Mayhem, Mike and Me

If I have been quiet of late, chalk it up to Murphy: my electronics are once again revolting.  It started with a file from a client which, unbeknownst to me, had a teeny, tiny bit of corrupted text.

I fed the file into my database software, which promptly crashed.  

Windows, in solidarity, immediately followed suit.

I emailed the software company in Spain.  They sent me a patch.  It didn't work. After considerable discussion, we concluded I would first need to reinstall Windows.   

Because my life is apparently not exciting enough, I decided to take this opportunity to upgrade to Windows 8. 

The upgrade and installation of Windows took about 30 minutes. Reinstalling the gazillion other programs that I use and all got wiped out by the Windows upgrade took another 4 hours.

When it was all done, I ran my database program - it worked!  I congratulated myself. 

And Murphy promptly laughed: my old printer wouldn't talk to Windows 8. 

Since it really was old (broken springs, smudgy glass), I decided it was time for a hardware upgrade.  Off I went to the store.  As the salesman put my new printer in the cart, a thought skittered across my mind.  "Are you sure it works with Windows 8?" I asked. He assured me that it did, and I drove home with my new printer.

(This happened around 8 p.m. the Friday before I was scheduled to teach a seminar, and I hadn't printed out the workbooks yet because of all of the above.)

Back at home, I hooked up my new printer and began to install the drivers.  Seconds before the install was complete the whole process ground to a halt.  An error message popped up on my screen: my brand-new printer was indeed fine with Windows 8 - but incompatible with my "old" computer.  I tried adjusting configurations, searching for solutions online, begging, threatening and cajoling my electronic servants to cooperate and do their job.

It was no use.   Somewhere around 3 a.m., faced with the fact that I had:

• New software that would talk to my 2-year-old computer but not my 4-year-old printer;
• A brand-new printer that would talk to my super-brand-new software but not my semi-old computer;
• A room full of students expecting handbooks and lucidity from me in less than 6 hours;

it finally occured to me to install the drivers on my laptop computer.  By the time I stumbed into bed, materials ready, I was down to 4 hours before the alarm would sound to wake me up for class.

Bright and early the next Monday, my telephone rang.  Somewhere in the sleep-induced fog of that night, I had emailed the tech support department at my printer's manufacturer.  They had read my email.  They had not only read it, but they were calling me back. The shock of it woke me up instantly. 

Mike, the technician, listened to my woes.  He asked for permission to access my computer.  For the next 20 minutes, I watched the cursor move around on my screen like a drunken amoeba. On the phone, I could hear Mike muttering to himself.  Finally, he stopped, sighed and said, "I'm terribly sorry, but I can't fix the problem.  We'll work on it further and let you know if we find a solution." His courtesy, his straightforwardness, his honest admission that they hadn't found a solution - yet - charmed me.  With knowledge comes power, in this case the power to let go.  I would simply have to find a workaround.  

And with that, it seemed the digital revolution might be over.

Until this morning.

I had missed a program in the Grand Reinstall.  Since it was needed for today's project, I ran the software and searched my records for the license number.  It was nowhere to be found.  Out of hope, I emailed tech support in Australia; out of realism, I began to search for other options.  Not 10 minutes later, a return email from tech support dropped into my inbox and I had my missing license number.

Yes, Murphy may still lurk and laugh at me. I'm going to have to call the mechanic (again) about that little light on my dashboard that came on (again).  The microwave is acting weird.  And my computer speakers suddenly sound like 50-year smokers.

But I'm not worried. Turns out, there's a whole wide world of Mikes out there to balance things out.  

Of Camels, Conclusions and Cabral

The Toll Free Camel called again today.  I ignored it, as usual. 

Of course, it's not really a camel (I don't think.)  It's the result of the stilted robot voice with which my telephone announces callers. While I can usually figure out the name with little effort, it took a glance at the display to realize that my automated phone attendant was announcing an unidentified 1-800 number. A "toll-free caller".

As such callers tend to be telemarketers, political survey-takers, and such, I tend to conclude that we have nothing intelligent to discuss and ignore the call.

I think I'm safe in that conclusion, but there have been times in life when my conclusions have landed me in hot water.  At the very least, they have made me the butt of a self-inflicted joke.  Let me invite you to join in and laugh with me at the latest.  

