Pizza

Chicago. Although I’ve landed at O’Hara Airport scores of times and assisted with some suburban Chicago restaurants many years ago, I’ve almost no experience in inner city Chicago. This all changed one recent weekend. Thankfully, my son-in-law consented to leading me into and extracted me back out of the heart of the “Windy City” for a delightful day trip. Even on a weekend, it’s a harrowing trek from his suburban Indiana home.I enjoy the narrated tours that explore the “soul” of many major cities on a double-decked bus. Soon I, along with my family, was on the upper deck of a big red Chicago tour bus that permitted us to get off and on at will. Normally, I listen to the guide for some mention of local epicurean delights and get off at that stop. Chicago was no exception and Exit Thirteen sounded like a tasty destination. I thankfully exited somewhat gracefully down the spiral stairs to the street without having my sized 14 feet slip and miss any of those amazingly narrow steps. Once we got to the destination and started our foot trek (I forget the actual street names), there were amazing restaurant choices. We first discovered a “mega” McDonald’s two stories high with escalators and a dozen folks in ties manning checkout terminals. We wandered inside for a peek but didn’t come this distance for “two all beef patties and a special sauce.” The next corner featured Chicago-style hot dogs which are steamed, never broiled, and served on a poppy seed bun. They are “dragged through the garden,” a term that locals use to reflect the unique condiments (no ketchup here). This includes mustard, onion, sweet pickle relish (usually a variety called "Nuclear Relish" dyed neon green ), a dill pickle spear, tomato slices or wedges, pickled sport peppers, and a dash of celery salt; sometimes, but not always, cucumber slices. Wow, what a combination and one native will fight to defend against Nathan’s or other “imposters”! Since I gave up meat several years ago, that combination will only live in my imagination. On we went down the street to Gino’s, the home of the “best Chicago deep dish pizza.” I was amazed at 2:30 in the afternoon to stand in line for about thirty minutes for a seat at a pizza place. That was just the start of the wait. Instead of the customary fifteen minutes for our local call-in pizza, we were given a hoped for target of 45 minutes (actually an hour) for our pizza to bake. Chicago-style pizza is a buttery crust with edges up to three inches high, almost like a shallow bowl. It has generous amounts of cheese and chunky tomato sauce that almost spill out of the edges and is literally a pie. Ours was delicious but, quite honestly in my opinion, not worth starving for an hour and a half in anticipation. Of course I didn’t mention that until safely out of the Chicago area and back into our home “New York style thin crust” area.As I reflect on all that in predawn Sunday morning darkness, I think about how hung up we are with our particular individual preferences. I understand there have been actual fights over Chicago-style hotdogs and pizza as opposed to New York-style. In fact, it goes way beyond local food preferences. These “holy wars” don’t just stop there; we just adapt a more subtle “appropriate” guise to apply a litmus test or two. In fact, today (Sunday) is the day of the week that separates us the most, although usually not openly. We sometimes seem to evaluate and measure others by whether they adhere to our enlightenment, practices, and values. We are so anxious for others to embrace our discoveries that we often slip into disrespecting other’s choices and values. Why can’t we just enjoy our “preferred pizza” and avoid putting down other’s preferences? Isn’t pizza still pizza no matter where, how, or who eats it?

