Sunday, 05 August 2012

Owen and I are currently reading Ron Roy’s The X’ed-Out X-Ray. This strangely titled book is named what it is because it’s part of a series of books, the A to Z Mysteries series.

I’m always curious about what authors do for the letter X. In most adult books, it’s a non-issue, but it comes up quite regularly in kids books. There are tons of A to Z books. Often, I think the choice for the X word is a cop-out. For examples, we have the book V is for Viking: A Minnesota Alphabet. As the title implies, the book donates one or two pages to each letter of the alphabet featuring something relating to Minnesota. V, as you probably guess, is for Viking. W is for Walleye. Guess what X is for? It’s for “X marks the spot” on the map where Laura Ingalls used to live. Totally cop-out.

Slightly better is Gone Wild, an alphabet book of endangered animals. For the letter X – and only the letter X – the author flips his otherwise consistent practice of alphebetizing the animals by common name first, then scientific name.

A weird case is Dr. Seuss’s ABC. When the good doctor arrives at the 24th letter, he doesn’t even bother to list any words that begin with X; he just lists off a few words that contain the long-suffering consonant: ax, extra, and fox are among his choices. This is the only letter for which he does this. It’s weird because, come on: this is Dr. Seuss! He can just make up any damn word he pleases. And he does – two letters letter, he offers up a zizzer-zazzer-zuzz as an example of something that begins with Z.

So, part of me appreciates what Ron Roy did here: he managed to remain consistent, which is more than most authors can say. But part of me thinks “X’ed-out” is a really stupid word. But maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on the guy. After all, he didn’t make up the word; it’s even been used in other book titles (albeit without the hyphen).

See?

Anyway, my son must’ve noticed my moderate revulsion. Today he asked me to names ten words that begin with the letter X. And…it’s really hard. Especially because he specifically told me I couldn’t use x-ray. My nevxt selection was X-mas, but my wife was nearby, and she said that didn’t count. I don’t know who made her senior editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, but I attempted to muddle through with my son’s and wife’s restrictions.

Here’s what I came up with:

-Xylophone

-Xenon

-Xenophobia

–Xeric

–Xebec

-Xylem

-Xerxes

-Xerox

-Xeroxed

-Xeroxing

 …Yeah, total cop-out at the end there.

Monday, 06 August 2012

I met with my advisor this afternoon as part of my summer internship program. Upon arriving at his office, I complimented him on his glasses. They looked like this:

I guess these things are all the rage now. Or should I say, again? Two co-workers have recently updated their eyewear, and they both opted for the clunky Wayfarers, too. One’s a guy and one’s a lady, so evidently this fashion statement is not held back by gender restrictions in the same way, say, lipstick is.

My advisor used to have thin-wired, nearly circular frames, and I took the opportunity to remark that Buddy Holly must be winning out over John Lennon in the optical fashion world right now.

             Buddy Holly:                                                                                    John Lennon:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, 07 August 2012

Here’s an interesting question: Could the upcoming US Presidential election be a tie?

Well, of course it could be a tie, just like there could be an all-powerful god in te sky, but we all know the real answer, right?

Not so fast argues THIS FASCINATING ARTICLE. Of course, the author admits this is highly unlikely, but it is more likely than it has been during the past several elections. I should mention he’s referring to electoral votes – not actual votes. Remember back in 2000 when there was a near tie between that one wooden detatched automaton and that other wooden detatched automaton? Yeah, see that was just a tie in the popular vote, and it was, strictly speaking, a tie anyway. Regardless, back then the electoral vote was never an issue: as soon as Bush Jr. was declared Florida’s winner, it was a no-brainer who won out in the electoral department.

No, what this article is discussing is the possibility of a tie on the electoral level which, to me, seems like more of a mess than what happened in 2000. The author admits the supreme court would likely get involved, thus speeding up the process and getting the job done, but also raising all sorts of questions about the constituationality of their power…again, like what happened in 2000.

Anyway, just go read it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, 04 August 2012

Today, Jennifer and I attended an authors’ Book Release Party. I didn’t really know what to expect, but we had a good time.

The book Atheist Voices of Minnesota is being released later this month. I volunteered (and interned) as an associate editor for the book. Both Jennifer and I have essays that were accepted for inclusion within the book, too.

