When I was a child, meal time meant that everyone in the family was gathered around the kitchen table and we ate a meal prepared by Momma and enjoyed the company of each other. I can't say we sat around discussing the problems and concerns of the family members. My parents didn't use meal time as a forum for educating the children, as Joseph Kennedy did with the young Kennedy children in Boston. When we were younger, the children didn't say much at the dinner table. It was only later, when we were older, that we joined in the conversation to a great degree.
One of the concerns I have had as the husband and father is that we don't eat dinner at the table and enjoy each other's company. Instead, most meals are eaten in the living room with the television going on. Now that doesn't mean that we don't enjoy each other's company. We talk and joke and discuss things. Perhaps more than some. But there isn't that sense of sanctity and specialness that is achieved when the whole family comes to the dinner table and gives their time to the whole.
In this environment, the dinner eaten together, whether at home or in a restaurant, becomes quite special. When we were young, our parents took us to restaurants regularly. Eating out was a special occasion. It was fun. To this day, I enjoy eating out with Cindy or Cindy and Kate or any combination of family members and friends.
A meal eaten together in an environment which is conducive to that feeling of togetherness and specialness is worthwhile in many ways. I often say that Christianity and Judaism are unique in that they both involve a common meal as part of the center ritual of the religion. Whether it is Communion or Passover, both religions call the family and friends together and ask them to invite God into the presence of the gathered.
Last night, Cindy and I celebrated our anniversary with a meal at one of our favorite restaurants in Atlanta, "Babette's Cafe" on Highlands Ave. The first time we went there was about ten years ago, with Susan and Kate and Mom and Dad for Mother's Day or Father's Day. I remember sitting around the table in the restaurant and enjoying the sublimity of the food and enjoying the presence of each other in that quiet, controlled atmosphere. It gave me joy and peace in a way that few things do.
Since then, we have come back to Babette's for meals on special occasions or when we want to make a day more special. One time, I took off early from work, and Cindy and I drove up and watched a foreign movie, with subtitles, about the life of Edith Piaf. Afterward, we drove around trying to find some place to eat supper and continue the French experience. We wound up at Babette's and really enjoyed our time together.
So, last night, Cindy and I dressed up and drove down from Dunwoody to Babette's and took our table and enjoyed a delicious meal with glasses of Bordeaux and found, again, the love we still have for each other, twenty six years after the fact of our vows. A half loaf of french bread was brought to the table with butter. I ate mussels in a sublime sauce, followed by a fish dish with fennel and tomatoes. Cindy, on the other hand, enjoyed heirloom tomatoes and a heart of palm salad with veal picatta. Afterward, we enjoyed our desserts and finally left our table, satisfied and enjoying the connection remade between us.
Life is not so hard that we can't make it more enjoyable with a loaf of crusty bread and a glass of good French wine. A fresh blueberry tart is not a bad addition, either.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Twenty Six years ago today
Twenty six years ago, at this time in Orange County, California, a photographer was hustling us over to a construction site to take pictures of our wedding party. When I look at the pictures now, I see an awful young bunch of people amongst the greenery of August, 1983.
I remember that day pretty well. I awoke rather early and went into the kitchen of the house we were using. Inside the refrigerator was a small can of Donald Duck grapefruit juice. I couldn't see anything else which drew my attention. I opened the can and drank. That is how I ended up with nothing on my stomach but the acid of a small can of grapefruit juice.
Afterward, we showered, dressed and went over to the church to prepare for the wedding. We drove up to the entrance of the church and went into the little room to the right where we waited for the beginning of the ceremony. The pastors came into the room and my dad took care of paying for their services. We had our pictures taken, dad and I, in the waiting room.
Finally, the music began and my father and I walked down the side of the sanctuary of the Methodist Church and arrived at the front of the church. I watched as the ladies were escorted down to the front by my groomsmen and then the music changed and Cindy's dad began the long walk down the center aisle toward the front of the church. As I watched, I tried to catch Cindy's eye, but she seemed focused on the floor. She was beautiful nevertheless.
