"Vacation," or "Mom and Dad have lost their minds"

With the exception of our annual autumn trip to Vermont, nearly all of our family vacations have involved trips to see more family. So, there was that week spent in Virginia in early July, and later this week we'll drive down to northern Virginia to spend time at my brother's home and see my parents, who will drive up from the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area. Sure, it'll be fun, and we're even planning a Saturday trip by Metro to Washington and the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum. The kids will love it (and so will I). But as fun as it might be, one can't avoid the extra baggage that one has to "check" with any family visit. That's particularly true in this case because we have my family, my parents and grandmother, and my brother with his wife and kids. (Thankfully, we're not all staying under the same roof. I insisted on staying at a hotel just five minutes from the house. If the kids get crazy we can just throw them in the pool while we soak in the adjacent hot tub.) By Sunday, no doubt the usual family tensions that revolve around politics, religion, and child-rearing practices - held in check behind fresh smiles since Thursday - will resurface. There won't be any nasty fights, but we'll be sick of each other.

Well, god help us. We decided to break the mold and actually go somewhere - a resort - independent of extended family. Figuring we needed a real getaway, we booked into Great Wolf Lodge in the Poconos from August 23rd to the 26th. We'll have three nights and three-and-a-half days of pools, water slides, games, and fun. Normally I'm not the kind of person who looks to a resort for vacation ideas. Recalling my earlier posts you'll realize that I prefer to load up the car and "see the USA in your Chevrolet," to borrow the old Chevy jingle. A vacation is an opportunity to visit historic sites, marvel at scenic drives and natural vistas, while looking for old diners for our meals. Nevertheless, wooed by the siren song of TV commercials, my wife and I decided to abandon family convention and take the resort route. (To see if my younger son was ready for a water park, I took him to Water Country USA when I was in Virginia back in July. He loved it. And so did I. But I have to admit that after eight hours of careening down waterslides, some of them quite steep and fast, I was exhausted and sore. My elbows and knees hurt from the pounding.)

Friends just returned from several days at the resort and they loved it. Even the mom, whom I wouldn't really peg as someone who'd enjoy three days of waterslides, was nuts about the place. Given the rapturous reviews we're hearing, I'm speculating that our biggest difficulty for this trip to Great Wolf will be getting the kids to leave. Hmmmm, I'll have to pick up one of those waterproof throwaway cameras and take pictures for the blog.

Church Architecture, Part 2

These images are of Marble Collegiate Church on 5th Avenue, just a couple of blocks from my office. Marble Collegiate is sometimes cited as the oldest continuous Protestant congregation in the U.S., having been founded in 1628. (I can't confirm the veracity of the claim.) Still, the church is arguably most famous for its long-time association with Norman Vincent Peale, who served as pastor from the mid-1930s until his death in 1993. Note his statue out front, perpetually greeting passers-by. Peale was one of the founders of Guideposts magazine and author of the popular but controversial Power of Positive Thinking, which to some scholars encapsulates the philosophically shallow spirituality of the 1950s.

Peale's ministry aside, Marble Collegiate is a beautiful fixture in this neighborhood. Those ribbons adorning the iron fence? Stretching across the front of the church and down the left side of the church on 29th St., there's a gold ribbon for all U.S. service personnel who have died in Iraq. The blue ribbons represent prayers for Iraqi victims of the conflict and green ribbons represent prayers for peace. It's a pretty impressive display. I'm reminded of Abraham Lincoln's words from 1862:

In great contests, each party claims to act in accordance with the will of God. Both may be, and one must be wrong. God cannot be for and against the same thing at the same time.

Long suspicious of any nation's claims that "god is on our side" in a violent conflict, I'm convinced that god is nowhere to be found in the present war, despite both sides' claims to possess a monopoly on divine support. And as for gold ribbons, let's hope they are translated into votes repudiating the Bush regime's policies.

Self-Portrait - Tired Eye

Do I look tired? After a weekend of playing video games and baseball with the kids, I'm tired. Given a choice, I'd eschew the video games (nearly always sports-themed, since we don't allow "shoot-em-up" games in the house) for a round of catch at the playground. And on Monday, the tightness in my shoulder and arm seems much more rewarding than the carpal tunnel syndrome developing in my hands and wrists thanks to Playstation. But my eyes - green, by the way - my eyes feel sooooo tired after playing the video games. The old adage about TV being "bad for your eyes" . . . It's true.

Summer Cemeteries

When I was a kid we'd often take road trips with my grandfather in his 1963 Ford Galaxy 500, a two-tone behemoth with an aqua-blue body and white roof. A tall man, he would drive with the wide bench-seat pushed way back, his long legs stretched out to reach the pedals, and usually no more than two or three fingers touching the steering wheel with just enough pressure to keep the car in the road. He never drove fast and he never seemed to be in a hurry. Indeed, driving was a pleasurable exercise, something one did for relaxation. Every drive was a Sunday drive, even in a weekday rush hour, and he doubtless angered many motorists who found themselves trapped behind him on a road that did not encourage bold passing across a solid yellow line.