I’ve been to a few other events similar to this, but this one was the first time I’ve been to one just for the authors and their families. Back in 2010, for example, I drove over to my old college and attended a reception for the authors and anyone else interested. There was live music and food, and several authors (me included) were invited to the lectern to read an excerpt from the book (Breathing In, Volume II). There will be something like that next month, at a local library – and stay tuned, ’cause I’m inviting everyone I know to attend – but today’s event was more informal and intimate.

Okay, first of all: Pot Luck! So already I love it.

Second: Meeting so many of the authors in person was awesome. Of course, some of the authors I knew quite well before showing up today. A few others, I had met briefly, but don’t really know them. Still others, I’d never seen before. It was great to put faces with names. I kept thinking things like: “Oh, so that’s the lady who defied her parents’ wishes when she got married.” And: “Huh. That’s the the guy who grew up with a mom and grandma that channeled the dead? Weird.” And: “So that lady’s a vegan. I wonder what she’s gonna eat from the buffet? Oh well, more for me.”

About 25 of the 35 essayists were presnt, plus most of the editorial staff, the man who penned the book’s Introduction, the woman who painted the book’s cover, and people who worked on the book’s design and on the publisher’s publicity team.

Among the authors are…

Greg Laden, who writes one of my favorite blogs.

Shannon Drury, a self-proclaimed “radical housewife.”

PZ Myers, who writes what is probably the most popular science blog on the web.

and Norman Barrett Wiik, who I’d never met in person until today. Thankfully, he and his wife showed up with their kids, so my kids loved jumping around the room and causing mayhem with them.

Anyway, the book is for sale now, so please buy a copy. It contains many moving, insighful, and sometimes funny essays. Besides seeing what my wife and I wrote, if you are an ex-JW, you might be interested to know there’s another essay in the book from a former Witness. And if you are my co-worker, you might be interested to know there’s another essay in the book from one of our co-workers.

The book is for sale at Amazon. It’s slightly cheaper at Barnes and Noble. If Kindle is your sort of thing, it’s available for that, too. And if you’re super cheap (and you live in Hennepin County), you can get it from your local library.

Friday, 03 August 2012

This evening, in an attempt to give my wife some time to run to the store and get the house ready for company, I took the kids to a local park. About a week ago, I saw a flyer advertising August 3rd (that’s today) as a family fun night; the highlight being an after-dusk showing of Rango. I had no intention of sitting through another showing of this boring and marginally-sensical animated film, but I thought the other activities looked fun.

I didn’t tell my kids there was anything special going on at the park, I just asked them if they wanted to go to the park. They came running into the kitchen from the living room, both shouting “Yay!” and clapping their hands.

“All right, get your shoes on,” I said.

The first thing I noticed as I pushed the stroller toward the park was a table with snacks on it. There was a jar with a sign indicating donations were welcome. Ugh. I left my wallet at home (I don’t often bring cash to the local park). I felt bed not having even a dollar to toss in the jar, especially since the jar was nearly empty.

We walked through the line, which went fast, and took some snacks. Volunteers helped everything go smoothly; one man was working a large grill, preparing several hot dogs at a time, and other volunteers helped us with cups of lemonade.

We sat on a park bench; Owen downed a hot dog, a bag of chips, and some pink lemonade. Isla had chips and yellow lemonade (her favorite color). We each enjoyed a cookie. Behind us was the open field, and several families had already parked themselves on the grass with lawn chairs and blankets in preparation for the movie. Owen, meanwhile, couldn’t keep his eyes off the inflatable jumper.

As soon as we were done eating, we ran over to the jumper, and we only had to wait a couple of minutes to have a turn. The folks in charge said that little kids could go in, too. There were only two other kids inside, so I told Owen to take care of his sister and sent them both in. This was Isla’s first time inside a jumper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the frenetic jumping session – which, I could tell from their expressions, didn’t last nearly long enough – we walked over to the crowd and sat down to watch a puppet show. Open Eye Theater was there, and, as part of their summer Drive Way Tour, they put on a showing of Katie Tomatie.

They both absolutely loved this show. They never took their eyes off the tiny stage. Even when it was tough to hear (lots of people were making noise on the playground and near the climbing wall), they kept watching. A loud noise in the show made Isla jump, and she got up off the grass and settled into my lap for reassurance. I asked her if she was okay, and – too engrossed to look away from the stage – I deduced she was fine.

Once the show, which lasted about 20 minutes, completed, Owen said, “I bet mama’s gonna wonder where we are! We’ve never been at the park so long!” I told him he was probably right.

