper in the night sky, but to no avail. Either the clouds were obscuring it or the brightness of the moon was creating too much glare off of the atmosphere. I was of course disappointed, but realized as I stood there for what seemed an extended period of time that just being out there was beautiful. I paused at that moment to absorb it all, the cool summer breeze that hinted of the arrival of Fall, the quiet of the night, the vastness of the universe that lay outstretched above me and the silent, distant stars that flickered against the darkness. I didn't care that I couldn't see the supernova at that moment. Although it is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, there is something to be valued about what exists out there for us everyday.

new profile photo

After approximately 5 months,  I've successfully lost 20 pounds. Prior to this time, I've avoided posting any photos due to the vanity of an older man. Now that I've regained a thinner version of myself, above is a new profile photo.

Celeste of the Desert

Celeste is one of my oldest and dearest friends from college It seems we were always destined to be apart. Each summer, she would depart for El Paso, a place near and dear to her heart where she once lived and many of her friends continued to reside. We would write each other occasionally during her summer escapades or whatever she was doing back there in the hot desert climes of Texas. When fall brought her back to the U. we would resume our friendship once more.

Looking back, I've concluded friends are the ones who can tell you when you're full of crap, which Celeste did quite often. Believe me, people who don't tell you when you're full of crap aren't doing you any favors. Celeste could point this out to me in a way that caused me to pause and reflect upon my behavior rather than defend it blindly. (Wives replace friends in your later life. They are the ones who remind you about the crap except they are not so delicate about it. Men are never really in a position to tell their wives they are full of crap because they simply never are. Crap seems to be specifically gender-tied to men. But I digress . . . )

As was foretold by our early separations during college, our adult lives have followed the same path. Currently, Celeste has settled in the isolated desert of Arizona somewhere near Kingman. She is building her dream house there, but has met with some of the realities of the harsh environment there.  She recently wrote me about some of the pitfalls of desert life. Without her permission I include it here:

My morning routine was interrupted when my peripheral vision caught Jack and Buddy, our dogs, quietly roaming through the side yard.  I watched them for a moment and then saw Twilight, one of our cats, stretched out across his favorite nap spot.  The sadness was almost immediate.  I knew he was dead.  Still, I walked out to him.  He was on his side, his eyes half closed and his tail extended behind him as if pulled straight by a playful child.   He would have jumped and sprinted had he been alive.  I didn't touch him.

Cats are necessary on our ten acres surrounded by miles of desert.  The cute, cup-eared, kangaroo rats ubiquitous in our area, draw Mohave rattlesnakes.  The cats keep the scurrying mouse-like kangaroos in check.  This is not to say we and our animals live a Mohave-free life. The tell-tale puncture wounds on Twilight's lip and nose confirmed one of the snakes got him.  Green hued, Mohaves kill with one of the most lethal venoms of U.S. snakes.  

The snake that killed Twilight is resting between garlic chicken and Lean Cuisines in the freezer waiting to be turned into a hat band or such.  We aren't always able to get the perpetrator, but it helps a bit when we can.  Coyotes and rattlesnakes are the prime predators.  Gone are cats Sheba, Tom, Mama Cat, Sunny, and others.  Sage, our beloved dog was lost to a mountain lion, and Buddy, who came after, both were bitten.  Chickens Bandit, Samantha Jane, Sunny Skies, and Little Red, succumbed and chicks disappear before they can be named. 

Their deaths are inevitable in this unyielding environment where coyotes and snakes must kill to live .  We know this, but each is missed and mourned and a small tragedy. 

the man and the donut reunited

Monday I ordered two dozen apple cider donuts from Cold Hollow Cider Mill. They arrived via Priority Mail on Wednesday, neatly packed in airtight plastic bags, a little squarer for having been packed snugly in the box. Amazingly, all of the donuts were intact and appeared to be quite fresh. The enclosed instructions suggested that the donuts tasted best when served warm. Specifically, they suggested they be placed in the oven at 200 degrees for 3-5 minutes. Since I had the donuts delivered to my work address, I immediately placed one in our toaster oven. To my delight, they tasted every bit as good as I had remembered! The room was filled with the scent of apples and cinnamon.

That night, at home, I warmed up one for Joni. Sadly, it was warm enough but the surface had not re-crisped up like it had for me at work. At work, the exterior regained its crunchy hardness while the inner portion remained soft and airy. I was a little perplexed and disappointed. Perhaps the smaller area of a toaster oven was more efficient than the standard in-home unit. Regardless, I was a little discouraged. Without the crunch, the donut could not achieve its former glory.

The next day I tried heating a donut at work for a morning snack and realized that I had misread the setting dial on the toaster oven. I had set the heat to 200 degrees Celsius which translates to about 350 degrees Fahrenheit! As I had experienced the day before, the donut was crispy on the outside, soft and warm on the inside. Mystery solved! Tonight you can be sure I will be heating more donuts at the 350 degrees setting. And yes, I will be in donut heaven.

addendum to the best doughnut

After reading my latest blog entry, a co-worker Googled "apple donut in Vermont" and actually located the apple orchard/bakery detailed in the post below. It not only still exists, but appears to have thrived and expanded. It is the Cold Hollow Apple Cider Mill located in Stowe, Vermont.

They offer their donuts (their spelling, not mine) in dozen batches and can be shipped anywhere. Circumstances preclude me from immediately ordering my first couple of dozen donuts, but you can be assured, I will faithfully report upon the experience once it has transpired. (Or, are some things best left to memory, like the first girl you had a crush on?)

Check out their website at: http://www.coldhollow.com.

Sadly, I can see my memory had embellished the Rube Goldberg donut machine. It appears thusly,

the best doughnut

As a result of stern advice from my doctor (not to mention the recent diagnosis of prostate cancer), I have endeavored to lose weight over the past 4 months. Through a regiment of regular cardio, weight training and a strict and reduced caloric intake (documented religiously on a weight-loss app loaded onto my iPod), I have successfully lost somewhere between a fluctuating eighteen to twenty pounds.