Oddly, many of his drives included stops at cemeteries, a practice for which he was mercilessly criticized by my grandmother. If a cemetery looked interesting from the road, he'd pull in and hop out, leaving any disinterested passengers to roll down the windows and fan themselves. I, however, always followed closely, marching behind him through the aisles of freshly mowed grass and stone markers. Beckley, WV, Gettysburg, PA, Fredericksburg, VA, Boone, NC: I can still recall these and scores of other towns large and small through which we motored, and in which we stopped and sampled their cemeteries, from walled family plots to stark military burial grounds. He'd point out the ornate monuments, the mausoleums, and the simplest of headstones. Who was enjoying the benefits of "perpetual care" and which families had opted instead for overgrown weeds and grass gone to seed to frame their antecedents' graves? (To be honest, I've always thought the unmowed plots had more character, with clover, grass, chicory, dandelions and wildflowers allowed to encircle a plot. It's far prettier than the Wal-Mart-purchased plastic or silk flowers that grace most of the graves, fading and cracking in the sun.)

My grandfather always displayed a particular reverence around the graves of small children and babies, wondering what had taken these souls so early. (As a historian focused on the 19th century, I quickly learned that high childhood mortality was often the norm in an age punctuated by yellow fever, smallpox, scarlet fever, tuberculosis and polio. And my grandfather could always be counted on to tell a story about some cousin or neighbor who had died young, taken by an incurable ailment that now warrants no more than a few minutes with a pediatrician.)

Learning of this habit, one might accuse my grandfather of having possessed an overly morbid personality. That couldn't be farther from the truth, however. He was one of the most jovial persons I ever encountered. And death was not a subject on which he lingered, whether surrounded by headstones or sitting in the comfort of his home. Rather, I think he recognized the natural beauty of cemeteries, the artistry of many monuments, and the poignancy of some of the stories one encountered while stepping carefully from stone to stone. I also think he was perusing these grave sites in the way a tourist samples potential destinations in a travel agent's catalog. What I find disheartening, given his experiences, is the utterly mundane circumstances of his own final resting place. My grandfather now waits out eternity in a nearly treeless "memorial garden" surrounded by bronze urns of fake flowers, his name engraved in a plague bolted to a cement slab on the ground. I'm not suggesting he would have preferred a grandiose monument or elaborately carved stone. A nice view, however, shaded by trees and surrounded by wildflowers would have been perfect and a more accurate reflection of his own interest in natural beauty.

It's no surprise that I inherited his fascination with cemeteries, much to my wife's dismay. And like my grandfather, I'm quick to haul the car off the road if the effort promises an interesting walk through a field of graves, particularly if the stones are from the 18th century or earlier. A headstone's words and the style of its reliefs can say a great deal about how a society in a given age addressed death and eternity. In coastal Massachusetts, early 17th century Puritan stones, for example, often reveal a display of skulls and even demons, torments for the souls of the damned. Their gruesome symbolism reflected the Puritans' Calvinist belief in the uncertainty of one's salvation under a system that preached the predestination of each soul.

Thankfully, my boys are beginning to understand the appeal of a cemetery walk and happily follow me on my jaunts. Honestly, I'm no more morbid than anyone else. Nor do I think that these cemeteries possess the animate spirits of our forbears, at least not spirits that have any interest in the comings and goings of the mortal. If present, these spirits are more likely akin to those that populate the cemetery on the hill overlooking Grovers Corners in Thornton Wilder's Our Town. They've long since lost interest in us, the living, and are focused on the eternal, according to Wilder's Stage Manager. It's at once both a comforting and unsettling vision of death. Nevertheless, I'll continue to visit cemeteries, remembering my grandfather's legacy and passing it along to my sons.

Church Architecture

A couple of days ago I noted how I rather distrust established church ritual and bureaucratic structures. Nevertheless, I love church architecture, perhaps because these physical edifices will often outlive the institutions themselves. When I travel, I'm prone to yanking the car off the road for interesting churches, particularly when those structures are from the 18th and 19th centuries, or represent the focal point of a community.

Indeed, one can learn a great deal about a town and its residents from the kinds of churches it builds. What are its priorities? Along what socio-economic fault lines is the community divided? How prosperous is a community and what's the source of that success (or failure)? What are their aesthetic sensibilities? Churches often function as the physical raiment with which a community adorns itself for the rest of the world's judgment. "Look at us," a church can say, "we're a spiritual, god-fearing people who have constructed this church to the glory of god." Of course, it's also about the glory of the people who had the church built. This was certainly true in medieval Europe when towns and cities actually competed with each other to see who could construct the largest cathedral, the tallest towers, the most robust buttresses, and the most expansive stained-glass windows.

Perhaps oddly, favorite church destinations for me are the abbey ruins that dot the English landscape, a legacy of the Henrician Reformation and the dismantling of England's Catholic hierarchy. These empty shells - like my favorite, Fountains Abbey in the Yorkshire Dales - speak volumes about the strength of the medieval church and its rapid demise thanks to Henry's matrimonial and geo-political designs. I'm also fascinated by those more ancient religious edifices - Iona, for example - that chronicle the history of Christianity's introduction to Britain in the 6th century. There's something to be said for the fortitude required to pile heavy stones into an abbey on the edge of civilization in an age in which civilization itself held on by a meager thread.