Care

About a year ago I visited the Missionaries of Charity in the slums of Kolkata, India. Even though I wasn’t allowed to take pictures inside the facility, the experience is etched in my mind and is one I will never forget. The Missionaries of Charity is a worldwide organization but most folks associate it with Kolkata, India and Sister Teresa. Last week as I gave another narrated photo journey presentation of my journey to India, I briefly flashed through the only two pictures I have of their original Kolkata facility. Photography is understandably not permitted inside the facility so both photos were both exterior shots. Partly because of that I may never be able to adequately convey what I experienced within those walls. I am not sure any pictures could do justice to what I experienced.This original Missionaries of Charity organization was founded by Sister Teresa of Albania in 1952 and the facility was donated by the city of Calcutta. (the city’s name back then) It is in the bowels of Kolkata and is within sight of the famous Kali Temple built in 1855 to honor the Hindu goddess of destruction. Because of the nature of the facility, the general public and especially tourists aren’t allowed. My friend Diganta works with the poor in the city and was given approval to escort me to experience firsthand the wonderful work that the Sisters and other volunteers from around the world perform.The Missionaries of Charity organization has grown to 450 facilities worldwide with many millions of dollars in annual donations and thousands of volunteers. Because of the rapt attention and resulting donation levels that Mother Teresa drew with her 1979 Nobel Peace Prize award, I expected a major modern US style medical institution. I wasn’t prepared for the dank concrete building that housed the dying. I saw no medical care although there may be some. The dying of Kolkata are “warehoused” (please excuse the seemingly harsh term) on rows of simple cots lining three tiers of six foot wide concrete platforms. The lowest level was lined with 18 emaciated men, each on a simple cot. They were placed on that level because their death was thought to be imminent and their lifeless bodies could quickly be moved out. I have never before been in that type of hospice-type atmosphere. The realities of life, and more importantly death, were overwhelming. It was not at all like anything I saw in the Viet Nam war. There are no diversions or distractions in this environment and my mind and spirit were hyper-focused on those poor souls. Perhaps that is why images of care are seared in my memory. What I saw and more importantly felt went beyond care and could only even then be still inadequately termed compassion. I saw volunteers from Europe, Africa, the Americas, Australia, and other parts of Asia lovingly join the native Indians. They cradling heads and limp bodies in their arms and bosoms to mop a fevered brow or to give a cool possibly last drink of water. I will never forget the silent eye contact that when language failed soaked up what I could only term supernatural love and compassion. I read a lot about care and caring and how we can give and muster support for folks in need. Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that the heart of everything I hold sacred is our personal love and compassion. It all became indelibly etched into my being that sweltering day in Kolkata. It took me back to roots thousands of years old. There are folks here today in each of our lives that may not be near death but are desperate for someone to share true love and compassion. Will we rise to our calling?

Two

I love the antics and conversations of young children and I just had my “fix” this weekend. Children are such a joy and help bring my life and priorities back into focus. In addition, as Art Linkletter (an early television host for you younger folks) used to say on his program by the same name, “kids say the darndest things.” Recently I heard a quote from a young extended family member inquiring why a matriarch “didn’t just iron her hands because they were so wrinkled!” How do you respond to that?
It is so refreshing to be with young children who haven’t yet mastered the necessary social correctness. They can be amazingly perceptive and quite direct as noted above. In addition, they haven’t found it necessary to veil their feelings so I get “real time” input whether I am ready or not. Their inquiring minds are not hampered by such things as past experience and protocol.
I have two treasured grandsons that are utterly delightful. The oldest is “two going on adulthood” and I had the privilege this weekend for about twenty four hours to be with him on his home turf.
I learned so much. I saw the merits of patiently waiting your turn with a big piece of cardboard box to save you pants when it was finally your turn to descend the concrete blue slide in the park. Green sprinkles turn rich dark chocolate ice cream into not just an epicurean but a visual delight especially when it drips randomly. Imagination is so much more useful and interesting than what others term “reality” especially when there are two of you. There is so much more available in “big boy underwear” than just basic old folk’s “tidy whitey” and it is a treat to pick them out. Let’s see: Bob the builder, Buzz Light Year, Cars, Elmo, and many others. Still looking for fire truck underwear to complete his collection. Stories and blankets are a basic necessity of everyone’s lives that shouldn’t be neglected or overlooked. And, oh yes, young doctors can effectively use a drill to care for a foot that Grandpa didn’t even know hurt.
I could go on and on but I am sure this has resurrected some thoughts of your own that are even more precious to you. Perhaps one of my greatest delights, and I hope this doesn’t come off as too selfish, is to have someone, usually in this age range, sincerely really want to know about me and my thoughts. I am so used to being asked questions that are a bit superficial or that are just polite small talk that it is a bit awkward at first to give “real answers to real sincere questions.” To look into those innocent but inquiring big brown eyes and hear the next “Grandpa, what or why…” question and know he really wants to know is therapy beyond measure. Reminds me that I too have someone who delights in sharing His thoughts if I only take time to become childlike by asking and then sincerely appreciating what He shares.