During this time, I have only succumbed to one of my favorite guilty pleasures of doughnuts (or donuts), only three times. Fundamentally, there is no good thing health-wise that can be derived from doughnuts. They are essentially ring-shaped carbohydrates that have been fried. (Have you noticed that some of the best tasting things seem to be fried?) However, in spite of the nutritional deficiencies inherent in doughnuts, I would be remiss in not mentioning the pure gastronomic delight derived from these cardiac time bombs. I'm sorry but I cannot help but smile involuntarily upon my first bite into a newly cooked (yes, fried) doughnut. In my mind, doughnuts were the forbidden fruit growing on that tree in the Garden of Eden. It was no apple that Eve proffered Adam. It was a doughnut. It was the doughnut that gave Adam insight into the sins of the world and revealed to him his own nakedness as well as Eve's. But, I digress.

Abstinence often triggers memories of past experiences, and as I reminisce I can vividly recall the best doughnut I ever gobbled down. Flashback to 1996, during our family's three-year stint in Connecticut to support Joni's attendance at Yale Law School. We often tried to take advantage of the surrounding locale to explore an area we had not previously visited. One of our forays took us into Vermont where we toured the headquarters of Ben and Jerry's and visited the lodge of the Von Trapp Family (of Sound of Music fame). It was on our loop homeward that we spotted a barn on the side of the rural Vermont road that advertised "Apple Pie, Apple Cider, Apple Doughnuts" and invited us to "Come On In." There are many apple orchards in New England with structures adjoining the orchards that featured homemade delights made from apples. Honestly, we had not visited one that did not prove to be a joyful discovery. And so, with anticipation, we pulled into the dirt parking lot to visit the barn that housed the bakery and store.

As I crossed the threshold of the open barn door, I was overcome by the smell of apples and cinnamon. In front of me, loomed a Rube Goldberg contraption that occupied the entire central area of the main room. It featured a snake like switchback of conveyer belts, a central housing for the motor that powered the belts and a stream of hot, bubbling oil. At the far end, the conveyer fed O-shaped forms of lightly brown dough that ended in the bubbling stream where the raw doughnuts were delicately plopped. From there, the doughnuts drifted downstream slowly as they cooked. Finally, through with their little swim, the apple-infused doughnuts were picked-up by a final conveyor belt to be deposited into a bin where they were scooped up by the grandfatherly purveyor, put into a sheet of wax paper and placed in my outstretched hands. I could only look down at my hands in silent awe as I felt the warmth of the just cooked doughnuts radiate through the wax paper and the napkins beneath. As I looked up at Grandfather Doughnut, he smiled knowingly as if to say, "Yes, I know, it's a miracle isn't it? Wait until you taste it!"

The interior of that barn and everything else faded into black as my taste buds overwhelmed all other senses. My endorphins obviously exploded as the warm, fresh, apple and cinnamon infused doughnut hit my tongue. The texture was perfect. Crunchy on the outside with a velvety-smooth interior that melted like butter in my mouth. I must have eaten six in a row without pause. I think Marissa and Joni did the same. I had been transformed at that moment to a new level of doughnut spirituality and worship. Ultimately, we returned to our car, clutching another dozen of the doughnuts in a brown paper bag, the oil blotting the exterior as it soaked through. We resumed our trip home as the barn disappeared behind the bends of the road and the hilly green landscape.

I will never be able to return to that barn. I have no memory of what route we took as we returned from our trip to Vermont. It was over fifteen years ago now. Perhaps that orchard no longer exists or it was taken over by somebody else who dismantled that doughnut-making machine. Or, perhaps I'm just being pessimistic. Perhaps it is still there, run by the next generation of a family devoted to the family orchards and business. Whatever the case, I will never forget the best doughnut I ever tasted.

class reunion ruminations

I’ve recently participated in organizing my 40^th high school reunion. Interestingly, this activity has conjured up many memories of that past life, reviving all of the insecurities, conflicts, crushes and friendships that had overwhelmed me at that time.

I’m sure, as is common, I view myself internally as being much younger than I appear externally. Inside, in large part thrives a young man just stepping into maturity, outside, captured in the harsh reality of a mirror, is the aging man (albeit with a rather bewildered look on his face,) who has weathered many experiences and lessons that sometimes seem too easily forgotten. It is much easier to look outward at my former classmates of the reunion committee than inward to gauge how much progress or wisdom has been accumulated over the years.

I can still envision them all as they appeared in high school. Some have changed more than others. And I remember my encounters with them back then, impressions readily recounted, emotions re-lived - but gone are any harsh judgments or categorizations. Although they are not as attractive (i.e. "youthful") as they were in high school (and I include myself here without hesitation), there is a patina of beauty that surrounds them, borne from their years of struggling, loving, raising children and experiencing all of the triumphs and disappointments that life has to offer. They have all achieved a manner of dignity and grace that makes me want to embrace them and declare, “Look how far we’ve come!” from that same starting point of our humble high school.

death of a sparrow

This morning as I departed for work I discovered a dead sparrow on my steps. Initially, I thought it was a sad thing, then my mind wandered to the idea of the universality of death and finally, the thought that in some cultures or in other times this may have been taken as an omen of bad things to come. Was this an omen I wondered? I know I have taken comfort in the past at discovering a praying mantis in my yard, actually often perched atop my door way as if monitoring my comings and goings. In the oriental culture, the presence of a praying mantis portends good fortune. No, I decided, the dead sparrow on my steps was not a bad omen. But yes, the praying mantis was a good sign. Basically, I chose to reject the negative notion but accept the favorable one.