It all started because my nephew is getting married on Saturday and wants to read a special poem to his lovely bride.  He asked me to check his translation of the poem; flattered (and pleased that I have some skills to offer the younger generation), I quickly agreed.

Late last night I sat down to review his translation.  The English and the Spanish were interspersed; all I had to do was make sure each translated line matched the original meaning.  The poem had a comfortable, familiar feel but I didn't let that distract me. Armed with my most critical eye, it seemed that some conjugations were a little off.  To be fair, Spanish verbs are more complex than English ones. 

I adjusted the Spanish text to better match the English.  I reworked a few lines of the Spanish to improve the flow.  I adjusted the meter in a place or two.  And finally, I was content.  The poem was good (I even made a suggestion for changing one of the English lines.)  After an hour or two of editing work, it seemed nothing more should be done. 

Feeling rather pleased with myself, I went to bed.

It wasn't until tonight that my nephew gently let me know that I had once more jumped to a conclusion. The Spanish was not the translation: it was the original. 

In fact, I had just spent two hours editing a poem by the incomparable Argentine poet and songwriter, Facundo Cabral.  

No wonder it seemed so comfortable, so known. For those of you unfamiliar with the great Cabral, it was as if I had dared to tweak the immortal words of Robert Frost.

After laughing long and hard at myself, I emailed the groom and promised to redo my review.  It almost seemed I could hear my father laughing with me.  When I was a little girl and jumped to conclusions (which was often), Dad would tell me a little story:

"Do you remember the story about August?" Dad would ask. 

"No", I always answered, because I wanted him to tell it again.

"Well, once there was little boy named August, and he was always jumping to conclusions.  One day, August jumped to a mule's conclusion... and the next day was the first of September."

Life lessons from my pun-loving dad who wanted me to know that conclusions often have a price.

In the process, he helped me learn to laugh at my own propensities. So tonight I will spend more time reviewing the English translation of the poem and leave Facundo's work unsullied by my meddling. Tomorrow or the next day, I'm sure I'll laugh again at my absurdities.  And some day, I may even learn that jumping to conclusions takes a toll.

Until then, I have it on good authority that camels are toll-free.

  

 

Location Unknown

My friend Lynn is an always-friend. We met when my family was in the U.S. during my 4th grade year. Every time I came back to northern Indiana after that, I would find Lynn and the thread of our friendship would pick up, unbroken. We are friends simply because we are.

Lynn is now a minister and on a recent trip to Indiana to help my mother, it occurred to me that I finally had a Sunday free to go and listen to Lynn preach. She gave me the address of her church and even an approximate driving time. I left 15 minutes earlier than that, just in case.

As it turns out, I needn't have bothered.

With the address entered into my phone's GPS, I drove down highway 30, then turned north on 35. A few miles up highway 35, I came to a T-intersection. "Road Closed", said the sign in front of me. There were no detour arrows.

The smart thing would have been to turn around and go back down to 30. 

I didn't do that.

Instead, and with apologies to Robert Frost, I opted for the road that looked more traveled and played my luck. After driving approximately west for several miles, I began to see a few houses. I looked around for a city limit sign. There was none. The road eventually took me to what could optimistically be called the town square. There was no one around. The only store said "Groceries" and "Open", but the light was dim and it seemed like this would be the part in the movie where the violins started to softly keen. I pulled into the empty parking lot and took out my phone.

"La Porte, Indiana", I asked my GPS. It obediently showed me the city somewhere to my north. I clicked on "Directions to there."

"Use current location?" my GPS wondered.

I said yes and waited. The cursor twirled and twirled and finally gave me an answer: "Location Unknown."

Just in case, I went through the steps again. And again. Each time, I was firmly advised that my current location was Unknown.

Maybe I should backtrack after all, I thought, and pulled out of the parking lot. As I turned up the other side of the street, I saw a couple standing in their yard. Several pots of new flowers sat ready to be planted in fresh beds under the windows but they just stood there watching me. They looked vastly amused. 

They were also the first people I'd seen in that little hamlet. Pulling over, I rolled down my window and asked, "How do I get to La Porte?" My voice sounded a little plaintive, even to me.