Tiny Blossoms

Early this morning, I slipped out the back door of our home through our dew-saturated fresh mown lawn. I was barefoot and my feet rapidly accumulated a covering of wet grass on my “mission.” I am still not completely sure what motivated me. A friend accuses me of “having too little on my plate and that’s why I get these wild ideas.” In fact, I wanted to surprise my wife with a bouquet of fragrant lilacs to enjoy with her morning coffee and crossword puzzle. We have two blooming lilac trees—a double white one on the northern edge of our property and a deep lavender one on the southeastern corner. As I write, their soft gentle aroma permeates the kitchen. There is only one problem. The delicate lilacs all have brown spots all over them. I discovered they are all past their prime and, try as I might to find better ones, the only lilacs I could collect from my yard was this aging brown-flecked bouquet.
I am not “a flower person” but I can’t get flowers out of my mind. As I glance out the window, there is an amazing array of other flowering trees, shrubs, and bushes in various stages of bloom for all over the neighborhood to enjoy. That doesn’t take into account all the flowers my wife has planted and all the wild flowers that are popping up in the adjacent field. What a spectacle and to think how often I’ve fail to be stopped to appreciate the contribution they make to my world, at least for a short season.
I actually started this story and the paragraphs above a week ago. Normally when I have an idea for a story, the “start” and “ending” are pretty much in place and the thoughts in between seem to flow without much effort. This time the ending just wasn’t there and the story went nowhere. I missed my normal self-imposed deadline. A friend e-mailed me to say he’d been waiting since 5 AM for my story which never came. I e-mailed a backup story but this one about the blooms wouldn’t go away.
My children are very precious to me and I am now experiencing the unbelievable joy of two wonderful grandchildren. I was quite busy over the weekend with a full schedule of lectures from delightfully inspired instructors. In the midst of my classroom concentration, I got a call that I will never forget. Doctors discovered that our anxiously anticipated and yet-to-be-born grandchild had died. I will never experience the joy of this baby’s presence here on earth. Gratefully the mother is doing OK. Through my tears I faced the timeless question that generations have asked but no one can answer. Why?
This morning I found a tiny “baby bouquet” on a bush I’d never noticed before. The tiny inch-wide cluster is populated with 14 dainty miniature white blossoms. Each of those blossoms has 4 delicate golden stamens surrounded by 5 micro-sixteenths of inch long petals. There is no discernable fragrance. The whole thing is so small that I had to pluck it to focus clearly enough to savor its delicate beauty. My hand could literally hold a hundred or more this size and there is not a vase small enough for proper display. It’s far too small to give to anyone else to appreciate. Suddenly, I knew the original story wasn’t about picking the abundant aging lilac blooms at all. It was about choosing this delicate micro-treasure from all the surrounding landscape. I know that our loss was welcomed into good and loving hands to be featured in an awaited eternal garden.

Remote Access

Computers. Most of us, over time, develop a love-hate relationship with them. It seems that just about the time I master some element of their operation, a warning dialog box pops up on the screen to prove me wrong. Last year I bought two new computers with the latest operating system and software to avoid those frustrations. The purchase price was justified by the anticipated peace of mind.
Much to my chagrin, I’ve never achieved that elusive peace of mind. I purchased a whole new set of problems to replace the old ones that plagued me. Normally I can, over several days or sometimes weeks, come up with a solution to most problems. If not, in a pinch, I have a couple of “expert” friends who can massage and enhance my troubleshooting skills. I dread calling the manufacturer’s technical support lines for several reasons. The primary reason is that they now all seem to charge a fee and I am che…,frugal. The second reason is that I often have difficulty communicating with “level one” technical support staff. They often seem to speak a different brand of English than I do. The third reason is that the problem is invariably caused “by another (often competing) software manufacturer,” or so they say.
One problem was beyond anything that I had ever encountered. I was in danger of losing vast amounts of business and personal data if the problem wasn’t solved. With great frustration and apprehension, I called the computer manufacturer for help. My problem was moved up the technical support chain from level1 to level 2 and then to level 3 support with no results. The level 3 technician then called Microsoft on a three-way conference call. Now I was dealing with engineers who had helped design the operating system and their reputations were on the line.
The engineers asked me for “remote access authority” which I was happy to give. Soon I watched in amazement as the cursor moved to and opened files I didn’t know I had on my computer. All of this was being done on my computer by an expert thousands of miles away in Washington State. Occasionally he would have me hit the “enter” key to validate his moves. He certainly proved he knew my computer much better than I did as he remotely probed and prompted repairs. All I had to do was swallow my pride, overcome my apprehensions, and yield control to the professional. Soon my computer was better than ever. (He did some upgrades while he was on line with my computer.) Now that I’ve experienced “yielding control of my computer,” perhaps I can trust and yield control of my life to “the Manufacturer and His resident agent” a bit better. The price is prepaid. I just need to yield and do as they instruct as they bring me up to my designed operating level.