Here in New York City, however, we obviously don't have those ancient points of reference. Still, we do have a host of architectural gems, Trinity Church being the most famous. Grace Church (Episcopal), pictured here, was founded in the early 19th century, although this Gothic Revival complex wasn't completed until 1846. I was attending a barbecue on the church grounds last night, hence the photos. The interior is pretty spectacular, particularly the stained glass. There's even a memorial on one wall to parishioners who went down on the Titanic. Sitting on Broadway just below Union Square, it's a popular stop for tourists in the neighborhood.

Movie Review: "Shopgirl"

Last night my wife and I finally got around to watching Shopgirl, based on Steve Martin's novella of the same title. This is one of those movies that we had planned on seeing when it hit theaters, but with two little kids, those hopeful intentions aren't always realized. In fact, unless it's a movie for kids (like the recent Ratatouille) or a big action movie that we think won't translate well to television (like the Harry Potter films), we usually just wait until they hit Netflix or Blockbuster. And in the end, most films aren't good enough to warrant the $11 ticket price and $50-$60 on a baby sitter.

Shopgirl was extremely well done, from the acting and cinematography to the score. (Watching the DVD extras after finishing Shopgirl, we learned that the entire color scheme of the film was based on the flow of the relationships in the story. It obviously made a difference in the visual quality of the film.) Claire Danes was luminous - as always - and Steve Martin, as his character demanded, proved atypically reserved and detached. It would be easy to label Shopgirl as "just another good date movie." No doubt it would serve ably in that role for an audience of twenty-somethings or fans of Jason Schwartzman and his turn in Rushmore. Nor is the story a classic May-December romance. Indeed, the age issue doesn't really play a role in the romantic relationships. Shopgirl is more about the nature of romantic relationships and the ways in which we process the emotions - including love - attendant in those liaisons.

Understand that the story flowed from the pen of Martin, and thus carries an emotional gravitas that reflects its origins. In fact, wanting more of the depth of the original story, my wife and I both wouldn't mind reading the novella, which doubtless reveals more detail vis-a-vis character development. Then I think we should watch the film again and see how Martin's screenplay compares to the novella. If you haven't seen Shopgirl, check it out. It's a perfect movie for a glass of wine and a good friend. And yes, even a date.

Ball Jar Memory

The last day of July and it's shocking how quickly the summer is passing. One month to go and the kids will be back in school. Two months plus a few days and we'll be in Vermont for our family's annual trek through the mountains. According to Einstein's theories of relativity there's the phenomenon of time dilation in which the passage of time seems to slow down for an object moving near light speed. For example, if one had a twin sibling who rocketed into space at near light speed, upon their return they might perceive the passage of only a year according to their clock, but to the stationary observer ten years might have passed by their clock. It's actually been tested in particle accelerators! My point is . . . as one approaches middle age, doesn't the passage of time seem to move more quickly? In fact, the whole of 2007 feels as if it has just zipped by. Yesterday we were celebrating its start - and I was beginning this blog - and here we are poised to start the eighth month. Wow!

But enough brooding . . . It's time for a final image for July, an image inspired by one of the blogs I read regularly, Chronicles of Me, by BohoGirl. Seeing her photograph of a Ball canning jar and an old patent medicine bottle reminded me of my paternal grandmother's bottle collection and prompted me to paint that image, again tackling the difficult exercise of pulling glass from the paper with a few brushes and watercolors.

Visiting my grandmother in her Eastern Shore home, I remember seeing her collection of antique bottles that she kept on shelves in the windows. Like stained-glass in a church, they would capture the sunlight and scatter the colors in a riot of hues. When the glass was clear, she would fill the bottle with water and add food coloring to continue the patterns of greens, reds, and blues.

The Ball canning jar of course reminds one of a time when families actually canned everything, from produce to meats - yes meats! They've also been appropriated for storing just about anything one can imagine, from paint and motor oil (like my father), to iced tea or formaldehyde-preserved lab specimens. I even remember in the 1980s there was one of those faux-"country" restaurant chains - "The Black-Eyed Pea" - that served all of its drinks in Ball jars. Sadly, the Ball Corporation no longer produces glass jars, having sold off the glass-making arm of the company and moved out of its long-time headquarters in Muncie, Indiana.

In the end, I'm fairly happy with the final product, despite my ever-present misgivings about the quality of scan vis-a-vis color reproduction. In addition, I tried something different this time, tweaking the painting with two photoshop macros just to see how the original would look given a posterized and sepia treatment. Obviously I have too much time on my hands.

The Tyranny of Religion

Concluding last night, PBS here in New York ran a three-part series by English polymath Jonathan Miller on the "history of disbelief" - in short, an examination of disbelief in god from the ancient world to the present. It was thought-provoking, funny, disconcerting, and for me, highlighted some of my own philosophical conundrums vis-a-vis faith and religion.