If you live in the metro area, get to a Family Fun Night. And, if you have young kids, take them to an Open Eye production. You’ll be glad you did. Just try to remember your wallet.

Thursday, 02 August 2012

And here’s another topic, not related to today, that I want to discuss. Again, this involves my daughter’s birthday party.

My sister arrived at the party with, among other things, a small collection of papers. During a lull in the festivities, she explained that Nana – our paternal grandmother – recently mailed her a package of papers from yesterdecade. Some of the items were pictures my sister colored as a child, and cards she sent to Nana. Also included were a few notes my sister wrote to Nana during the meetings, and my sister showed me the ones she thought had personal interest. For example, in one, my sister mentions spending time with Jennifer (who was not yet my wife) and Jennifer’s sister. Also included in the package were two items relating solely to me. Though Nana did not tell my sister to give them to me (in fact, she said very little; a mere Post-It note stuck onto the top sheet said “I thought you might like to have these”), my sister figured I would want them.

One was a brief letter I wrote to Nana in 1982, when I was six years old. Another was the draft of a poem Nana was writing about how much Jehovah loves me. I don’t recall this particular poem, though Nana did write a few poems for my sister and me over the years. Maybe I only ever saw the final draft, and this rougher version (with losts of cross-outs and insertions) was thus new to me.

Anyway, here’s what I have to say about that: Why didn’t Nana just mail these things to me?

I can make several guesses as to why she didn’t. But what I mean is: what was going through her mind when she mailed them? If she was just trying to make contact with my sister (something she does about once a year), then why include items that “belonged” to me? And judging from the brief Post-It note, Nana didn’t care to engage in real conversation or invite much of a response…so, again, why not just slap on a note that said “Here James, you can have this stuff,” stuff it all in an envelope, and send it on its way?

This was the second time in as many weeks that I was reminded of the last time my sister had contact with Nana…

About a year ago, my uncle died. While he was sick in the hospital, my sister decided to pay him a visit. Many of my relatives, including Nana – my uncle’s mother – were there, too. My sister took the opportunity to show everyone pictures of her nephew and niece (those are my kids, for those of you who have trouble following this stuff). Nana took one of the photos of Isla, and showed it to her friend (who was also there to be with my uncle). As she did, she said, tearfully, “This is my great granddaughter.”

I also thought of that last week, when my wife went to the family cabin for a “girls’ day.” Her mom and grandma were there, as were her aunts, cousins, and the older of her two sisters. When my wife arrived home after the long day, she came bearing lots of food (including the faux-honey I whined about here). Among the leftovers was a plate of desserts from her sister. This is a good thing, because her sister is known for concocting tasty desserts. Jennifer said: “My sister said to tell the kids these are a gift from Auntie Myrtle.”

[Aside: Okay, my wife doesn’t have a sister named Myrtle. But Jennifer suggested I change the names of people who may be incriminated in some way or another. I guess, if you’re a JW, and you give a cookie to your ex-JW sister’s toddler, you might be questioned by the elders. So…Myrtle it is.]

Of course, I don’t mind telling the kids that these treats were baked by Auntie Myrtle, but I didn’t like that Myrtle wanted the kids to think they were some treat special for them – as if she baked the treats that morning expressly with the idea of giving them to Owen and Isla – two people she knew she wouldn’t be seeing. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever made anything for Isla. Not even when Isla was born. Heck, she didn’t even attend Isla’s first birthday party – you know, her baby shower? – the one time that Witnesses can celebrate births.

Anyway, Jennifer respected her sister Myrtle’s request. Isla, of course, didn’t care, primarily because she has no idea who Myrtle is. Owen asked Jennifer to repeat her statement: “Who?” he asked, and then my wife had to clarify, “Auntie Myrtle. My sister.”

I don’t like that sort of thing. I don’t like Nana showing off a borrowed photo of Isla and claiming it’s her great granddaughter, and I don’t like omni-absent Myrtle finagling a way remind our kids that, yes, they have an aunt out there somewhere on Planet Watchtower.

Now here’s what you’re thinking: “But, James, Nana IS Isla’s great-grandma, and Myrtle IS Owen and Isla’s aunt.” And, yes, I agree. The logical, black-and-white, by the book side of my personality fully acknowledges and agrees with that and would defend its validity.

But not really.

To explain, let me do what I always do: Give examples.