"We'll get you out of here OK," the man assured me, grinning. "Just turn around and go to the stop sign. Turn right, then right again at the next stop sign. You'll go over the railroad tracks. After that it says "road closed", but turn left. Then around the next..." The directions went on for a while and I began to picture myself doomed to wander among cornfields for eternity. They would tell stories about me around campfires at night to scare little kids: the Woman Whose Location was Unknown.

As it turned out, the directions were easier followed than understood. The countryside was beautiful. Wildflowers edged the gravel road. I passed an enormous weeping willow by a small pond and for a moment was tempted to pull over and lose myself under its branches. Almost too soon, I was back out on Highway 35, now north of the roadwork.

By the time I made it to Lynn's church, they were singing the last song. Lynn whispered, "You're so stinkin' late!" and we giggled and hugged. I was glad she didn't ask where I'd been. I couldn't possibly have told her.

As it turned out, there was another service in just half an hour. Lynn delivered a straight-forward message on unvarnished faith and following - not even when, but especially when - life lands you where you never asked to go.

Like when your dad gets sick and you spend weeks helping him die as comfortably as possible. 

Or when you try to help your mom go solo after 62 years of flying in formation. 

Or when you have to rely on strangers because every source you normally turn to has no idea where you are.

Then faith whispers that on the other side of death is Life Unimaginable. Experience reminds you that solo is a formation. And when you finally reach your destination, you find friends who forgive you your most human moments.

It  was worth wandering the cornfields for.

Still, someday, if I can ever find a pause button for my life, I just might go wandering on purpose.

I've got a reservation underneath a weeping willow by a pond: Location Unknown.

Tribute to my dad (read at his funeral, June 6)

I've been thinking a lot on what I wanted to say about Dad here, at his funeral.  He was known for his integrity, of course: never combative, just quietly resolute.  

There was his ingenuity: like when he designed and built a little camper on the back of a pick-up truck, so he and Mom could spend days at a time visiting in the tribe.  Ompi Ya, the Tsachis called it - the Turtle House.

Who can forget his love of puns - did you know that puns are the number 1 form of humor?  Of course, there is nothing lower than the number 1... 

There are his silly songs and linguistic skills and word play and love of wife and family and that rock-solid faith that figured that God knew what He was about and didn't waste time trying to convince the Almighty otherwise.

I could talk about all of these but, instead, I want to talk about my father's voice.

In these last weeks of his life, as the cancer progressed, the Alzheimer's sometimes got the upper hand.  It became easy to tell the difference between what was said through the fog of Alzheimer's and what was my Dad, being himself.  His voice would change.

Because I knew my father: his humor, his convictions, his innate courtesy (who else tells the nurse who just put him through an uncomfortable procedure, "Don't worry, I know you were just doing what was best for me"?) - because I knew my father's character, I knew his voice.

It was in his own voice that he repeated Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky" with his sister when she sat beside his sick bed.  It was in his own voice that he joined in when we sang to him.  And it was in his own voice that he told us that he loved us.

One day last month, as Dad's health took a nosedive, he offered a simple prayer: "Thank you, Lord, for these problems that we receive from Your good hand." 

And that - absolutely - was my father's voice. 

Normandy

My father did not serve in Normandy.  He enlisted in the Army Air Corps (later the Air Force) at the age of 17 as part of the post-WWII peace-keeping troops.  He served in Japan and Germany and came home with a love for languages that pointed him to his life's work.  

As I write, I am sitting a few feet from where my Papa lies.  We'll say goodbye soon.  The other night, when it was my turn to sit with him, he began to call out in his sleep.

"Who's going to Normandy?" he yelled.  "We need medics!  We need to take care of the patients first!" 

I walked nearer and he heard me.

"Hey, you!" he demanded, "Are you a nurse?"

A little stumped, I answered, "I'm afraid not.  I'm just watching over you."

"We need medics for the injured," he said, and continued his nocturnal march across Normandy, searching for those who needed his aid. Just a man going places, with a mission to serve.

Like he served the Tsáchila tribe in Ecuador, devising an alphabet for their language (never before written), translating the Bible for them, creating grammar studies, preserving the old legends before they could be stolen away by encroaching change.