Having been raised a Southern Baptist - before the denomination allied itself with the politics of fascism - I reluctantly carry the baggage of years spent in Sunday School learning the basic Bible stories to which even the most irreligious of skeptics is exposed. And although I don't believe in the literal truth of the Genesis creation, the flood of Noah, or Moses parting the Red Sea, I recognize their allegorical significance in terms of our society's philosophical evolution. Adam and Eve in the garden simply represent one more attempt by our ancient antecedents to explain the origins of the world in which they found themselves. Moreover, given the plethora of creation myths, one might assume that this effort to explain our creation is an act for which we're uniquely hard-wired thanks to genetic mutation and biological development of the intellect. Whether or not that intellect is endowed with a soul, however, remains the most difficult puzzle for me.

One can most likely trace the roots of my theistic uncertainty to the examples of scholarly inquiry to which I was exposed in academe. We were taught to dig, to doubt, and dig some more, until we found answers which might withstand the challenge of reason. (No doubt this admission would gladden the heart of the anti-intellectual apologist who equates education with the secular world's attempt to undermine faith, as if it were an explicitly avowed goal.) Thomas Jefferson even went so far as to examine the Bible itself using the criteria of rational inquiry. The end product, sometimes referred to as the "Jefferson Bible," exalts the ethical system outlined by Christ, but strips the Old and New Testaments of the supernatural and references that fail the test of reason.

As a historian, I think part of my problem has been the documented examples of organized religions - or the states that embrace them - using that religion to justify racism, conquest, genocide and governmental tyranny. English political pamphleteer Thomas Paine (pictured below) perhaps said it most succinctly, and with a touch of humor:

"Of all the tyrannies that afflict mankind, tyranny in religion is the worst.
Every other species of tyranny is limited to the world we live in, but this
attempts a stride beyond the grave and seeks to pursue us into eternity."

And, as I've stated on this site in numerous entries, I'm especially troubled by the latest efforts to use Christianity - embodied in the ideology of the "Religious Right" - as a means to define governmental authority and wield political power in the U.S. Ever-insightful H. L. Mencken correctly suggested that "the urge to save humanity is almost always only a false-face for the urge to rule it."

In the end, I'd have to call myself a theist - as opposed to deist , and there is a difference - who largely distrusts the institutions, rituals, and machinery associated with organized religions. "I am a sect by myself, as far as I know," Thomas Jefferson concluded in a letter to a friend, and I'm increasingly of a mind with Jefferson in that regard. To be sure, Buddhism and Quakerism, as I've noted before, do offer some palatable alternatives to the religious outlets to which I've previously allied my attention. Additionally, I must tender a nod to the palliative effects of C. S. Lewis's Christian apologetics. Nevertheless, I find it unlikely that these adjuncts to monolithic faith will entirely allay that gnawing doubt that steals into one's thoughts on belief in the "almighty" or a "hereafter."

Doubt, rather than Jonathan Miller's outright disbelief, will likely shape my own theistic musings until I draw my last breath. I want to believe, and will try to believe, but I think it's also fundamentally human to remain skeptical. Some might argue that I'm merely hedging my bets. Quite the contrary; I'm only reflecting human nature's incapacity to understand clearly transcendence and the divine. Sure, imagining god as a benevolent George Burns or Morgan Freeman may offer the movie-going masses a grandfatherly deity who quiets our misgivings. Frankly, I'm more inclined to imagine the more humorous image of god offered by Gary Larsen in his Far Side cartoon, "God at his computer": God sits at his computer with a finger poised above a key labled "Smite," as he watches a man walking under a suspended grand piano. But all of these images still do nothing to resolve the issue of belief.

Self-Portrait: Shorts

I think I've mentioned before that sartorially I'm of decidedly polarized positions. One part of me loves classic "English country" clothes. If I lived in Scotland or Yorkshire, I'd never wear anything but tweeds . . . particularly tweed suits and bow ties, looking like an extra in a Masterpiece Theatre costume drama. Throw in a Barbour wax jacket (which I've had for about 15 years) for rainy, blustery days - common in the Yorkshire Dales - and I'd never need another article of clothing.

Alas, I don't live in the UK and the weather here warrants tweeds and a wax jacket for only a few months each year. More often than not, it's fairly warm and humid, and that trend is increasingly evident during our winters. So I spend much of each year in shorts, the threshold for the comfortable wearing of shorts being somewhere around 50-55 degrees. I know that sounds a bit chilly for some, but remember I'm from the South where shorts are de rigeur for more than just the summer months. I'll typically wear them from March until October and longer if the weather allows. If I could wear them all the time, I would . . . baggy, long, and comfortable, in linen (pictured here), seersucker, or madras.

"What's Good for General Motors is Good for the U.S."

Yesterday's post started me thinking about why some people become wed to specific automobile brands in the way that my family gave their heart to Ford. I honestly think that if my father had won a Pontiac or even a Cadillac in a contest, he'd run down to the Ford dealership and trade it in on a new Taurus. What inspires that kind of devotion and, in many cases, a visceral response? Why do I go weak in the knees when I pass an Austin-Healey or Triumph? I'm not familiar with the psychological analyses of car ownership, but no doubt there's a significant body of literature out there addressing the subject.

