the windmills I don't mind

One big step toward retirement today. I transferred one of my major speaking projects to colleagues.


Every quarter, we present a summary of the administrative and appellate cases to our company's adjusters. It is one of my favorite parts of my job. It lets me write and perform -- in addition to passing along information to my fellow workers.


We present four sessions -- two on Thursday, two on Friday. We just finished up the last presentation. That means I will never be doing that function again -- ever.


I thought I would feel a bit melancholy about giving up something I liked so much. But I don't -- I don't even feel sentimental. Maybe a little. Somewhere between the neighbor's goldfish dieing and forgetting Kim Jong-il's birthday.


But I did get something valuable out of the transfer. My colleagues brought in two pies -- apple and pumpkin -- to celebrate this small part of my retirement. The gesture was extremely thoughtful; and the pie was tasty.


Who could ask for anything more than that?

one step backward

While the rest of us were a bit self-absorbed by the American elections, Mexico suffered a major tragedy.


Juan Camilo Mouriño, the Interior Secretary, and José Luis Santiago Vasconcelos, a former deputy attorney general and key adviser to President Calderón on the drug war, were on board a small jet that crashed in the very posh area of Polanco in Mexico City. There were also numerous deaths on the ground because the plane crashed amongst rush hour traffic.


Of course, the rumors began immediately -- the most obvious that the drug cartels had taken revenge on leaders in the war on drugs. Other speculation is even more alarming in its possibilities.


Early reports, though, indicate that the crash was an accident -- even though all possibilities will be left open for investigation.


No one can really count on the full truth being discovered -- or, of it is, that it will ever be publicly disclosed.


But there can be no doubt that the Calderón administration will be severely damaged by the loss of these two men. Secretary Mouriño had been touted as President Calderón's successor.


If this was the work of the cartels, Mexico is running the risk of slipping closer to becoming the next Colombia. We can hope that is not the case.


My prayers are with the Mexican people. Americans are celebrating the possibility of hope. I hope our Mexican neighbors will not have it ripped out of their hands.


Gary Dennes of Mexile and Jennifer Rose of Staring at Strangers have added their voices to this discussion.


Note: It appears that the jet crashed in Lomas de Chapultepec, rather than Polanco.

victory lap for the winner

Beth and I had a great time at the Capitol Steps last night. Two years ago, on election night, the same crowd was surly and just a bit mean-spirited, even though their candidates were sweeping into power in Congress.


Last night was a different world. I would estimate that 90% of the audience were of a like political mind. But they laughed at all of the jokes -- even those at their own expense. (If there were any John Edwards supporters in the audience, they may not have been laughing very hard.)


And I hope I know why. Last month, in feasting without grace, I noted that, over ten years ago, Peggy Noonan wrote in Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness:

Young black men will save our country. I'm not sure completely what I mean by this but--they're tough and smart and know how to survive...

I received several email after I posted the comment noting it was, at best, offensive; at worst, racist. In support, each email listed the number of African-American politicians who have been utter failures.


Those readers missed the point, I think. Most politicians, who fail, fail because they act like politicians, rather than leaders. Race has nothing to do with that type of moral failure. Politicians tend to be equal opportunity thieves.


As of last night, Peggy Noonan's prediction may come true. At least, there will be a chance for it to come true.


I wish President-elect Obama the best of luck. He is going to have the benefit of high hopes and the drag of high expectations. That is best symbolized by the fact that a candidate who ran as a post-racial nominee is being acclaimed for the one aspect of his personality that he claimed was the least important: his race.


Last night he talked about the fact that American was strong because governmental power is limited. If he can govern with that same sense of humility, I may finally understand Peggy Noonan's point. For the sake of us all, I hope it will be true.

laughing my way through the ballot

Since 1992, America has been involved in a permanent state of presidential campaigning. Today, will end another round, but not the obsessive campaigning.


There was a time when I would be drafting plans to get to at least five parties to watch election returns tonight. This year will be different.


Elections have become such parodies, I decided to simply surrender any pretense that this election will matter by attending a comedy performance.


OK. A political comedy performance: the Capitol Steps.


For those of you who have not had the pleasure of watching or listening to the Capitol Steps, I suggest that you take a look at (and listen to) their routines on their web site.


Beth (of Minto Dog) and I watched the Capitol Steps in Portland on election night 2006. We each come from different political backgrounds, but we both agreed that Portland Republicans (a species currently listed as endangered) like jokes about Democrats and Republicans. Portland Democrats like jokes about Republicans -- and get a little confused when the show folk say less than congratulatory things about Democrats. After all, the Capitol Steps appear on public radio.


