"There is a road, no simple highway..."

A birthday brings to mind favorite people, places and things.  Here's to my wife Stephanie, my kids and one of my favorite places introduced to me by Stephanie twenty five years ago.

The boardwalk on Fire Island, N.Y. isn't your typical boardwalk brought to mind by the Jersey shore. It always reminds me of the great lyrics from one of my favorite songs by the Grateful Dead.


If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?
          It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
          Perhaps they're better left unsung.
          I don't know, don't really care
          Let there be songs to fill the air.
Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.
          Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
          If your cup is full may it be again,
          Let it be known there is a fountain,
          That was not made by the hands of men.
There is a road, no simple highway,
Between the dawn and the dark of night,
And if you go no one may follow,
That path is for your steps alone.
          Ripple in still water,

          When there is no pebble tossed,

          Nor wind to blow.

But if you fall you fall alone,

If you should stand then who's to guide you?

If I knew the way I would take you home.

Trolleyology

Studying Philosophy in school was mostly drudgery for me. But every so often, I would come across a philosopher whose impossibly difficult idea became suddenly illuminated by the clarity of his words.
You may have heard of the highly improbable test of moral philosophy called Trolleyology. This article has a bumpy start, but don't be discouraged, keep reading. By the end, you'll be scratching your head wondering why there is such a big difference between a "flick" and a "shove" when it comes to killing a man.

From the October edition of Prospect magazine. Written by David Edmonds.
http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2010/10/ethics-trolley-problem/

You and Me?

What do you do when a piece of fiction fights with itself but makes peace, argues but seems to understand, gets twisted into neat emotion, seems to loves and hate in the same sentence, confuses in a perfectly clear way.
You read it and then read it again trying to understand how the author managed to use such a tangle of words and emotions to describe us and our relationships so confoundingly well.

What an original piece of writing this is.
Read an excerpt from "Here We Aren't, So Quickly." by Jonathan Safran Foer from the June 14 issue of the New Yorker. Then read it again and again...



“I was not good at drawing faces. I was just joking most of the time. I was not decisive in changing rooms or anywhere. I was so late because I was looking for flowers. I was just going through a tunnel whenever my mother called. I was not able to make toast without the radio. I was not able to tell if compliments were back-handed. I was not as tired as I said.
You were not able to ignore furniture imperfections. You were too light to arm the airbag. You were not able to open most jars. You were not sure how you should wear your hair, and so, ten minutes late and halfway down the stairs, you would examine your reflection in a framed picture of dead family. You were not angry, just protecting your dignity.
I was not able to run long distances. You were so kind to my sister when I didn’t know how to be kind. I was just trying to remove a stain; I made a bigger stain. You were just asking a simple question. I was almost always at home, but I was not always at home at home. You were not able to cope with a stack of more than three books on my bedside table, or mixed currencies in the change dish, or plastic. I was not afraid of being alone; I just hated it. You were just admiring the progress of someone else’s garden. I was so tired of food.”

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2010/06/14/100614fi_fiction_foer

Founding Father and Slave Owner

I was reading an article on Ron Chernow's biography of George Washington, which is one of the better biographies I have read, and that nagging question came to mind again.

How could any of the Founding Fathers, writers of the Declaration of Independence, architects of the words "all men are created equal", "unalienable rights" and "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" possibly find it acceptable to own slaves?

Perhaps they did not view their slaves as "men" and therefore they fell outside the rule of their new union. It wouldn't have been the first time nor would it be the last that the interpretation of a powerful majority would determine who got to live (the Salem witches), or vote (women of the early 20th century) or be free.

Or as Chernow hints, Washington and others may have believed that the viability of the newborn union was so precarious that to force the southern colonies to end slavery at that time would itself doom their entire endeavor of independence. Believing this, they decided that the the creation of an independent nation was more important than the freedom of a few thousand slaves at least for the short term and that the loss of the war for independence would in any case render everyone, free man and slave, in the same dire circumstance.

If only Mr. Peabody could fire up that WABAC machine.

Happiness in a Jar

Listen to one of my pfavorite quirky men talk about a most mundane subject and be captivated.

http://www.ted.com/talks/malcolm_gladwell_on_spaghetti_sauce.html

Celebrating Day 1 and Day 9,130

Today is my 25^th wedding anniversary.  A brand new blog and a big anniversary on the same day - what to write about?  Doubtful anyone is interested in my marriage, so, I’ll write about one of my all time favorite books.  An old pint that is still so tasty you’ll keep coming back for more.

Peter Mayle paints a picture of his anything but boring retirement to the south of France in his classic “A Year in Provence”.  This book is my “go to” book when it’s rainy and cold and I want to laugh.  The months serve as orderly chapter titles, but the French do things differently than the English so “the year began with lunch” instead of January.  Followed by dinner, dessert and of course wine!  With Mayle's delicious descriptions you can taste the food, smell the wine and know the characters like your own neighbors.  If you love crisp, creative use of language, you will love this book and the 4 or 5 that followed it.

From “A Year in Provence.”

On the French language:

The language spoken was French, but it was not the French we had studied in textbooks and heard on cassettes; it was a rich soupy patois, emanating from somewhere at the back of the throat and passing through a scrambling process in the nasal passages before coming out as speech.  Half familiar sounds could be dimly recognized as words through the swirls and eddies of Provencal: ‘demain’ became ‘demang’, ‘vin’ became ‘vang’, ‘maison’ became ‘mesong’.  That by itself would not have been a problem had the words been spoken at normal conversational speed and without further embroidery, but they were delivered like bullets from a machine gun, often with an extra vowel tacked on to the end for good luck.  Thus an offer for more bread – page-one stuff in French for beginners – emerged as a single twanging question.  ‘Encoredupanga?’

The French national pastime:

...Le Simiane was offering a six-course lunch with pink champagne...

By 12:30 the little stone-walled restaurant was full.  There were some serious stomachs to be seen - entire families with the 'embonpoint' that comes from spending two or three diligent hours every day at the table, eyes down and conversation postponed in the observance of France's favorite ritual.  The proprietor of the restaurant, a man who had somehow perfected the art of hovering despite his considerable size, was dressed for the day in a velvet smoking jacket and bow tie.  His mustache, sleek with pomade, quivered with enthusiasm as he rhapsodized over the menu...it was a gastronomic aria which he performed at each table, kissing the tips of his fingers so often that he must have blistered his lips. 

French neighbors:

    As I came up on him, he extended a cold, horny hand.  “Bonjour.”  He unscrewed a cigarette butt from the corner of his mouth and introduced himself.  "Massot, Antoine."

    He was dressed for war.  A stained camouflage jacket, an army jungle cap, a bandolier of cartridges, and a pump action shotgun.  His face was the color and texture of a hastily cooked steak, with a wedge of nose jutting out above a ragged, nicotine-stained mustache.  Pale blue eyes peered through a sprouting tangle of ginger eyebrows, and his decayed smile would have brought despair to the most optimistic dentist.  Nevertheless, there was a certain mad amiability about him."

and visitors from Paris:

    Our friend from Paris examined his empty glass with surprise, as if evaporation had taken place while he wasn't looking.  I poured some more wine and he settled back in his chair, face tilted up to the sun.

    "We still have the heating on in Paris," he said and took a sip of the cool, sweet wine from Beaumes de Venise.  "And it's been raining for weeks.  I can see why you like it here.  Mind you, it wouldn't suit me."  

    It seemed to be suiting him well enough, basking in the warmth after a good lunch, but I didn't argue with him.