What we're more likely familiar with, however, are the "class" connotations inherent in owning a particular brand of car. Here in money-crazed Manhattan, that's especially true; one regularly sees the newest, flashiest and sportiest cars available. It's not unusual to see a Ferrari, Aston-Martin, Bentley, or even a Maybach. But what force "drives" these purchases?

Looking back to the 1950s and 60s when there were fewer choices for American consumers, the new car spectrum tended to be more stratified, often defined by where one lived and worked. At the time, General Motors was the largest industrial corporation in the world and sold the lion's share of cars in the U.S. (GM was so large, in fact, that impressions of the company in the 1950s are usually shaped by the oft misquoted words of Charles E. Wilson, who served as CEO of GM from 1941 to 1953, and as Secretary of Defense under Eisenhower from 1953 to 1957: "What's good for General Motors is good for the United States," he said.) In his wonderful book The Fifties, David Halberstam addresses this topic and points out that one usually bought a GM car based on one's position in the class system of the day. Blue-collar workers, for example, drove Chevys; white-collar families bought Pontiacs and, with a promotion or pay raise, might move up to a Buick. Oldsmobile tended to be the car of choice for doctors and lawyers, while executives opted for Cadillacs.

Today, with easier credit terms, the option of leases, and wider model selection, the auto-buying scene is a bit more fluid. Still, those old loyalties continue to play a role in our purchasing habits in the same way we develop brand loyalty to more mundane consumer goods. Just last month my father went out and bought a Ford Fusion, in the same color as the Taurus he traded in . . . despite my advice that he look into a more reliable Honda Civic or Accord. (Note my own brand loyalty and prejudice that a Honda would automatically prove "more reliable.")

My wife and I recently started talking about purchasing a new car at some point in late 2007 or early 2008. We need something that will hold the kids as they get bigger and allow us to take longer and more frequent car trips in comfort. Naturally I suggested a Honda, perhaps a CRV or Element. My wife, however, grew up with Volvos and suggested a Volvo Cross Country station wagon. (She even gave one a test-drive earlier this week!) It'll be interesting and fun to see what we eventually drive home. Some people loathe the car-buying experience . . . people like my parents. But I actually enjoy it . . . the hunt for just the right vehicle, one that will satisfy one's practical nature and elicit that visceral response.

That New Car Smell

There's an article in the New York Times this week about the old Auburn, Cord, and Duesenberg autos, marques which fell victim to the economic disaster of the Great Depression. These were impressive cars with designs that still elicit sighs and envious longings at car shows around the country. Held up for comparison against today's more expensive models - just about anything from the BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar, or high-end Japanese automakers - these cars ooze originality and innovation. Even Maybach's, Aston-Martins, and the sportier Bentley's seem flatly boring next to a stylish Duesenberg. And although made in the 1930s, the Duesenberg would have given these new models a run for their money as far as performance is concerned.

Surveying these icons of American auto design, I started thinking about my family's history of car ownership. And, alas, I realized we had never owned anything more exciting and unique than a 1964 Volkswagon Beetle. But chronicling our parade of cars one learns a great deal about our family and its habits, which I'm guessing would be true of most families if one were to write the clan saga based only on car ownership. Looking back I wish I could say that our garage welcomed Beemers and Jags. Yet with only occasional but noteworthy aberrations, we were a Ford family.

The early models of my childhood are really a blur. I can remember a green Rambler station wagon and a white 1970 Dodge Dart (which I've mentioned before simply because my dad brought it home from the dealership with an oil leak). Normally my parents would keep a car for a decade on average and always pass the 100,000 mile mark on the odometer. With the Dodge Dart, however, my parents were so disgusted by the experience that they traded it in after only two years for a brown Gran Torino station wagon. The Gran Torino would prove the dominant car of my childhood - the vehicle for vacations, groceries, hardware, garden supplies, and, in its last years, trips to college. The VW Beetle, purchased new in 1964, was my dad's car for commuting and errands around town. He finally sold it after about 15 years and over 200,000 miles. (I was so sad to see it go before I got my driver's license in 1980.)

In the mid-70s my parents made one of those car purchases that still leaves some members of the family puzzled: a white Ford Pinto. It was such a cheap and craptacular model that it didn't even have carpet; the floor was covered in that black vinyl that was given a pebbled surface to resemble carpet. If there ever was car that embodied the wisdom that white cars show dirt more readily, this was it. Within days of leaving the showroom it looked like one of my dad's dingy t-shirts. Still it was the car on which I learned to drive a manual transmission.

The next twenty years gave us a parade of Ford Tauruses, Mercury Sables, an Escort (which I inherited after completing college), and a Windstar minivan. The only oddity in the group was a used, yellow Datsun 710, bought for my mother as a commuter car. This vehicle holds special memories for me because it's the car in which I learned to drive, first went 100 m.p.h., and had sex. It also occupies a humorous place in family lore because of my dad's decision to have the Datsun repainted. No, Earl Scheib's claims that he could paint a car for only $39.99 weren't cheap enough for my father. He went to the hardware store, bought several cans of yellow Krylon and spray painted the car! My mother was mortified but continued to drive the Datsun to her office each day.