We will give it another shot tonight in Portland -- and see if people can loosen up a bit. My bet is that Sarah Palin's comment to Dick Cheney "I am you -- with lipstick" will get a bigger laugh than "Obama's got no résumé." But we will shall see.


As for me, I intend to laugh my donkey off.

always a band

If I had to pick one literary work to represent what I think best represents American culture, "The Music Man" would rate in the top five.


Meredith Willson presented America, in all of its early twentieth century naiveté, confronting the classic con man. And, being conned, teaches the con man that he really believes in his own dream; that the con is not a con.


Perhaps, one of the most memorable lines in Broadway history is Professor Hill's reassurance to Winthrop: "I always believe there's a band, kid."


Well, I guess I always believe there's a band, as well. Last August, I noted in can't stop the music that I had lost a good deal of interest in music. I had no idea why.


I can now say that music and I have had a reconciliation.


I noticed it in church on Sunday morning.


Those of you who read my blog now and then will know that I attend the Salvation Army church. We have something most churches do not have: a brass band. On Sunday the and played "Amazing Grace" for the offertory.


If there is an unofficial American hymn, it is "Amazing Grace. (And, yes, I know John Newton was English.)


To say that I am not partial to classic hymns is an understatement, but something about the band's arrangement intrigued me.


That afternoon I attended a concert by the Salem Concert Band. Like many small American towns, mine has maintained the tradition of a volunteer concert band that performs in a restored theater.


They usually perform a series of easy-listening band pieces topped off by a more challenging piece for both the audience and the performers. (There is an older fellow who sits behind me who mutters during every performance. "Why don't they play something I know.")


Today's theme was Celtic music. As I sat there listening to the band and the announcements of Irish dance lessons at the VFW hall, I was once again reminded that Salem is not Portland or Seattle or San Francisco, where our celebration of the simple and the familiar would probably be seen as a bit naive.


But I put that thought aside when the Oregon Defence Forces bagpipe band joined the concert band for the concert finale. The second to last selection was "Amazing Grace" -- twice in one day. I got the message someone was telling me something.


I pride myself on being a somewhat sophisticated fellow. I can be a bit sarcastic about simple and familiar things (as if I were one of my cool London friends). But I found myself tearing up while listening to the bagpipes play that familiar tune backed by the full chords of the concert band.


But why? Maybe for the same reason that Anne Lamott noted in her essay "Knocking at Heaven's Gate:

I can't imagine anything but music that could have brought about this alchemy. Maybe it's because music is about as physical as it gets: your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath. We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get any other way.

Maybe. All I know is that whatever happened today, I can say that I always believe there's a band.

what cannot be changed must be endured

For almost a year I have been trying to attach some interesting commentary to this photograph.


If I had the writing skill of Michael Dickson, I would conjure up a tale of bats, corn bread, and the soothing nature of pumpkin-colored paint.


If I had the wit of Richard Lander, I would create a new SMA gang based on the secret signals of star-crossed lovers.


If I had the charm of Babs, I would tell you that the experience of colors should be enjoyed for their own sake.

If I had the photographer eye of Billie, I could tell you how I carefully framed what would be an otherwise incomprehensible jumble of shapes.


If I had the exotic taste and intelligence of Jennifer Rose, I would work in an Chilean dwarf and several political quips.


But I am just simple me -- and nothing like that would come to mind.


For some reason, I kept hearing the nursery rhyme: "And the dish ran away with the spoon." The best I could do was create a short story about Señor broom with his snappy crew cut seeing Señorita mop at the local dance, only to be rebuffed when he asks her to dance.


There is far too much tragedy in that tale. It is just a photograph of a door, a mop, and a broom. And that is good enough for me today.

another season gone

Yesterday morning I woke up to the distinctive sound of tires on wet pavement. During the night, our wondrously dry October had morphed into an Oregon fall.


October was a welcome respite from the usual Oregon jump from late summer directly to rainy season. I spent long walks with the dog. Cleared out the accumulated jumble in the rock wall. Chatted with neighbors. As well as enjoying the opportunity to photographs subjects that only a dry October will provide.


Today I start dealing with the more prosaic aspects of home ownership: fixing leaky faucets, replacing worn light switches, upgrading toilet floats. I saved these indoor chores for gray days like today where I will have enough light to see once I cut the electrical power, but where I will not be tempted to go outside and do battle with the ever-victorious English ivy. (As an aside, the picture at the top is of the Boston ivy that decorates my chimney. It is an ally of the season.)


But now, I must head to Home Depot to start my day.