I grabbed a shovel to pick up the bird and place it gently into my garbage can. Perhaps I should have buried it in the yard, but the garbage can was a more expedient option and I didn't want Joni to discover the bird for herself for fear that she would find it upsetting. The bird seemed remarkably, silently at rest. I could easily imagine its skittish and rapid movements in life as I have witnessed these birds almost daily throughout the years. I could see the way it would tilt its head from side to side to look at you, how it would hop on the ground and how its wings would flutter just prior to taking flight.

The contrast between this vision of the bird in life and the still body on my shovel was a revelation to me. Earlier this week I had heard a quote by John Muir, "Death is as beautiful as life." That statement has lingered in my mind since that time. There is a truth to it that I hadn't considered before. I had never really thought of death in those terms. And now, before me, lay this fragile little bird, eyes closed in a peaceful, quiet and still oblivion. It was oddly beautiful. We all pass through this world like visitors, vast numbers of us sharing the same time and place on this earth. We overlap. Some of us pass early in our visit, others pass during other times. Some are born during our visit and linger beyond our own time. Everybody who has ever lived on this planet has and will cease to exist in this realm. As a child, death would frighten me. Now, as I grow older, I see it is the way of all things and there is a beauty in the cycle and universality of the process. "Death is as beautiful as life."

Class Reunion

Sadly, I've reached yet another milestone in my life, the 40th reunion of my graduating high school class. Yes, I'm old. This is a fact not lost on me. Whenever I encounter a former classmate, immediately after our initial surprised greeting, there is a pause, followed by an exasperated and shared simultaneous utterance, "We're old!" (But, I must admit in a vain - and I mean this in both definitions of the word - way, I still look pretty damn good for an old guy!)

Interestingly, nobody in my graduating class, specifically the class officers, wanted to take on the responsibility of organizing a reunion. Former classmates asked me if I had heard anything about an upcoming event. No, I had not nor had they. Ultimately, I decided if nobody was going to do it, then I would rise to the occasion. After all, it is our 40th. I reasoned that this way I would have the power to fashion the event to my "vision" of a successful reunion.

I had participated in the planning of my 30th and part of the criticism of that reunion was attributed directly to my influence. I had been told by somebody in the class before mine that they had held their reunion at our old school. The school provided catering at a reasonable price and he claimed it was a big success affording everybody the opportunity to see the old school, have a nice meal and mingle. I campaigned for our reunion to be held at our school. In short the food was mediocre even for the price, the setting was a little depressing (being held in the cafeteria area where no amount of decorations could enhance the dismal room. True, it was our old school, so what more could you expect by way of a lavish room? Nonetheless . . . ) and overall, perhaps the school was best left in our "enriched" memory rather than presented to us in its stark present-day reality. So perhaps part of my motivation in assuming command of our reunion was as a means of atonement.

Luckily, I had been in discussion with two of my former classmates regarding our reunion. Both were on the 30-year planning committee with me so I was not alone. We reasoned that although we could enlist the aid of others, perhaps it would be better to keep our number small. This would enable us to make decisions swiftly without a large group consensus and we could justifiably organize a simple, uncomplicated reunion that could be executed nimbly since we didn't have much time. After all of these years, you'd think my cynicism would have kicked in to warn me, but almost immediately after announcing that I was taking on the reunion, criticism (and offers to help) ensued. How word of my efforts spread so quickly I'll never know. Classmates emerged from the woodwork. Admittedly, I was offended and angered by the criticism and suggestions from the once silent, non-existent contingent. My initial reaction was to ignore my classmates and proceed accordingly, but later I decided to allow them a forum to provide their input to ultimately diffuse their post-reunion criticisms.

I extended an invitation to all interested parties to meet to discuss their ideas, argue for my original concept and gain some sort of consensus going forward. In the end, nine people attended. At the conclusion of the meeting, my ideas were supported and embraced overall with the added benefit of additional support in implementing the reunion. We will be having a reception at Phillips Gallery in Salt Lake City on a Friday night in August. There will be hors d'oeuvres, drinks and an open bar. My main conceit is that nobody likes a sit-down dinner with an exorbitant price as a venue for a reunion. Primarily, people just want to visit, move about freely and re-connect with old friends. A reception in a nice setting provides just such an opportunity. Classmates need only show-up, pay the admission price and visit to their heart's content.

I did have difficulties during the initial planning session. Everybody wanted to catch-up and as mentioned, some had opposing views regarding the reunion. It was aggravating for me. When I complained to a friend, she asked me why I would volunteer to spearhead the reunion. I wasn't particularly popular. Truth be told, I was pretty much under the radar. I didn't form a lot of friendships and those friendships that I did form have not particularly endured over the years.

I suppose my motivations are numerous. As mentioned above, there is the atonement thing. I feel badly that the main criticism for the last reunion was directly attributable to me. Perhaps another motivation is to attempt a "do-over" of my time in high school. I never felt like I took full advantage of the social and enjoyable possibilities back then, hampered by my massive insecurities and shyness. Perhaps it is a nice distraction from my recent diagnosis of prostate cancer while I decide upon what course of treatment to ultimately undergo. Perhaps it is just the enjoyment of planning a social event. It is oddly stimulating, amusing and fulfilling to me. (Somehow working on the reunion has brought me back to that scrawny, shy high school kid. I LIKE that kid even though he may not have liked himself very much back then. I feel more complete, more whole - myself re-invented. I am the product of all of my experiences and I have re-animated that more vulnerable, insecure part of me that also possessed more hope, more optimism and wonder. I am younger, less cynical, more joyful.)

Whatever the reason for engaging in the planning of my reunion though, I AM having a good time and I'm confident that a good time will be had by all.

conspicuous consumerism: my single-handed attempt to buoy the U.S. economy

"What do you want for Father's Day?" Joni asked me a few days ago. I'm not sure how this tradition of giving presents to each other on Mother's Day and Father's Day began between us. This ritual continually perplexes me. Joni is not my mother, nor am I her father. Logically, it may have begun when Joni was pregnant with Marissa, our daughter, but I vaguely recall it began earlier than that. Who am I to argue with an opportunity for a gift though? Joni knows I always want SOMETHING and that the path of least resistance is to just ask. We're both much happier that way. I have to interject though that she rarely reciprocates. When I ask her what she wants, she shrugs, "Surprise me," she inevitably responds, which puts tremendous pressure upon me until the ceremonial unwrapping. Usually she's pleased with my efforts, but believe me, if she is not, she cannot disguise her disappointment . . . But I digress.