One thing is clear from this catalog of family transportation: cars were viewed in strictly utilitarian terms. Anything flashy, sporty or performance-oriented simply wasn't considered. My father's most recent car purchase? A beige Ford Focus. I vowed that when I was old enough to afford a car, I'd have at least one fun vehicle . . . while sticking to more practical cars for daily driving. (I at least learned that important lesson from my accountant parents.) Since buying my first new car in 1990 I've stuck with Hondas which have been nearly flawless. Still, I managed to pick up an MG while I was in grad school (a fantastic car to drive and not nearly as unreliable as their reputation), and a BMW 2002 before I moved to New York City. Although I don't have a fun car right now - parenthood and practicality winning the day - I'm already thinking about what kind of sports car I can pick up when my sons are older. It can be our project car, something we tinker with on weekends and through which they learn about the basic mechanical systems of a car. I'm thinking perhaps an old Triumph, MG, or possibly Porsche. My younger son in particular has started to show an interest in auto aesthetics and his tastes thankfully mirror my own. If I'm lucky in just a few years we'll be adjusting a pair of Zenith-Stromberg carburetors under the hood of an MG.

Self-Portrait Test

On a rainy Monday after a beautiful weekend, this is how I feel: caught between light and dark, the brightness of Saturday in Massachusetts and the dreariness of sitting in this office entirely alone on a miserable Monday. On Monday's I'm the only person around . . . which can be a good thing during most weeks. A quiet Monday gives me the chance to write, catch up on email, and plot out the rest of my week. But sometimes the silence becomes a little too oppressive, particularly if I don't wander out for lunch. (I'm not sure if I like the goatee upon reflection. Can't decide if the field of white hair makes me look distinguished or just old.)

Shaker Saturday

On Saturday we drove up into western Massachusetts for a quick trip through the Berkshires. It's a beautiful area with several picturesque towns, including Stockbridge, which served as Norman Rockwell's home and source of inspiration for years. Our primary destination, however, was the Hancock Shaker Village, a once thriving Shaker community that was sold and turned into a museum in the early 1960s. The grounds include a working farm, complete with cows, chickens, sheep, and pigs. (My kids had recently watched Charlotte's Web, so they were amused to discover four little pink piglets running about. They are awfully cute . . . although they won't convince me to abandon my love of bacon, ham, and pork chops.)

The boys had a hard time grasping the idea that this was a religious community in which about 100 people had lived and worked together. "Why aren't they here anymore," my younger son asked, but wasn't satisfied with the explanation about how their numbers dwindled until there weren't any Shakers left at Hancock by the late 1950s. "Hands to work and hearts to God," was a basic Shaker creed and its significance to their lives is evident throughout the grounds, with various buildings and workshops devoted to their daily labors. That concept the kids could readily understand, even as they still puzzled over the Shakers' rule of celibacy.

During the acme of Shaker membership in the mid-19th century there were communities scattered throughout the eastern U.S. and they could rely on sufficient adult converts and adoptions from orphanages to maintain their numbers. Now, only one Shaker community remains with a handful of members at Sabbathday Lake, Maine, remnants of a movement started in England in the mid-1700s and brought to America in 1774.

The most notable feature at Hancock is its famous "round barn," constructed in 1826. It's still considered an architectural marvel and reflected the Shakers' exceptional design and construction skills, the creative process itself considered an "act of prayer." Its design also underscores an emphasis on efficiency, seen in everything from their furniture to their tools. I've visited Hancock several times and still stand in awe of the barn's beauty. The interior, with its elaborate skeleton of wood posts and beams, really reminds one of a cathedral, which is a fair analogy given the Shakers' regard for work as another form of worship. If you're ever in western Massachusetts, I strongly recommend a visit. It's just outside of Pittsfield and only a few minutes away from the Massachusetts Turnpike.

The Passing of Tammy Faye, Patron Saint of Religious Kitsch

The death of Tammy Faye on Friday prompted me to pause and recall one of the most colorful personalities of American popular culture in the last 40 years. Most people only remember Tammy Faye for her connection to Jim Bakker, the PTL Network, and the scandal that destroyed their Heritage USA amusement park scheme. And even if one managed to miss her turn as a prima facie icon of 80s greed and religious cynicism, one could scarcely have avoided her role as mascara-challenged patron saint of vacuous kitsch in recent years.

Yet growing up in the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area I more vividly remember Tammy and her simpering husband from their first television endeavor, "The Jim and Tammy Show," which aired on Pat Robertson's fledgling CBN network from 1968 until 1973. Broadcast on a weak UHF signal at the time, CBN featured little more than Robertson's signature "700 Club" program, bad reruns, cartoons, and "The Jim and Tammy Show." A children's program constructed around a Christian message, "The Jim and Tammy Show" resembled a televised Sunday School class and spotlighted Tammy's "talents" as a singer and puppeteer.