Words

For me, choosing the proper word in English is often difficult at best. I often settle for one that sounds similar. Spelling and grammar are another whole story. I hope you never have to read my thoughts before my proofreading wife makes them “proper.” I have many friends who have mastered English as their second language. How they do what they do with this language amazes me. In fact, I have a young Indian friend Sneha who speaks fluent English as one of her four languages and did so before her third birthday when I first met her. (Her father speaks six.) Amazing and impressive!
Microsoft Spell Checker and Grammar Checker (computer programs) are successfully marketed because of folks like me. They are “life savers” and redeem a multitude of literary sins. It’s what they can’t do that gets me in trouble so often.
I have been cautioned by reliable sources to not attempt medical terminology because of past failures. Unfortunately, being close to having the proper nomenclature doesn’t seem to be good enough for those folks. Over a period of years I developed many growths on the muscular parts of my body. Some interfered with nerves and body movements and have had to be surgically removed. Once the scars healed I forgot about them until I was questioned by some medical professionals sometime later. Somehow the shocked look of horror that enveloped their faces didn’t correlate to me with my simple explanation of having over 60 lymphomas removed. Later, I found out that the correct name lypomas (fatty cysts) are not medically anywhere close to lymphomas (a type of cancer). Perhaps that’s one of many reasons why I wasn’t called to the medical profession.
I am well aware (usually belatedly) of my many misuses of names and terms. Fortunately, to my knowledge, there has been little harm as a result other than perhaps shocking a few medical professionals.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for some words that I have usually accurately chosen in anger or haste. Many of you still may have wounds from long ago when words could be my most devastating weapons of choice. If you do, please forgive me. I am sure I don’t have to tell you how difficult it is to fully recover from the barbs on those words. They are like stingers that dig deeper when you try to extract them and often start “secondary infections.”
Conversely, I am sitting reflecting on the pure glee that my two-year-old grandson experienced when he and his uncle were building a huge wobbly structure of cardboard blocks. His uncle was sowing encouragement into each new level of both the tower and my adoring grandson’s self esteem. I could visibly see more than a tower being built word by word. Even though they were focused on someone known as “Bob the builder,” that wasn’t who was doing the building. What a delight to see such an awesome work in progress, especially in one who hadn’t yet felt the need to build a protective shell. What a privilege to make a high value investment in another human being. There is often perpetual return and little or no expense. Now that’s what I, as a business minded person, call ROI (return on investment). Make an investment today.