As always, I make a mental note of our financial circumstances and gauge how much I feel we can afford to spend this time around. Father's Day is a more trivial "holiday" so I never go for the big ticket items. No, such things are best requested around Christmas. But, I always covet items in a broad price range for just such occasions. This year I have opted for a Flash USB Swiss Army Knife. This handy little device sports the small blade, the scissors, the fingernail file, LED flashlight, pen and a USB flash drive (8GB. It also comes in 4GB and 16GB sizes). It comes in around $75 on Amazon.com, my go-to shopping mall in cyberspace.

I recognize that there is something unseemly about my acquisitiveness and believe me, I have tried for many years to curtail it. I was extremely successful when I was laid off from AT&T (after 23 years, but don't get me started!). Necessity is a wonderful motivator. As an example, my doctor recently ordered me to lose weight due to issues that could escalate. Nothing serious, your usual pre-diabetes potential, high blood pressure, elevating cholesterol, etc. Yes, I'm a mess! Thank you very much! Vanity used to serve as a motivator to keep my weight down to some extent, but conspicuous consumption is my disease of choice and it extends into all aspects of my life. So I was losing (which means gaining weight) on that front as well. Now, happily, I am trimmer than I have been in years. Necessity is a cruel but effective master. But again, I digress.

Some years have passed since my layoff from AT&T and we have equalized our income to a relatively stable point (thanks, primarily to Joni. God bless her Yale Law School education). So needless to say, my bad habits have returned. I can attest that my purchases occur less often and at a much scaled-down rate, so I suppose I am making some progress. I recognize I have a problem and they say recognition is the beginning of the road to recovery. I often joke that I am simply trying to do my share to stimulate the U.S. economy through my purchases, but let's face it, I often feel guilty at any indulgences.

The two indulgences I don't regret in my life however (and these are big ones, mind you), are my Audi TT and my Steinway Grand Piano. I have coveted the TT from the moment it was unveiled to the public in 1999. To me, it is the standard of automobile design excellence, maintaining an integrity of design that is evident in every detail down to the door handles. I have the privilege of driving this design masterpiece to and from work every day.

And the Steinway, well it was not my idea to purchase it so I can plead a certain amount of innocence in ultimately becoming a proud owner. Joni had a friend who was encountering some financial setbacks and thus offered her the piano at a very reasonable price. The piano was in desperate need of rehabilitation, but even with those costs factored in, it was a bargain. Just as I smile contentedly driving my TT, so too, do I smile whenever I sit down to play a tune on my piano.

Yes, I have mixed feelings about my capitalistic ways. I suppose I should just get over those feelings of guilt. We spend our money how we choose to spend it. Some opt for drugs, some for lavish homes. Some, many, are not as fortunate. Overall, I guess I should just be thankful that I do have disposable income available. I am grateful that I have a roof over my head, that I don't have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. Yes, there are many people who are far more fortunate than I am, but there are many who are far less fortunate as well. Even more importantly, I have to conclude (as I process this through this writing) we have to be thankful for all of our blessings and not for just the material things. The idea that our possessions can be taken from us in an instant is evident in the news photos of events like the various tsunamis, and tornadoes that have recently transpired. "Things" wear out, are destroyed, become obsolete.

The truly important aspects of our life are not the material objects. They are the relationships we form, the way we live our life, the manner in which we share our journey. I am blessed with a wife who loves me, a beautiful, intelligent daughter, and an overall happy life. The TT and the Steinway are nice little embellishments, but in a fire, they can burn. It would be my wife and daughter I would be saving.

quantum computing: the means to prove "alternate universes"

In this week's issue of The New Yorker, an article by Rivka Galchen, entitled "Dream Machine," chronicles the theories of David Deutsch, a quantum physicist. Deutsch believes that, and this is important as it lays the foundation of quantum mechanics, "particles can be in two places at once, a quality called superposition; that two particles can be related, or 'entangled,' such that they can instantly coordinate their properties, regardless of their distance in space and time; and that when we look at particles, we unavoidably alter them." Incidentally, Albert "Einstein found entanglement particularly troubling, denigrating it as a 'spooky action at a distance.'"

Bear with me here as I backtrack a little. In 1957, Hugh Everett, another physicist, postulated that "every time there is more than one possible outcome, all of them occur. So if a radioactive atom might or might not decay at any given second, it both does and doesn't; in one universe it does, and in another it doesn't. These small branchings of possibility then ripple out until everything that is possible in fact is. According to Many Worlds (the name given to the alternate universe) theory, instead of a single history there are in-numerable branchings. In one universe your cat has died, in another he hasn't, in a third you died in a sledding accident at age seven and never put your cat in the box in the first place, and so on."

In Many Worlds theory, the strangeness of superposition is simply "the phenomenon of physical variables having different values in different universes." Thus the entanglement (also referred to as superposition) that bothered Einstein, is resolved. Information between two particles separated by space and time "still spreads through direct contact - the 'ordinary' way; it's just we need to adjust to that contact being via the tangencies of abutting universes. As a further bonus, in Many Words theory randomness goes away, too. A ten-percent chance of an atom decaying is not arbitrary at all, but rather refers to the certainty that the atom will decay in ten-percent of the universes branched from that point."

Deutsch postulates that a quantum computer, fundamentally different from the ones we presently employ, could help prove the existence of Many Worlds. "A quantum computer is in many ways like a regular computer, but instead of bits it uses qubits. Each qubit can be zero or one, like a bit, but a qubit can also be zero AND one - the quantum-mechanical quirk known as superposition." "Superposition is like Freud's description of true amblivalence: not feeling unsure, but feeling opposing extremes of conviction at once. And, just as ambivalence holds more information than any single emotion, a qubit holds more information than a bit."