Nearly 40 years later I can still recall Tammy singing a song that began "One, two, three, the devil's after me," as she used her puppets Allie the Alligator and Susie Moppet (pictured, right). Filmed daily in front of a live audience, kids sat on small bleachers, arranged like an evangelical answer to Howdy Doody's "Peanut Gallery." I remember that the children would receive a gift of Marva-Maid milk at the end of each show. When I was in first grade (1971) one of my classmates attended a taping of the show. The next day he arrived at school displaying his little Marva-Maid carton to the collective "ooohhhs" and "aaahhhs" of our class. There was even a club one could join from which one received coloring pages, photos, and encoded Christian messages from Jim and Tammy.

A couple of years ago I saw a clip from one of these programs and was amazed that a show like that could have been so wildly popular. And it's hard to believe that at the height of its popularity, ca. 1970, Jim and Tammy were receiving up to 1,000 fan letters a week! It's no surprise that they left CBN in 1973 for "bigger and better" opportunities. Nevertheless, watching those clips one can see in Tammy the earnest, small-town Minnesota girl before the makeup, orgiastic excess, scandal, and downfall.

Having encountered that first incarnation of Tammy's onscreen persona, I'm just a little saddened by the news of her death, in part because one has to wonder how she would have fared away from the attention and spotlights, stationed in Minnesota for the duration. In that sense, one finds a resonant similarity between Tammy Faye and that other symbol of celebrity tragicomedy, fellow Minnesotan Judy Garland.

Still, Tammy Faye did embody much that is misguided and corrupt in the culture of Christian televangelism and will forever be linked to the scandalous PTL empire. To the masses who blindly pledged their meager dollars and "widow's mite" to the construction of Jim and Tammy's dream, the eulogizing that has accompanied Tammy's demise has probably served to reopen old wounds. To be fair, however, she seemed a bit more tolerant and forgiving than some of her peers. For example, I would never include her in the company of more malevolent figures like Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, to whom she was linked at critical times in her public life. In the end, given our Dickensian fascination with the grotesque, I'm guessing that society's long-term memory of Tammy Faye will be shaped primarily by the final act in the drama of her sordid life. We'll likely forget the scandals and remember the mascara and the bravura.

Friday Flowers

Just a few flowers from my travels yesterday: a Moon flower (a favorite for me, which usually blooms only at night . . . perhaps the shade prompted it to open), a butterfly on a butterfly bush, some black-eyed Susans, and an interesting variety of sunflower.

Self-Portrait Friday?

I always marvel at the number of self-portraits in the blogging world: There's "self-portrait Friday" and "self-portrait Monday" and some self-portraits that beg a "not safe for work" warning or "explicit content advisory." Although some critics of the practice may argue that vanity drives this compulsion to turn our digital cameras back at ourselves, for the great majority of self-portraits displayed on blogs, I have to disagree with the conclusion.

These aren't people vamping for the camera, pouting, striking languidly casual poses, and smiling for Annie Liebovitz or Lord Snowdon. They're not shouting, "Look at me - Here I am at my latest book signing/gallery opening/movie premier!" More often than not, they're chronicling their mood, marking a birthday, or simply capturing their evolution as a person. They're scarcely different from the plethora of vintage documentary snapshots that now crowd into "found photo" websites. They tell a story. (The first two photos here were taken from my favorite "found" photo site, "Look at Me.")

Of the myriad blogs I regularly check on, Chronicles of Me by Bohemian Girl has really struck a chord of late with its openness and the quality of self-portraits. She's beautiful in a very natural way, "easy on the eyes" one could say, and I'm particularly captivated by how remarkably different one person can look in so many photos. In that sense, her self-portraits do seem to be about evolution and growth.

To date I haven't been a participant in these self-portrait exercises beyond the obligatory profile photo. Still, I've managed to toss in a few childhood photos that give one a sense of my development over the years . . . from geeky child to geeky teen to geeky adult. One could argue that these photos represent an elegiac exercise in mourning the passage of one's youth. There are certainly days when I feel that way. Nevertheless, I'm starting to think it might be "ok" if I upload the occasional self-portrait. After I'm gone, they'll give my kids additional fodder for laughter in the way they now chuckle over my childhood photos. So consider yourselves forewarned; the occasional self-portrait may find its way into these pages. (For now, here I am on the way to my high school graduation in 1982. Can you believe that patchwork madras jacket?!)

The Politics of Fear and the Rise of an American Fascist State

From the New York Times:

"Yesterday, the director of national intelligence released a report with the politically helpful title of “The Terrorist Threat to the U.S. Homeland,” and Fran Townsend, the president’s homeland security adviser, held a news conference to trumpet its findings. The message, as always: Be very afraid. And don’t question the president. . . .

The White House denied that the report was timed to the Senate debate. But the administration controls the timing of such releases and the truth is that fear of terrorism is the only shard remaining of Mr. Bush’s justification for invading Iraq.

This administration has never hesitated to play on fear for political gain, starting with the first homeland security secretary, Tom Ridge, and his Popsicle-coded threat charts. It is a breathtakingly cynical ploy, but in the past it has worked to cow Democrats into silence, if not always submission, and herd Republicans back onto the party line.

That must not happen this time. By now, Congress surely can see through the president’s fear-mongering and show Mr. Bush the exit from Iraq that he refuses to find for himself."