Frolic

Frolic; can’t remember the last time I had occasion to use that word. Come to think of it I’m not sure I ever used it. Hope that doesn’t say something about me. It doesn’t make any difference because today I have reason to use it. The edges of my lip are arching slightly upward in anticipation. It’s probably barely perceptible to most, but a milestone for me.
It’s a delightful spring afternoon and I’ve just had a matinee date with my lovely bride of forty years. Yes, matinee because I experience some eyelid problems at the later shows. The show we enjoyed is a treat from Disney simply called “Earth.” If you’re into nature, I’d highly recommend it. What a delight!
The cinematography is breathtaking and the nature scenes amazing as the producers and directors scout the globe. Penguins, lions, walruses, cranes, elephants, schools of sardines, and an amazing assortment of other wildlife peak your fantasy. The most memorable portions to me involve “young-uns” of many species frolicking. I could hardly contain myself watching eight young ducklings crash landing from a height of what appeared to be about thirty feet after their fledgling wings appear to fail or at least not work right. Then there were the pair of polar bear cubs who had a mind of their own and little navigational or obedience instincts or skills. I also felt like tickling the young whale who showed off by swimming on its back using up the energy produced by a daily ration of 150 gallons of high-fat mother’s milk. I don’t want to spoil your personal viewing pleasure so I’ll not describe any more.
After the show, we relished the warm afternoon breeze sitting at wrought iron tables in an upscale outdoor mall. We were enjoying each other’s company and what at a cheaper establishment would simply be called a small coffee and hot chocolate. We were in a prime spot close to a concrete circle about twenty feet in diameter. It was slightly concave with eighteen strategically placed water jets and a drain in the center. The jets would erupt with streams of water in sometimes a rhythmic and sometimes an erratic pattern. Five young folks aged from about eighteen months to perhaps three and a half years old and their white Scottish terrier dog were having the time of their lives as they cavorted in the streams of water. They were thoroughly soaked and oblivious to their growing enrapt audience. One red headed, well freckled young lass of less than two danced with abandon while rhythmically trying to stamp out the erupting jets of water. Another young gentleman of about the same age pulled his pants back far enough to make a big pocket so that he could catch the water on his posterior. It was interesting seeing people’s expressions when they encountered this amazing show, especially the mothers with kids. One frowning mother suddenly broke into an impish grin and permitted her surprised young son to march into the midst of this watery delight, shoes and all.
Those of us watching, especially the grandparents, were rapidly progressing from a slight, barely perceptible, twinkles to grins and even some outright laughter. When the mother in charge of the five original children and dog finally marched her troops past me, I couldn’t help but express my heartfelt gratitude. Thanks to a very caring parent and inspired uninhibited kids I, along with a host of other folks, have a memory that I won’t soon forget. The world will wait if you’d like to frolic a bit. Go ahead; it’s OK and probably good for you, too.

Digging Out The Bracelet

Have you ever been on an emotional roller coaster bouncing between two totally different worlds? If you have, perhaps you can relate to what I’ve encountered the past several days.After many years, I finally actually got to see what a government tax refund check looks like and to contemplate what to do with one. In addition, I’ve been able to share the joy of friends who are discussing spending many thousands of dollars on some neat projects. In spite of the headlines and plunging economic charts, life is generally pretty good for many of us.I am preparing another narrated pictorial presentation to tell about my journey to Kolkata, India. Somehow when I look at pictures of my friends there and especially of the kids, I start to get a strange feeling. Why can’t they be safely in an orphanage instead of on the streets going through the garbage?Things got much closer to home with a call from a dear friend. She asked if we could visit her daughter in a local hospital. Her daughter, the mother of a seventeen-year-old estranged daughter herself, is a favorite in our household. I have special fond memories of the bond that she formed with my daughter on a mission’s trip to be with homeless folks in the bowels of Chicago. In fact, the last time I saw her she was sitting on the front row of the church where I worship.I wasn’t quite prepared for what I found in room 501. I recognized the toothy smile, but the just over one hundred pound lady behind it was someone new to us. You see, she had flirted with heroin and gotten caught in its quagmire. Even though a car ran over her feet breaking most of the bones and necessitating a new steel rod in her leg, she was anxious to get back to the streets. I chuckled when they came to give her a choice of three entrees for dinner and she said “all of them.” (She ate them all, too) The doctor came in to tell her that they had to release her but that they would give her a wheel chair to take with her.We followed up several days later looking for her under a local bridge that she has recently called her “home.” She had, somehow, navigated down a muddy bank in her wheelchair to her “home,” but was gone at the moment. We chatted with her friends and comrades. Each had a tale of their own about why they were there. Many had mental health and addiction connections. Many relayed a poignant spiritual journey.One lady, obviously drunken to a stupor, tearfully told how she would be going to court the following day to sign over the future of her five-month-old infant “for a better life.” Another young couple in their late teens told how they had dragged an old sofa several blocks and then down through the mud for their bedding here. She was pregnant with their first child and we found out we had mutual church friends. They both needed a whole list of meds to function but looked forward to being parents. I didn’t ask if they’d be raising him or her under the bridge. I could go on with tales of life under the bridge but it appears that there will soon be new chapters as the city reclaims the area and evicts and scatters the folks. They will all go somewhere. I know that many are really skilled at working the system. They told me of the folks who bring MacDonald’s, KFC, and pizza offerings. In fact, one gent sometimes makes up to two hundred dollars many days panhandling and working his “homeless-will work for food” gig. Still, you can’t help but sense needs that go far deeper than food or money.The fact remains that even armed with this limited understanding and genuine compassion; I have no idea of a strategy to make a difference. Guess it’s time to dig out that old WWJD bracelet again.