"Entangled particles have a kind of E.S.P.: regardless of distance, they can instantly share information that an observer cannot even perceive is there. Input into a quantum computer can thus be dispersed among entangled qubits, which lets the processing of that information be spread out as well; tell one particle something, and it can instantly spread the word among all the other particles with which it's entangled."

Ultimately, "entangled particles would function as paths of communication among different universes, sharing information and gathering the results. " While it is technically difficult to produce a quantum computer (for reasons too technical for me to even begin to understand, let alone explain), attempts ARE being made. A Yale team has constructed one that is built on a two-qubit architecture. Qubits chips are incredibly difficult to manufacture but once techniques are developed, more and more qubits can be incorporated, ultimately leading to a computer dreamed of by Deutsch. The present computer can calculate with 80% accuracy, which of four randomly dealt cards has the queen. Such is the potential power of a quantum computer.

Personally, without the solid background of quantum physics in my repertoire, I BELIEVE in the Many Worlds theory. Call it intuitive or just a leap of faith, I just KNOW there are infinite possibilities that exist out there and that my multiple selves are pursuing each and every one of them.

the "C" word

Last month I received the disheartening news that I had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Due to my regular visits to the doctor, thankfully, I am in the very early stages. Statistically this bodes well. Based on a biopsy, my doctor estimates the cancer resides in less than 5% of my prostate, confined presently to one side. It is presumed to be a very slow growing malignancy based upon the degree of cell differentiation (usually a fairly good indicator) identified in my biopsy sample. There is approximately a 20% chance (depending upon the books you read) that the cancer is more pervasive and/or has migrated outside of the prostate, which could be bad. Typically prostate cancer spreads first to the lymph nodes, then to the bones. This is of course the worst case scenario. I'm still in denial so I'm feeling relatively calm about the whole thing, but the full realization is slowly taking hold and thus this post which is allowing me to process all of this information. Thus far my research has pointed to one of two possible options (I've pretty much ruled out any radiation therapy): surgery to remove my prostate (which offers two options of its own) or a strategy called watchful waiting.

The surgical option is fairly straightforward. I can have the doctor cut me open and remove the prostate or he can perform this operation via a robotic arm known as the DaVinci method (a nice sounding name undoubtedly chosen for the implication that it is a combination of science and art). Or instead, I can opt to wait. This option entails monitoring the growth (or lack thereof since it is typically a slow growing cancer) every 3 months via a blood test, augmented by a biopsy at the year mark. The reason to employ the watchful waiting strategy is to forestall surgery until the cancer "needs" to be addressed. Why wait? Well, the possible side-effects of surgery are incontinence and/or impotence, both quality of life issues, BIG quality of life issues for most, if not ALL men, I daresay. HOWEVER, quality of life issues don't count for much if you're dead (really, a minimal prospect at this point).

A number of factors need to be considered in making the decision over which course of action to pursue. Age (and this is a big one for me), the presumed aggressiveness of the cancer, the present (again presumed) extent of the cancer and other mitigating circumstances such as physical health, previous surgical history, etc. If the diagnosed patient is older, say in his 70s or 80s, odds are that other factors will intervene to kill the patient before the prostate cancer does. Plus, at this age, surgery becomes less viable due to the body's diminished ability to recover, etc.

However, if the cancer is diagnosed in a younger man such as myself (well, it's all relative - at my age, I'm on the "younger" side of the spectrum) the prospect of surgery becomes much more viable. It's important to remove the cancer before it has the chance to spread in this instance. Also, a younger man has a better prospect of recovery (especially as it pertains to the potential incontinence complication, and a somewhat positive hopeful outcome with that "other" issue).

At this point, I'm heavily leaning towards the surgical option most likely employing the DaVinci method. I continue to read all of the literature available to me, primarily to educate myself about all of the pros and cons and to equip myself with the knowledge to ask the right questions as I seek the right surgeon for the job. In the meantime, I'm eating better, exercising regularly and working at losing some of my excess weight. All of the books I've read thus far have recommended these steps as an overall strategy to prevent and minimize the risks of cancer. Perhaps with this as a motivation versus the old one of just plain vanity, I can maintain a healthier lifestyle. After all, I do plan on sticking around for a long time.

fireflies

I had never seen a firefly until I was about thirty years-old. I was in Tennessee to attend the wedding of my brother-in-law and we were having a barbecue in the backyard of a fine Southern home that overlooked a lake. It was dusk when the dancing, magical lights appeared around us, little flickers of light that glowed briefly, disappeared, then reappeared in a delightful display of playfulness inspired by the courtship behavior of these beetle-related insects. It was like a Disney movie come to life. Sadly, more than ten years passed before I was to see them again.

My next encounter with these creatures transpired when we moved to Connecticut for Joni to attend Yale Law School. I had rented a condominium for us in the small blue-collar town of Wallingford, ideally positioned between New Haven, where Yale is located and Farmington, where my new office was based. The condominium complex bordered a golf course that was on the outskirts of the town proper. From the freeway exit, we had to traverse largely undeveloped land to get to our condo. There was a small wooded area where the road bisected a pond filled with peepers and of course, fireflies. At night, the pond area looked as though it had been strung with hundreds of tiny blinking lights. The water of the pond reflected those lights doubling the effect, creating the illusion of floating inside a small universe of animated stars.