At a wedding I officiated last month, a man stopped me on my way out. He complimented me on the ceremony, and then asked, “Are you a minister?”

I said, “Well, it’s just a side job.”

Why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I did visit the Church of Life’s online monastary, I did agree to their tenets, I filled out their form, sent in the money, and then subsequently submitted my ordination to the State of Minnesota. The Chruch of Life confirms that I am a reverand and…a minister.

So, technically: Yes. I am a minister, and I could have honestly answered the man’s question in that manner.

But not really.

I knew what he meant. He meant: “Are you a person who has received theological training and credentials and now uses them to lead a church or congregation in their religious worship?” In which case, no. I am not a minister.

Several years ago, I was sitting at a table at a wedding reception, and I saw a woman fumbling with her glasses. A lens had popped out and, though she and her friend had recovered it from the floor, she was unable to reinsert it into the frame. So I went over, pulled out my opticians’ screwdriver, loosened the eyewire screw, set the lens bezel on the bevel, snugged the screw, then apologized for the fingerprints. The woman thanked me and asked, “Are you, like, an optician or something?”

I said, “No.”

But why didn’t I just say yes? After all, I had only quit the eyeglass industry – an industry I had been employed at for over eight years – a few months earlier. My certification as an optician – granted by the American Board of Opticianry by virtue of the passing of their grueling test, and renewed by me twice after submitting credits for continuing education – was still valid. In fact, even though I quit my job as an optician in September 2002, my certification remained valid for more than a year – until the final day of 2003.

So, yes, I was technically an optician, and could have honsetly answered the woman in that manner.

But not really.

I knew what she meant. She meant: “Are you currently employed in an industry where you manufacture, prescribe, repair, adjust, or sell spectacles?” The answer was no.

Many years ago, a friend of mine married a woman who had a child from another man. When I asked him how he felt about bringing the child, who was not his, into his life like that, my friend replied, “Maybe I can’t be his father, but I can be his dad.”

This maudlin and uncharacteristically syrupy statement wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Oh sure, I could have argued that “dad” is just an informal term for “father.” But I knew what he meant. He meant that, though he was not the child’s biological father, he was set to become the male role-model in the child’s life. My friend would provide food, shelter, discipline, companionship, and education to the child in a way that the other man – the one who only provided the sperm – never did and never would. The passing of years has borne out the truth of his pithy prediction.

So, yes, Nana and Myrtle are my children’s great-grandma and auntie, repsectively.

But not really.

Wednesday, 01 August 2012

As you might have noticed, I generally write about something relating to each day. Well, not this time, dear blog reader. This time, despite having nothing against the events of today, I am going to write about something from a few days ago. Specifically, I want to write about some things that happened and didn’t happen back on Saturday.

Saturday, you may recall, was my daughter’s birthday. She turned two. We celebrated. I wrote about it here. Unsurprisingly, my parents were not there. Neither were my grandparents. This is completely unsurprising for many reasons, chief among them because they did not receive invitations in the mail, but also because they all live far away and because they’re all Witnesses. Witnesses, for those who may not have picked up on this at my blog before, view the celebration of life as a sin. If it occurs on the day of a person’s birth. Or, more correctly, on the anniversary of the person’s birth (the person’s actual birthday is just fine, as long as it’s called a “baby shower” and not a “birthday party”).

When I was growing up, and even through my 20s, my parents always acknowledged my birthday. Oh, they didn’t celebrate it, of course, but they did acknowledge it. I always appreciated the thought. My mom would say something like, “I can’t believe it’s been X years since you were born.” Or, “X years ago today your dad was driving me to the hospital!” And even, “If you were born in New York, your birthday wouldn’t be until tomorrow!” (yeah, that’s an esoteric comment that takes some explaining). I recall waking up in the morning, hobbling into the living room or kitchen, and getting a kiss on the cheek. My mom said “How’s my 15 year old?” or something like that, to indicate that I’d graduated to the next year of life.

My dad, too, always paid tribute to the day. He’d sit down at the dining room table after work, say the prayer, then pick up his fork, look at me, and say, “Well, Jimmy…are you 9 years old today? I can’t believe it! You’r making me feel so old.” Or he’d say, “Are you sure you’re 11 today?” and I would respond, “I don’t know. I don’t remember being there!” And he’d laugh and say he remembered that day very well.