The parties arrived at the front and the ceremony began. The two ministers traded off stories and liturgy, prayers and vows. At some point, Cindy and I went around the alter and knelt behind the table. I slowly leaned over toward Cindy and whispered in her ear, "I was surprised that you could get that ring on my massive paw." Cindy giggled.
Afterward, the parties exited, the congregation left the church for the reception, and we were stuck inside the sanctuary while the photographer tried to get every possible combination of pictures in the front of the church. Later, he escorted the whole wedding party next door to the construction site for an outdoor picture which took an interminable time, but turned out nicely.
Meanwhile, my in-laws' former next-door neighbors from Natchez, Mississippi, were waiting in their Rolls Royce to take us to the Balboa Yacht Club for the reception. Someone told the photographer to go to the yacht club and not the Balboa Bay Club. He said he understood. He did not.
So we arrived at the yacht club, sans photographer, and began to speak with the people who had gathered for the wedding. At some point, early in the festivities, I stepped through a barrier to the bar and asked the bartender for Bourbon on the rocks. He asked what we were celebrating. I told him my wedding. The drink was on the house.
As the temperature at the yacht club sweltered at record levels for Southern California, the locals began to swelter and melt at their tables. Meanwhile, temperatures in the 80s or 90s seemed pretty cool for August for this Georgia boy and most of the wedding party who were from the southeast adjusted fine to the heat, without humidity. The band began to play, and we danced among our guests.
It was really fun until the photographer showed up. At that point, we had to go with him outside for the typical pictures. Thank goodness Susan and Tammy had been taking casual pictures. There were quite a few iconic pictures taken by those two, particulary one of Uncle David and another of John with Cindy's bridal veil on his head.
Afterward, we left the party for Cindy's mom's Oldsmobile Cutlass and the ride back to the house, where we could shower and change and relax a bit before Tammy and Mike drove us into Los Angeles and the Hotel Bonaventure.
We were very tired and hungry and ate a sandwich before heading upstairs to find the magnum of champagne waiting for us. It ended up being somewhat of a waste, as we really weren't up to drinking that much bubbly before calling it a day. I ordered room service for the next morning and we went to sleep.
The next morning, we were awakened by a knock at the door; Cindy hid in the bathroom, and I answered the door and let the room service waiter get the room ready. He opened the drapes and I opened the sheers and saw the Hollywood sign on the hills outside our window. That was pretty cool.
After breakfast, we dressed, arranged our suitcases, and headed downstairs to the bellstand and the shuttle which took us to the airport for a ride to Atlanta, then on to London. I wouldn't recover completely until about three days into our time in London.
It was a lot of fun. Despite the heat and the flubs with the flowers and the Californians questions as to why I wanted to live in Georgia. All that went by the wayside as I had my wife on my arm, headed for a new adventure.
Happy Anniversary.
I remember that day pretty well. I awoke rather early and went into the kitchen of the house we were using. Inside the refrigerator was a small can of Donald Duck grapefruit juice. I couldn't see anything else which drew my attention. I opened the can and drank. That is how I ended up with nothing on my stomach but the acid of a small can of grapefruit juice.
Afterward, we showered, dressed and went over to the church to prepare for the wedding. We drove up to the entrance of the church and went into the little room to the right where we waited for the beginning of the ceremony. The pastors came into the room and my dad took care of paying for their services. We had our pictures taken, dad and I, in the waiting room.
Finally, the music began and my father and I walked down the side of the sanctuary of the Methodist Church and arrived at the front of the church. I watched as the ladies were escorted down to the front by my groomsmen and then the music changed and Cindy's dad began the long walk down the center aisle toward the front of the church. As I watched, I tried to catch Cindy's eye, but she seemed focused on the floor. She was beautiful nevertheless.
The parties arrived at the front and the ceremony began. The two ministers traded off stories and liturgy, prayers and vows. At some point, Cindy and I went around the alter and knelt behind the table. I slowly leaned over toward Cindy and whispered in her ear, "I was surprised that you could get that ring on my massive paw." Cindy giggled.
Afterward, the parties exited, the congregation left the church for the reception, and we were stuck inside the sanctuary while the photographer tried to get every possible combination of pictures in the front of the church. Later, he escorted the whole wedding party next door to the construction site for an outdoor picture which took an interminable time, but turned out nicely.