Another amazing firefly sighting occurred as we drove to Spartanburg, So. Carolina one night. The fireflies hovered above car level on the unlit freeway. They appeared as streams of light much like the depiction of jumping into hyperspace in the Star Wars movies. Their contrails surrounded us as we sped quietly through the night.

in memories or dreams

I've had some rare experiences that now remain but are somewhat faded or obscured by my previously mentioned failing memory casting doubts on whether these experiences were really memories or just dreams. One such instance occurred while on a trip in Colorado. Although based in Denver, I recall we had wandered miles from the city to sample some of the more remote outlying areas. It was late in the day and I had a terrible headache. We had miles to go to return to Denver and we were heading through a mountainous area. Joni, my wife, had fallen asleep next to me. The car labored perceptibly as it climbed the ascending grade of the road. A fog had somehow risen almost in perfect rhythm to the setting sun. And then it happened. Suddenly, in the middle of the road was a wild burro. I had to step on the brake and swerve to avoid hitting it. It had just appeared from the swirling fog. I continued down the road, now creeping slowly and there on my left was another, then two. More appeared to my right and I could suddenly see I was amidst a herd of wild burros who stood calmly like statues placed randomly for some kind of quirky exhibition. They were neither disturbed nor remotely interested in the presence of the car moving among them. We could have been invisible to them for the total lack of reaction we elicited. I followed the road as the almost mythical creatures surrounded us in that swatch of billowing fog. And then it was over. I had passed through them and the road began to descend, the fog disappearing slowly as it thinned out into first wisps, then nothing.

Recently I asked Joni if she remembered that incident, but of course she did not. She had remained in a peaceful state of sleep throughout that portion of the drive home. She could not validate whether that magical moment had actually occurred or whether it was just a dream. I'm almost sure it had happened. I would not have dreamed of wild burros appearing in the midst of a mysterious fog on a lonely mountain road in Colorado at dusk. It does not seem like something that my subconscious would ever conjure up . . . or would it?

design - the aston martin one-77

The limited edition (to 77) Aston Martin One-77. Need I say more?

lost in translation - an update

I successfully received my Digital Holga from my friend in Japan, one week after the confirmation of shipment notification. The camera is befitting the Digital Holga moniker as it is constructed of cheap plastic and exhibits the same featherweight heft (or lack thereof) of the original Holga. It is much more compact however, and boasts an impressive array of features comparable to most of the digital point and shoots on the market. Primarily, it has the LCD viewing screen on the back with a respectable amount of adjustable settings accessed via the menu function. Regrettably, the image quality is quite good for a plastic lens. Damn technology! Evidently, gone are the days of mediocrity (at least, as far as cheap optics are concerned). Below is the first image taken with the Digital Holga.

Besides adjusting the color rendition (everything seems to have a greenish-cast), the image is pretty much intact. I did create a sepia version of the image which looks pretty nice, but again, the quality is superior to that of a Holga.

The camera thus falls in a perplexing twilight zone between "acceptable quality" digital and "excessively high quality" plastic camera imagery. I'll have to assess how to utilize my new toy to its maximum creative potential. I may either degrade the quality of the image with an application of Vaseline to the lens, which would not be a problem but for the beautiful reddish lens coating that screams "don't mess with me!" or instead, apply some trickery during the post processing stage. I'm leaning towards the former solution. If successful, I'll of course share the resulting images with all of you. After all, there's nothing better than a poor quality image.

faded photographs

I caught a snippet of an interview with Nora Ephron on NPR recently, discussing her book I Remember Nothing, in which she humorously shared the middle-aged phenomenon of a failing memory. She joked how grateful she was that we had the internet and Google to help us remember things we had forgotten. Don't laugh. I almost had to Google, "Sleepless in Seattle" to recapture Nora Ephron's name for this entry. Thankfully, some of the old synapses are still firing, so I was able to summon her name before heading for the iMac.

I can attest that Nora's experience is not isolated. Many of my friends have lapses during our conversations as they struggle to remember a name, a phrase, whatever. I, too have my lapses and an eavesdropper nearby would laugh at the stuttering silence that punctuates, no dominates many of our exchanges.

This reality was no more evident than during an encounter I had a while ago with an old girlfriend. She held memories of our past that I honestly had no memory of. Either she had fabricated them from a mixture of past events that did not involve me, or worse yet, that DID involve me but had slipped through the ever deteriorating neural net of my aging brain. Facing the choices, regardless of what the truth might be, I prefer to think the fault was hers. "Do you remember when . . . " she began many times during that encounter. I would suppress any outward manifestations of the wince that would invariably accompany this opening phrase. "Yes," I agreed much too quickly, far in advance of the memories she would relate. She would continue with her story, ignoring my ill-timed response. I would listen in horror to yet another unfamiliar story. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed for her or for me. When she completed her latest story, she looked at me expectantly, prompting me for a reassuring response of shared memories. "I remember everything that happened between us." I responded.

communion

In Austin, Texas, Amy's Ice Cream is the local favorite for enjoying a good old-fashioned ice cream cone, boasting a selection of over 100 flavors. Naturally this was a designated stop in our carefully planned itinerary when we recently visited this city for the first time.

We had arrived at dusk and began our wait in the small line, anxious for a sampling of the local culinary favorite. Behind me was a boy of about 5 or 6 years-old with his father. "Look," the boy said to me as I glanced at him. He proudly held up a twenty-dollar bill that his father had obviously given him to enable the boy to conduct the entire transaction on his own. "Do you have one of these?" He asked me. I produced a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. "Yes, I have one too!" I exclaimed as I held it out stretched between both hands in the very same prideful way he displayed his. It matched his in its crispness and pristine condition. Two Andrew Jacksons stared warily at each other. He leaned forward to carefully assess my bill. "Hey, I have an idea," I said as I knelt down to face him Mano-a-Mano. "why don't we trade?" He looked pensive for a moment weighing whether this was a good idea or not. He evidently decided it was an acceptable proposition. "OK!" he said nodding. He slowly wrapped his fingers around my bill, allowing me to do the same so we could execute the exchange simultaneously. As we both released our original bills, the boy's father laughed aloud. The boy and I smiled at each other with delight.