Lion's tooth

Spring is awesome! Although I am far from an arborist or horticulturist, I love the progression of “flowering everything” that emerges in the expanding daylight hours. Starting from the time that the first crocus peeks through the snow in the warmth of eastern exposures, the unfolding choreography is fantastic.
I may not get the timing right but the progression of beautiful trees and plants is amazing: Bluettes, Forsythia, Apple blossoms, Cherry blossoms, Magnolias, Azaleas, Daffodils, Tulips, Flowering crab apples, Hyacinths, Wisteria, and the list goes on and on. My wife and I seldom drive anywhere without a “look at that beautiful…” every half mile or so.
This week it is beauty and fragrances from violet and white lilacs with dancing bumble bees and also bold yellow Dandelions. Wait a minute. Dandelions? How did they get into this lovely picture? Suddenly I am brought back from the idyllic to a seemingly harsh reality. I don’t really like Dandelions and have spent a small fortune to not see them pop up like a carnival popup mole game. In fact, it’s an unstated subtle pride to have no dandelions to spoil my dream of a carpet of delicate lush green grass.
Oh, Dandelions used to be OK before I learned to not be associated with them. Over time, I progressed to prefer to be surrounded by pure classy mature Kentucky blue grass or at least a good strain of fescue. Oh, it’s not that we don’t go way back. I just outgrew the humble Dandelions and they have no place on my property.
I do have a lot of memories, though. I remember that the Dandelions were the ones hearty enough to survive the grubs and the droughts when my delicate lawn turned an embarrassingly dead brown. In fact, when I mowed lawns with a push mower in my youth (for an icy 16 ounce RC Cola), a lawn meant Buckhorns and Dandelions and little of what I term grass. Oh those were the days! I learned to fold a Buckhorn weed stem over to “shoot” the tip and to use the stain of the Dandelion for adornment before there were temporary tattoos. The milky sap of the stems (which removes warts) and especially the white tiny parachutes of the seed heads proved fascinating diversions. The seeds are unique because they don’t require cross pollenization and can be dispersed as soon as the day after the bloom appears. I loved to do the dispersing.
Spring brought meals of Dandelions over boiled potatoes with a dressing similar to what is now marketed as “hot bacon dressing.” Further back in my heritage, I understand there was some Dandelion wine. (Medicinal, no doubt) In fact, Dandelions were first imported from Europe to the Midwest to provide food for imported honeybees in early spring. Thus the name Dent-de-lion which means lion’s tooth in Old French. The ten inch intertwined edible tap root regenerates quickly from any pieces left behind by modern Dandelion digging tools. In fact, it multiplies. That beige root is higher in beta-carotene, iron and calcium than almost any other plant. This doesn’t include the fact that it is one of the safest but most potent home herbal remedies for everything from hepatitis to indigestion to skin diseases and even a treatment for mature-onset diabetes.
Come to think of it; what is the value of delicate Kentucky blue grass other than, as some in our region would say, “Just for pretty.” And what about my obsession with eliminating that deep rooted survivor that I feel threatens me and my property? Makes me wonder just what my rationale and motives are for other choices and judgments beyond my lawn. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t given responsibility for wheat and tares?