Meanwhile, my in-laws' former next-door neighbors from Natchez, Mississippi, were waiting in their Rolls Royce to take us to the Balboa Yacht Club for the reception. Someone told the photographer to go to the yacht club and not the Balboa Bay Club. He said he understood. He did not.
So we arrived at the yacht club, sans photographer, and began to speak with the people who had gathered for the wedding. At some point, early in the festivities, I stepped through a barrier to the bar and asked the bartender for Bourbon on the rocks. He asked what we were celebrating. I told him my wedding. The drink was on the house.
As the temperature at the yacht club sweltered at record levels for Southern California, the locals began to swelter and melt at their tables. Meanwhile, temperatures in the 80s or 90s seemed pretty cool for August for this Georgia boy and most of the wedding party who were from the southeast adjusted fine to the heat, without humidity. The band began to play, and we danced among our guests.
It was really fun until the photographer showed up. At that point, we had to go with him outside for the typical pictures. Thank goodness Susan and Tammy had been taking casual pictures. There were quite a few iconic pictures taken by those two, particulary one of Uncle David and another of John with Cindy's bridal veil on his head.
Afterward, we left the party for Cindy's mom's Oldsmobile Cutlass and the ride back to the house, where we could shower and change and relax a bit before Tammy and Mike drove us into Los Angeles and the Hotel Bonaventure.
We were very tired and hungry and ate a sandwich before heading upstairs to find the magnum of champagne waiting for us. It ended up being somewhat of a waste, as we really weren't up to drinking that much bubbly before calling it a day. I ordered room service for the next morning and we went to sleep.
The next morning, we were awakened by a knock at the door; Cindy hid in the bathroom, and I answered the door and let the room service waiter get the room ready. He opened the drapes and I opened the sheers and saw the Hollywood sign on the hills outside our window. That was pretty cool.
After breakfast, we dressed, arranged our suitcases, and headed downstairs to the bellstand and the shuttle which took us to the airport for a ride to Atlanta, then on to London. I wouldn't recover completely until about three days into our time in London.
It was a lot of fun. Despite the heat and the flubs with the flowers and the Californians questions as to why I wanted to live in Georgia. All that went by the wayside as I had my wife on my arm, headed for a new adventure.
Happy Anniversary.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Finding faith on the moon
To get a man on the moon and bring him back, that was the challenge issued by President Kennedy. After seven years of science and mathematics and precision, a Purdue engineer and pilot stepped off a step on a ladder and touched down on the previously unknown. Numbers and scientific proof and equations and method.
But ultimately, there was a whole lot of faith in the process, in the people, in the work, in the machinery and in the God that carried them from Cape Kennedy to the Sea of Tranquility and back to earth. The proof of that lay in the final step he took.
Because Neil didn't know what would happen when he stepped off that step. He didn't know what his foot would hit when he stepped. And after it all was over, they didn't really know what would happen when they hit the jets which would take them back into orbit. They had faith that Michael Collins would be able to dock the command module with the lem. They all had faith that the science and the mathematics would shoot them out of that orbit around the moon and return them to earth and that the parachute would hold when they dropped in the ocean.
And despite the precaution of placing them in an air-tight trailer on board the aircraft carrier for several weeks, they all had faith that they had not brought anything back from the moon which would contaminate our planet.
And they all were right to place their faith where they did. Because that is exactly what they believed and exactly what President Kennedy believed when he challenged us to go there in the first place.
But ultimately, there was a whole lot of faith in the process, in the people, in the work, in the machinery and in the God that carried them from Cape Kennedy to the Sea of Tranquility and back to earth. The proof of that lay in the final step he took.
Because Neil didn't know what would happen when he stepped off that step. He didn't know what his foot would hit when he stepped. And after it all was over, they didn't really know what would happen when they hit the jets which would take them back into orbit. They had faith that Michael Collins would be able to dock the command module with the lem. They all had faith that the science and the mathematics would shoot them out of that orbit around the moon and return them to earth and that the parachute would hold when they dropped in the ocean.