He served his organization, traveling the world in order to train and assist other translators.  He served whatever community he lived in and any church in which he found an empty pew.  

Most of all, he served his family.  The memories are endless today. The ever-present knowledge that "Daddy could fix it."  The gentle wisdom and perspective that never had a box from which to be out of. The laughter he provides us still (like when I told him I would raise him --referring to the hospital bed-- and he quipped, "Seems fair. After all, I raised you.") The silly songs he sang to us as children and we sing to him now. The sweet way he tells my mother that he loves her as she leans over to kiss him goodnight. 

Dad had several other vocal dreams that night after Normandy: in each, he was helping someone in need.  Service is honor, and even in these last dreams my father is an honorable man.

So on this most personal Memorial Day, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that there is a service I can give to him, an honor I can render:

I can walk a little nearer and for a short time yet, I can still watch over him. 

Big Picture

The two-day drive from Texas to northern Indiana gives me lots of time to think. I'm not really a fan of driving, but I like the enforced solitude and the feeling of being untethered.

This time, I'm making the drive to help my parents for a few weeks. Dad is dealing with a serious health issue; Mom is frail; and my brother and his wife are juggling as much as they can.

Clearly, another pair of hands is in order.

Speeding along I-55 north, I go over Mom and Dad's health issues in my head, trying to see things from all angles. It's what I do, instead of worry.

When I was a kid, I worried about Dad because he traveled a lot. One day, in an attempt to ease my fears, he told me that the reason we worry is that we can't see the Big Picture. (In my mind, it is always capitalized.) He said that faith was about knowing the Big Picture was there, even if we didn't see it until we were further down the road.

At the time, I was young enough to think that I already saw all the picture there was to see, but his words sunk in anyway. It has become almost a mantra: I don't yet have the full perspective. I can't yet see the Big Picture but it's there, somewhere down the road. 

It starts to rain and I flip on the windshield wipers. The rain lets up almost instantly; off they go. I think about my parents and the long journey of their lives and wish we had a better picture-- 

Ahead of me, I see a flash of brilliant color. A piece of rainbow, just the bottom tip, bathes a stand of trees in shimmering light. 

The colors are intense. I slow down involuntarily (thankful for an empty freeway around me.)  As I drive forward, the rainbow grows. It stretches up, over the copse of trees - and is gone.  The road has turned, and I (again, thankfully), have turned with it and the amazing rainbow is gone.

For a moment, I feel bereaved. 

I'm tempted to pull off to the shoulder and back up to where I last saw it, but caution and reason win out. I focus instead on navigating the big curve ahead. 

Moments later, I glance to my right. There it is. 180-degrees of clear, uninterrupted, perfect rainbow stretched across the sky.   

It was just waiting for me further down the road.

[Not bad for a picture snapped with one hand, through a dirty, tinted windshield, using my phone...]

Tenebrae

Easter Sunday is a time of riotous joy, celebrating the most outrageous act of love and restoration. But in some ways I'm more partial to the stillness of the Good Friday and Holy Saturday services. In that spirit - and departing from my usual style of post - I'd like to share one of my tenebrae poems.

                        Of Blood and Wine

I asked You, foolishly,

to let me taste Your grief;

to share a moment of Your anguish

before dawn’s relief.

You gave me none.

Nor did I drink of peace or gentle rest:

just hollow spaces, born of absent hope

and love suppressed.

Abandoned, 
watching from the door

As papa packs and walks away.

Discarded, 
leopard pants and spandex

fading with the light of day.

Fearful, 
numbers falling from the ticker,

dropping scruples in their wake.

But of Your thoughts,

I can hear nothing more

than echoed Tenebrae.

I can see the mother turning

from the child at her breast,

I can hear the feet of thousands

racing on a hollow quest,

hear the gunshots and the lying,

see the petty and the vain,

taste the tears of cheap tomorrows

in the cup of flat champagne.

In the empty grey, we gather:

bankrupt;

helpless;

angry;

torn;

Held in silent, cold abeyance

by the unresponding stone.

In the stillness of our shadows,

drenched in blood and bitter wine,

I see I cannot taste Your sorrow

for tonight,

You drank of mine.

-cs Good Friday/Holy Saturday © 032208