As we looked at our newly-acquired bills, we both recognized that something more significant than a mere transaction had just transpired. Monetarily, we had neither lost nor gained anything, but psychologically we had both benefitted. A communion had occurred. We had made a connection, symbolically offering ourselves to each other and accepting this "gift," this token of our commonality and humanity, celebrating the shared experience we had jointly created at that particular time and place . And then, just as quickly as it had happened, the moment passed, and we waved goodbye to each other, licking our ice cream cones as we parted.

lost in translation

I recently discovered a new website www.thefancy.com. It features products ranging from automobiles to clothing, all selected for their innovative designs and unique esthetics. In short, it is the perfect vehicle to fuel my passion for conspicuous consumerism. Every day I anxiously visit the site to discover what new item I don't necessarily need but must have. I am Imelda Marcos in a shoe store. Thanks to fancy.com I came to realize that I had a long buried desire for watchmaker vials filled with tiny animal bones. And how could I know I wanted a miniature replica of the human heart cast in glass in a tiny bottle had I not seen it on thefancy website?

But, and here's the entree into the crux of this blog, my latest object of desire found on thefancy is a camera dubbed as the "Digital Holga." For those of you unfamiliar with the Holga, it is a plastic camera that replaced yet another plastic camera, famously known as the Diana. These cameras were prized for their mediocrity. Both sported plastic lenses that produced inferior images due to the poor optical quality of plastic versus glass. Both were notorious for their light leaks, often causing unwanted and unpredictable streaks of light across the final photographic images. Plastic cameras enjoyed (and still do) a cult following. The theory of shooting with a plastic camera is that any photographer can take exceptional photos with today's cameras.

Technologically, these cameras are capable of focusing and calculating the proper exposure settings (even recognizing when a person is smiling to trigger the shutter at that precise moment) for the photographer, essentially requiring him or her to simply point and shoot. Is it any wonder then, that the proliferation of images on the web on sites like Flickr continues to flourish exponentially? And, as a self-proclaimed discerning photographer, most of these images are "commonplace" lacking any artistic merit. But I digress.

The challenge and allure of plastic cameras is that only very skilled photographers can produce spectacular results with these crude and unpredictable tools. The concept is that abandoning a certain amount of control to the happenstance nature of cheap plastic cameras and concentrating on composition and the choice of subject matter is what distinguishes the true photographic artist from the rest of the pack. With today's digital technology and the gradual demise of film, many photographers have hoped for a digital alternative to the plastic cameras. As a result, a market for odd products targeted at this niche has emerged. Plastic lenses are now available to mount on digital SLRs as are specially constructed lenses like the Lensbaby, to produce out-of-focus, dream-like images that closely replicate the images of plastic cameras.

And thus my latest thefancy.com find. A camera produced under the Yashica name (an established brand-name that was abandoned when the company shut down, but was recently resurrected by another company that essentially bought the name) has recently been dubbed the "Digital Holga." The camera boasts a plastic lens and a plastic body like the Holga, while incorporating digital technology. Also, similar to the Holga, it offers a limited focus range, allowing you to set the lens to close-up or normal. But, sadly, it does not produce images akin to the Holga (which even though mediocre, was also a disappointment to me over the Diana as it produced relatively sharp photos, requiring an occasional smear of Vaseline in the lens to degrade its optical qualities).

The Yashica appears to produce better images than the Holga in spite of its plastic lens. The contrast is good (which is bad), the resolution is respectable (5 megapixels, which admittedly is small compared to the latest batch of digital point and shoots, but hey, the iPhone 4 is currently a 5 megapixel camera) and the build of the camera, though plastic appears to be relatively solid. So why my desire to possess this baby? It LOOKS like cameras produced in the 1960s and 70s (a la the Canon Canonet featured in John Water's move "Pecker," and yes, I have not one but three of these).

Specifically, it has an optical viewfinder, you know, those little windows you used to look through to take a photo versus the screens on the back. It is relatively compact and it does seem to lack a lot of the sophistication of today's cameras. At a cost of $75, with an insatiable desire to augment my already too large collection, I simply had to have it. Complicating matters however, is the fact that this camera is only available for purchase in Japan. Thanks to the power of Google though, this is an obstacle easily overcome.

I located a vendor that sells the camera, ordered it via the website and anxiously awaited my order confirmation and shipping confirmation. Interestingly, I thought all Japanese citizens had adopted English as their second language. This is not the case. Following is my e-mail correspondence with the store owner in Japan:

Thank you indeed for using our shop at this time. Because the carriage was paid, I will report the product ordered though much more rough price. Please continue your favors toward "order continuance" and reported externals when the carriage is confirmed and consented though is time. Whether sending out is possible by our shop on that will be examined and I will obtain it from the manufacturer. Please let me cancel the order when indeed I am sorry, there is no report. Until February 15.

My response:

I'm sorry. I don't understand. You must check with the manufacturer to see if it is available? Are you saying if it is not, you will cancel the order? Is the price firm or are you saying it is an estimate at this time? And what happens on February 15th? Thank you for contacting me. Is there anything I can do to make our e-mails easier for both of us to understand?

His response:

Having reported becomes the following content. Confirmation of carriage. Please contact me, saying that "Approval" when you can get to acknowledgement.

My response: OK. I will send approval when I receive the acknowledgement. I assume the acknowledgement will be via e-mail through the confirmation message.