And despite the precaution of placing them in an air-tight trailer on board the aircraft carrier for several weeks, they all had faith that they had not brought anything back from the moon which would contaminate our planet.
And they all were right to place their faith where they did. Because that is exactly what they believed and exactly what President Kennedy believed when he challenged us to go there in the first place.
The touch of the ordinary
I graduated from Law School just as MTV began on cable television. I remember visiting Ken Smith in Danville, Virginia and watching music videos while Ken was at work. The effect of the images as connected with the music was alluring and addictive. So addictive that in 1983 my cousin Ed spent most of his vacation time in New Orleans with his buddies, eating pizza, drinking beer and watching music videos while the allures of New Orleans hung outside the house, thick like the humidity and the Spanish moss in the trees.
I remember that I soon found room to object to music videos because they substituted a pre-made image to go along with the music. This created a situation in which pre-packaged images substituted for the associations between the music with the age of the listener and the places in which we heard the music. It eradicated the imagination of the listener, the memory of the recipient and replaced it with some mini-drama, conceived by some Hollywood director or "creative" person. Our memories were replaced with a storyboard.
When I was a young teenager, I remember listening to "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple while my buddies and I played cards and slept over at each other's houses during Summer break. The songs of Deep Purple and Jethro Tull and such make me think of those sleepovers in Dunwoody in the late 60's and early 70's.
For at least two years, the equipment manager at W&L would put Jethro Tull's "Aqualung" in the tape player first and we heard it every day before and after football practice. For that reason, that song reminds me of a dusty locker room under the stands at Wilson Field. Just like "Beast of Burden" by the Rolling Stones reminds me of our Senior year during football season. I can't tell you how many times we sang that at the top of our lungs during my senior year in football.
Jim Stafford's song, "Spiders and Snakes" will forever be associated with high school basketball, since it seemed to be constantly playing when John Boswell and I were driving either to or from basketball practice. Of course, "One Toke Over the Line" figures in there too, since we always sang that together when driving around.
When I think of Grand Funk Railroad, I think of a restaurant in Valdosta where my parents always drove to meet my aunt and uncle to exchange Christmas presents. In the restaurant was a juke box which had all the greatest hits of Grand Funk, and which always seemed to be playing while we ate at the restaurant in early December.
Finally, Peter, Paul & Mary's "If I had a Hammer" makes me think about driving around Indianapolis with my dad in his Hillman Scout, listening to the folk music on the gray leather radio he kept in the Hillman.
I have food triggers to memories. Fried Shrimp makes me think of St. Petersburg. Oysters mean Apalachicola. Beaten biscuits mean little ham biscuits in a bag for the train ride from Hopkinsville. Barbecued pork means the Pic A Rib across from the old train depot in Clarksville. Turkey, dressing and all the trimmings reminds me of the dining room at the farm. A cold coca cola is the front room in my great aunt Mamie's house on Franklin Street. And coal smoke drifting in the winter wind, and the smell of tobacco curing permeating everything throughout the year.
Its funny how different things can trigger explicit memories and emotions. Like this afternoon. Kate and I were standing in line at the Kroger Pharmacy, trying to buy prescriptions for Cindy, toothpaste for Kate and dogfood for Tex. We were talking about nothing. Really, nothing. Cindy was sitting elsewhere within a display of patio furniture and plastic cabanas, trying to quell a burning pain in her knee.
When we had completed our purchases, we left the pharmacy area and headed for the display where Cindy was sitting. As I approached, I noticed her sitting under the plastic cabana, with her sunglasses on. I made a bad joke about visiting Margaritaville.
But as I approached closer to Cindy, I noticed a hitch in her voice as she told me she had called Momma's house to hear the recording left by Kate on the answering machine. Apparently, as she heard the answering machine message on the telephone, she suddenly remembered that the old message had been laid down by my father. Now Cindy sat, behind the privacy of her sunglasses, and mourned anew for the loss of my father. For the loss of his recorded voice on an answering machine.
As I bent down to comfort Cindy in her chair, employees of Kroger came up behind us and offered assistance and comfort. Kate, embarrassed by the attention, hustled us out of the store. I offered my arm to Cindy as we left the store.