When I no longer lived with my parents, they still reached out to me on my birthday. My dad, true to his nature, sometimes called the day after, apologizing for his forgetfulness. And, at least once, he called the day after my birthday because he genuinely thought that was my birth date.

When I recall my grandparents treatment of my brithday, I immediately think of my maternal grandfather. He called me everyday on my birthday – for over thirty years – wished me a happy birthday and gave me a scripture to go look up. The scripture had absolutely no signficance except for the fact that it contained the same number as my new age. For example, when I was twenty-eight, he told me to go look up 2 Kings 10:36:

The time that Jehu reigned over Israel in Samaria was twenty-eight years.

When Owen was born, all of my relatives – the Witnesses and the non-Witnesses – celebrated his birthday. My sister-in-law helped organize a birthday party for our close friends, and my mother-in-law was instrumental in setting up a party at the cabin for the family. My mom attended one of the showers, and heaped copious presents upon Owen. My grandparents, likewise, sent Owen gifts and well wishes.

On the anniversary of Owen’s birth, my family – though their religion forbade them from celebrating it – at least acknowledged Owen’s birthday. My grandfather gave me a scripture to read to Owen – a scripture that contained the number one, of course. And both my parents called that day. Similar actions occurred on Owen’s second and third birthdays.

I haven’t had contact from any of my four grandparents since 2008, unless you count the time, in 2009, that I called my mom’s mom to see how she was doing after an operation. I told her I would come visit that evening, but then my mom called me later to say that her dad – my grandfather, and the very same guy who used to pass out birthday scriptures – told her to tell me I was not welcome at his house.

Nevertheless, my parents continued to maintain a relationship with me, and called on my birthday, and on Owen’s, every year. Last year, they both called on Isla’s birthday, too.

But not this year – and here’s the reason why I waited a few days before writing this: I was curious to see if my mom (not wanting to interrupt our sinful party wherein Isla received the head of John the Baptist on a platter) would call the day after Isla’s party. I was also wondering if, maybe, my dad was just being his absent-minded self and would call in the next day or so, after my stepmom reminded him of his granddaughter’s birthday anniversary. So, though Isla is lucky to have all four of her grandparents – five if you count my stepmom – and five of her great-grandparents, she got exactly jack shit from two of her grandparents and four of her great-grandparents. Not even a phone call to say, “I can’t believe how big my baby girl is growing.” Or, more appropriately, “I can’t believe how slow she’s growing.”

Part of me feels bad writing about this. I mean, my parents – including my stepmom – are good people. Despite living in antoher time zone, my mom regularly visits, and she always arrives with gifts and offers to take us out for dinner. Periodically, she sends care packages in the mail for the kids, and they revel in the 45 minutes it takes them to tear into the industrial-strength packaging she employs.

My dad, meanwhile, is among the most genuinely kind people I know. He’s gregarious to a fault (ask my mom), and he makes friends easily. His parents often verbalized their confusion as to how son #2 (my dad) could be so easy-going and approachable while their other sons (#1 and #3) were not. Even as a preteen, I wished I was more like my dad, and I came to the conclusion that anyone who didn’t like my dad was simply an unlikeable person. For example, there was one particular elder – unfortunately he was also my dad’s employer – who did not like my father. That man is an asshole, a fact I can attest to by the general consensus of most Witnesses who knew him.

Anyway, I’m rambling here, but my point is that they’re not evil people by any means. Just the opposite, they’re quite kind and generous. It’s just that…well…enough about them, let me just say this:

If I am lucky enough to have grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and if I am lucky enough to still be alive when those grandchildren and great-grandchildren come into the world, I will not miss out on the awesome opportunity of celebrating their life with them. Don’t get me wrong, I realize that not every year will see a cutesy party in the living room with a little cake and some presents. I realize that my kids, or grandkids, or great-grandkids, might be living far away, or may eventually be too old to want a bona fide birthday party. And that’s okay. The thing is, there is nothing that would stop me from being a part of their lives – certainly not a religion that claims to excel in love but in fact rends families apart. I won’t ignore the milestones in my children’s, or their children’s, lives. And I absolutely will not completely remove them from life. My four grandparents, in fact, have never met or seen Isla. If that’s not a testament to blind allegiance to a screwed-up belief system and a squandered opportunity, then I don’t know what is.

So I’ll say it again: Happy Birthday Isla; from your parents, brother, grandma, grandpa, and great-grandma and other relatives who know what it really means to show love and to celebrate the life we have.