One of the hallmarks of the fascist or totalitarian state is the use of fear to shape public opinion and stifle dissent. Under Hitler, for example, the Nazis manufactured a fear of communists and Jews as a means of uniting popular opinion and quelling moderate opposition. The ultimate by-product of this fear-mongering was of course the Holocaust.

The Bush administration mirrors the Nazis' tactics by warning Americans at politically opportune times about unpatriotic liberals and a perceived terrorist threat - a threat it has only magnified thanks to the war in Iraq. In addition, like the the Nazi's, the Bush White House exploits this fear to justify the suspension of basic human rights and the rule of law. Add the administration's religious zeal, backed by the "Christian Right," and the nation is poised at the brink of an anti-Muslim campaign that bears the ideological baggage of a Medieval crusade marching on Constantinople. Like the Catholic Church in the Middle Ages, the Bush administration's crusade hides an undercurrent of economic imperialism. This time, however, oil has replaced spices and silk as the currency of choice.

Carnival Colors

On Saturday we drove out to Connecticut to take care of some business at Grandma's house. As a "thank you" to neighbors who have done so much for my wife in recent weeks, we went to their annual church carnival. We bought raffle tickets and the kids played games and rode the usual carnival rides. Probably the most striking feature of the carnival was the hyper-brightness of the colors. No doubt after dark these would have been even more vivid under the bright, racing lights that adorned all of the amusements.

I've never been a big fan of these little carnivals, probably because of the reputation of "carnie" games, and these fit most of the stereotypes. Still, it was an enjoyable afternoon for the kids and my wife and I got our funnel cake fix. When I was a kid our family rarely went to carnivals . . . which isn't to say we didn't enjoy amusement parks. We made the obligatory trips to Disneyland and Disney World, Six Flags, Busch Gardens, and Hershey Park. Yet the only small-scale carnival I can remember visiting was the Firemen's Carnival in the Eastern Shore town where my father grew up.

Memory Monday

When I was down in Virginia for the July 4th holiday, I had a chance to visit my maternal grandmother who, at 93, is still a pistol. Having grown up only about 15 minutes from her and my grandfather, I saw them a great deal and consider myself extremely lucky to have had grandparents who played such a direct role in my upbringing. My grandfather in particular was a dynamic influence and, with my own dad often away on business travel, sometimes performed some of those "dad" duties like cheering at ball games, sitting through concerts and recitals, and even "babysitting" me and my brother during summer vacations. He pitched to us, shot hoops, played cards, and ferried us to the club so we could swim. He also took me on his fishing trips from a pretty early age and taught me the finer points of baiting a hook and casting.

Given the historic and geographic context of his birth, my grandfather's story is quite interesting actually. He was born in 1907 in the south-central part of Virginia, a poor rural area long dominated by tobacco farms. He was the eldest of eight children in a family that was land rich but cash poor. A smart boy who did well in school, he wanted to go to college but the family's limited means prevented higher education. Although the family suffered setbacks during the Great Depression, the did benefit from New Deal programs, including running a sawmill that supplied lumber to nearby Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) operations.

But by 1941 he found himself at age 34 with a wife and daughter and increasingly limited opportunities. So he packed up their belongings and moved to Portsmouth, Virginia, and started working in defense plants. By 1951 he had saved enough to build a nice little two-story house, the home in which my grandmother still lives. Over the years he worked in several jobs, including a dry-cleaning business and, in the last decade or so of his employment, as a sheet metal press operator in one of the local shipyards. If one ended right there by saying that he eventually retired to a life of leisure until his death in 1988 at age 80, the story wouldn't hold much interest.

Given his conservative rural background, limited education, and job history, one might conclude that he was a rough, working-class guy with typical, pedestrian interests. That picture certainly offers an apt description of some of the family members I encountered at family reunions over the years. My grandfather, however, never let his circumstances prove limiting. He may not have earned a college education, but as a life-long voracious reader, he possessed a surprising breadth of knowledge and always preached the virtues of education to me and my brother. He was a stellar cook (even coming up with his own recipes), made himself a serious gardener who tackled everything from the exotic to the ordinary, and was a humorous raconteur who charmed those around him, even strangers. I think he was at his happiest when piloting his Ford Galaxy 500 along the mountain miles of the Blue Ridge Parkway, or casting a line into a favorite fishing hole, whether the fish were biting or not. The pleasure of a fishing trip was the conversation and relaxation; actually catching fish was simply icing on the cake.

From him I learned that a man can do many things and have many interests, even when those interests and activities might deviate from the stereotypical roles prescribed for a husband and father of his generation and socio-economic circumstances. He possessed a gentlemanly bearing to the very end, when emphysema made each day a trial. Dying just days before I graduated with my Masters degree, his last words to me were to congratulate me and note how proud he was.

As my sons have tried to make sense of their grandmother's recent death, I've used stories of my grandfather to help them understand loss. Indeed, I've pointed out that rather than focus on grandma's death, we should remember all of the fun times and happy memories, because we carry them with us always, and can recall those moments whenever we need a smile.