In his old age, my father could be sarcastic and short sometimes. Particularly to Cindy and to Momma. But I guess we all knew the depth of his love for us and still feel our loss. It is amazing what can trigger those memories. Amazing how deeply they go. And how closely they remain near the surface.
I remember that I soon found room to object to music videos because they substituted a pre-made image to go along with the music. This created a situation in which pre-packaged images substituted for the associations between the music with the age of the listener and the places in which we heard the music. It eradicated the imagination of the listener, the memory of the recipient and replaced it with some mini-drama, conceived by some Hollywood director or "creative" person. Our memories were replaced with a storyboard.
When I was a young teenager, I remember listening to "Smoke on the Water" by Deep Purple while my buddies and I played cards and slept over at each other's houses during Summer break. The songs of Deep Purple and Jethro Tull and such make me think of those sleepovers in Dunwoody in the late 60's and early 70's.
For at least two years, the equipment manager at W&L would put Jethro Tull's "Aqualung" in the tape player first and we heard it every day before and after football practice. For that reason, that song reminds me of a dusty locker room under the stands at Wilson Field. Just like "Beast of Burden" by the Rolling Stones reminds me of our Senior year during football season. I can't tell you how many times we sang that at the top of our lungs during my senior year in football.
Jim Stafford's song, "Spiders and Snakes" will forever be associated with high school basketball, since it seemed to be constantly playing when John Boswell and I were driving either to or from basketball practice. Of course, "One Toke Over the Line" figures in there too, since we always sang that together when driving around.
When I think of Grand Funk Railroad, I think of a restaurant in Valdosta where my parents always drove to meet my aunt and uncle to exchange Christmas presents. In the restaurant was a juke box which had all the greatest hits of Grand Funk, and which always seemed to be playing while we ate at the restaurant in early December.
Finally, Peter, Paul & Mary's "If I had a Hammer" makes me think about driving around Indianapolis with my dad in his Hillman Scout, listening to the folk music on the gray leather radio he kept in the Hillman.
I have food triggers to memories. Fried Shrimp makes me think of St. Petersburg. Oysters mean Apalachicola. Beaten biscuits mean little ham biscuits in a bag for the train ride from Hopkinsville. Barbecued pork means the Pic A Rib across from the old train depot in Clarksville. Turkey, dressing and all the trimmings reminds me of the dining room at the farm. A cold coca cola is the front room in my great aunt Mamie's house on Franklin Street. And coal smoke drifting in the winter wind, and the smell of tobacco curing permeating everything throughout the year.
Its funny how different things can trigger explicit memories and emotions. Like this afternoon. Kate and I were standing in line at the Kroger Pharmacy, trying to buy prescriptions for Cindy, toothpaste for Kate and dogfood for Tex. We were talking about nothing. Really, nothing. Cindy was sitting elsewhere within a display of patio furniture and plastic cabanas, trying to quell a burning pain in her knee.
When we had completed our purchases, we left the pharmacy area and headed for the display where Cindy was sitting. As I approached, I noticed her sitting under the plastic cabana, with her sunglasses on. I made a bad joke about visiting Margaritaville.
But as I approached closer to Cindy, I noticed a hitch in her voice as she told me she had called Momma's house to hear the recording left by Kate on the answering machine. Apparently, as she heard the answering machine message on the telephone, she suddenly remembered that the old message had been laid down by my father. Now Cindy sat, behind the privacy of her sunglasses, and mourned anew for the loss of my father. For the loss of his recorded voice on an answering machine.
As I bent down to comfort Cindy in her chair, employees of Kroger came up behind us and offered assistance and comfort. Kate, embarrassed by the attention, hustled us out of the store. I offered my arm to Cindy as we left the store.
In his old age, my father could be sarcastic and short sometimes. Particularly to Cindy and to Momma. But I guess we all knew the depth of his love for us and still feel our loss. It is amazing what can trigger those memories. Amazing how deeply they go. And how closely they remain near the surface.