So, I THINK I'm getting the camera sometime soon. It remains to be seen. I later discovered I could have ordered the camera through Amazon.com of Japan, which would have been much easier overall as I assume somebody with a command of the English language would have contacted me with the necessary details, etc. But, in retrospect, where is the fun in that? I figure if I DO receive the camera, I'll have earned it in way that goes beyond just charging it to my credit card. I've now had the opportunity to attempt to communicate with a man from my ancestral homeland with one of the most fundamental of interactions, the business transaction. Perhaps when I receive my camera, I can send him a thank you, encourage continued dialogue and who knows, maybe we can even become penpals?

joan

My mother-in-law cried the first time she met me. As I extended my hand to shake hers, she dropped her head into her cupped hands and cried. I had started to say, “It’s nice to . . .” but didn’t bother to finish my salutation at her reaction. Honestly, my first inclination in response to this behavior was to laugh, but I suppressed it in view of her obvious pain. Why did she react this way? Simply put, my mother-in-law is a bigot. She threatened to disown my wife upon hearing that I was of Japanese descent. She ranted that while she would welcome my wife’s visits to her home at any time, she would not allow me in the house. She would not share any of her prized recipes with my wife because she did not want me eating her favorite foods. Nobody would sell us a house because of our “mixed-marriage” status. Our only option would be to move to Hawaii, the ONLY place we could buy a home. Our marriage would ultimately end in failure due to our cultural differences. (Mind you, my family had been true-blood American for three generations) She continued that after all, the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, further validation of our duplicitous and evil ways. We were obviously a race undeserving of trust or consideration.

Yet, I love my mother-in-law. I’m not being facetious or ironic here. Over the years, I’ve come to understand her and in some ways, respect her. While she is horribly racist (she voted for a Republican presidential candidate for the first time in her life because President Obama is black), she is unashamedly open about it. (Contrast that to my father-in-law, who feels the same way, but knows it is politically incorrect to openly state this.) Yes, it is appalling, but as Joni (bless her heart, she married me in spite of all the protestations and rantings of her parents) has often stated, no arguments or rational discourse will ever change that. She will go to her grave clutching her beliefs steadfastly to her heart. My mother-in-law is, like all of us, multi-layered. We all have our own flaws, our own demons, but we also share the need to be respected and loved (ideally unconditionally).

Since our marriage, my mother-in-law has gone on to alienate the spouses of all of her other six children and indeed, some of her own children along the way. She called the wife of one of her sons a “hoar” (we presume she meant “whore”) in a letter she wrote to that daughter-in-law. She directly accused one of her granddaughters of being a thief and a liar on the telephone when one of my mother-in-law’s possessions in her Park City condo went missing immediately after a visit by that branch of our family. Such stories continue to circulate and are recounted many times whenever any of us congregate.

But, my mother-in-law is in the twilight of her years. She recently told me she did not anticipate being around for another year, a statement that surprised and saddened me. She is in a combative relationship with her husband who holds little sympathy for her failing health and treats her with open disdain. This has gone on since and even before that memorable first encounter I had with her in the Denver Stapleton Airport. She seems largely ignored by her own children who all live conveniently in other states, except one who is kept busy and inattentive by the demands of his own business. She is in constant pain, has little mobility and has become increasingly dependent upon her husband in the isolation of their Colorado environs. She is lonely, isolated and unable to enjoy what few pleasures are left, in particular, her fondness for good food as it has become next to impossible for her to cook. Hence the bridge that has allowed us to form our special mother-in-law/son-in-law bond.

I KNOW she enjoys her food. She is a discerning judge of what is good and what is not. She has become the external validation to my escalating passion for preparing and experimenting with food. As I’ve mentioned before, for me, preparing food for somebody is the ultimate expression of love and friendship. You are nurturing and caring for somebody in the most fundamental way, by feeding them. At the completion of a meal, I anxiously await her pronouncement of the success or failure of my efforts. Typically, I don’t have to wait for this ultimate assessment as it becomes obvious at her first few bites of each dish. She will smile involuntarily as she looks down at the dish in front of her if it is an unabashed success. She will frown if it is not. If it is especially good, she cannot help but utter, “Delicious!” in an enthusiastic voice. Lately, she has offered only praise, but it seems more tempered. Joni suggests that the quality of my cooking has improved to the point that “delicious” is the norm and my mother-in-law has become accustomed to this level of preparation. I’m not sure that this is accurate, but if it is, I still hang on for the “delicious” pronouncement which seems to occur with less frequency (even though I’ve taken to impressing myself a lot lately with the quality of my dishes).

I can tell you though, that upon departing from one of our meals, my mother-in-law often tears up and hugs me with some statement like, “You’re a good man.” This is not to be taken lightly. She has not manifested similar behavior with any of the other in-laws. After that day in the airport so many years ago, I have elevated myself to the unrivalled status of favorite in-law, in spite of my racial roots. I like that. I’m happy to be accorded this status. I care about this woman and worry about her welfare. I hope she does not leave this world with sadness or isolation. I hope she is wrong and that this will not be her last year here. I want to cook her yet another Thanksgiving dinner, which is easily her favorite meal each year. For many years now, Thanksgiving is a given between us. She has an open invitation to come to Salt Lake City to share in this family tradition. I can honestly say, Thanksgiving would not be the same without her presence. Oh, and did I mention that each year, our Thanksgiving dinner consists of food prepared according to her most prized recipes?

in the comfort of a Christmas Tree

Today I had lunch with a friend I had lost contact with. He had just been laid off ("surplused" is the corporate term) from his job of 15 years. He was given ample warning to enable him to use the company's resources to seek another job within the corporate ranks or if necessary, elsewhere. During this process, he was diagnosed with cancer. Luckily, it was diagnosed at Stage 1. He was given several options, but his best choice was to undergo surgery to have the cancerous area removed. He opted for the surgery in November and has since recovered and is now fine. (A side note, he recovered in time to work for two weeks before he was forced out the doors.) As he recounted this experience with me, I asked him casually if he had gained a new perspective on life. In response, he began crying. I felt horrible, but he told me the entire experience was still a little close to him. He told me he cried when he and his partner were taking down their Christmas tree a few days ago. His partner was surprised by his outburst of emotion and asked him what was WRONG with him. My friend responded, "While I was recovering, I spent a lot of time lying on the couch watching Judge Judy and staring at that Christmas Tree. That tree with all of its ornaments and twinkling lights gave me solace and comfort. To dismantle it makes me very sad."

new year's resolutions - 2011

Damn! See "new year's resolutions" January 2010.