Communion on the moon
I read recently that when Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong landed on the moon's surface and climbed down the ladder to place a human foot (or four) on the bleak surface, Buzz had secreted a tiny communion cup and loaf for serving a communion service on the surface of the moon. I don't think it was publicized and the elements were returned to the Presbyterian Church which had provided them, but I thought it was interesting that he, as a Presbyterian elder at the time, found it important to take this risk in order to celebrate his faith.
I also read that he is no longer a Presbyterian elder and does not attend church, which is somewhat sad. I don't ever find the loss of faith to be inspiring or proof of some counter-argument. Instead, I see it as a loss of something which was significant to the former believer. As difficult as it may be to hold on to a faith, such as Christianity, it does require a beautiful sort of courage to hold to a belief by faith alone, particularly when the experiences of life often countervail to our beliefs.
Faith which holds the Believer is strong and so is doubt, sometimes. The greater the doubt, the greater the faith which is required in order to stay faithful. When a faith which led someone to secrete contraband on a space mission in order to celebrate a personal belief and make contact, spiritually, is lost, then something precious and beautiful is lost as well.
In a world without faith, we are all losers, equally. I remember the picture of the earth rising over the surface of the moon which was taken by the two astronauts of Apollo 11. That sight was awesome to us, but particularly so for those two lonely men on the surface of the moon. I wonder how much of that awe was lost when the astronauts returned to that beatiful orb rising in the black nothingness of space and started dealing with the banal and the necessary.
I also read that he is no longer a Presbyterian elder and does not attend church, which is somewhat sad. I don't ever find the loss of faith to be inspiring or proof of some counter-argument. Instead, I see it as a loss of something which was significant to the former believer. As difficult as it may be to hold on to a faith, such as Christianity, it does require a beautiful sort of courage to hold to a belief by faith alone, particularly when the experiences of life often countervail to our beliefs.
Faith which holds the Believer is strong and so is doubt, sometimes. The greater the doubt, the greater the faith which is required in order to stay faithful. When a faith which led someone to secrete contraband on a space mission in order to celebrate a personal belief and make contact, spiritually, is lost, then something precious and beautiful is lost as well.
In a world without faith, we are all losers, equally. I remember the picture of the earth rising over the surface of the moon which was taken by the two astronauts of Apollo 11. That sight was awesome to us, but particularly so for those two lonely men on the surface of the moon. I wonder how much of that awe was lost when the astronauts returned to that beatiful orb rising in the black nothingness of space and started dealing with the banal and the necessary.
The loss of faith
When Neil and Buzz stepped out on that lunar landscape
And conquered the moon for God and Country,
Buzz included a tiny communion cup and loaf
So that he might share the moment
With Christ and all his Presbyterian apostles.
But now I learn that Buzz has lost this connection
And flies solo now without the aid of the Heavenly host.
Which leads me to wonder what virus
He contracted when he stepped on the moon's surface
Or what vision he discovered when the wonder and awe
Of July 20, 1969 had passed us by.
It is sad, in a way, to consider
That when all the eyes of our home planet,
Blue, Green, Black, Brown and Hazel, were fixed upon his form
Bouncing happily across the extraterrestrial dirt of the moon,
He took time to connect with its Creator
And yet will not find the time today when he is earthbound,
More alone in this world, save for the lonely multitudes around him.
And conquered the moon for God and Country,
Buzz included a tiny communion cup and loaf
So that he might share the moment
With Christ and all his Presbyterian apostles.
But now I learn that Buzz has lost this connection
And flies solo now without the aid of the Heavenly host.
Which leads me to wonder what virus
He contracted when he stepped on the moon's surface
Or what vision he discovered when the wonder and awe
Of July 20, 1969 had passed us by.
It is sad, in a way, to consider
That when all the eyes of our home planet,
Blue, Green, Black, Brown and Hazel, were fixed upon his form
Bouncing happily across the extraterrestrial dirt of the moon,
He took time to connect with its Creator
And yet will not find the time today when he is earthbound,
More alone in this world, save for the lonely multitudes around him.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Anniversaries
August 3rd. Susan and Kevin's anniversary. Dee Dee's birthday. Three days until Cindy and my anniversary. Despite the hustle and bustle, it feels better, a little calmer than last month. I hope Susan and Kevin enjoy their anniversary.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)