So, last night I was at the wedding of Brandy George and Andy Isola. It was a large, lovely affair. The bride was beautiful. The groom, handsome by any standard. Love was definitely in the air...
And then there was our table. I had trouble determining if we had all been seated at the same table-- at the rear of the room-- because we all knew one another, or because the bride and groom were seeking containment. Hmmm... After all the lovely banter and antics, I lean toward the latter.
It was funny the way half the table was trying to take personal credit for the love match between the bride and groom. The priest said, "[my former boss] is the one who told Brandy to go to Carnegie's that night!"
I countered, "I was THERE at Carnegie's and when I left early, before Andy's arrival, I had already been thinking I should arrange for the two of them to meet."
My husband offered up, "Well, I was the one who ACTUALLY introduced them!"
Then there was the tapping of the glasses. Apparently it's some custom for the bride and groom to kiss whenever someone taps a glass with silverware. What made this funny to us-- and most assuredly annoying to the bride-- is that she's a shy, reserved woman. I would sincerely doubt that Brandy and Andy have shown as much PDA in the entire rest of their relationship as they did last night.
At the point where I advised my table mates that maybe we should let them off the hook, a friend of mine, who has been married more than 20 years, said, "Oh, we're not really being assholes, we're just teaching the bride and groom how to be flexible in marriage!"
Hmmm... interesting take.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Some of You Knew This Was Coming...
It was inevitable. If I’m going to have a blog, certainly I would use it to promote him, right? Yep. So, let’s just get this out in the open-- I support Barack Obama for president. I think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. Maybe even since the invention of democracy.
Okay, so that’s a bit hyperbolic, but seriously, this guy is going to be great for the nation.
What brings me to make such pronouncements, you ask? Well, let’s start with a little about my history, politically speaking.
The first “real” campaign I ever worked on was back in 1986. Steve Swendiman ran against Wally Herger for the local congressional seat. I got involved in Swendiman’s campaign because his wife was my high school counselor. I found politics fascinating. After the first day of door knocking, I was hooked. I realized that encouraging others to vote, and inspiring others to find their voice was what democracy was all about.
In the early 1990’s, I began working as a community advocate and organizer, fueled by the environmental issues which were closing down mills all over northern California. It was timber country. I found myself evolving into a Good Young Republican. I was a dragon slayer of various sorts-- wacko environmentalists, inept land management agencies, public apathy. It wasn’t that I really enjoyed working in divided communities, it’s just that there was really no other choice at the time.
That was until I became a part of a community collaborative in Quincy, California, that later became a model for consensus building and community-based solutions. What I learned then was a painful lesson. As I went to all my entrenched Republican friends and proclaimed the power and goodness of working with the “enemy”, I was ridiculed. Thus, I became a Disenfranchised Republican. That was fine by me, though, because what I had learned while working across socio/political/economic boundaries was that the best solutions are those that are crafted by those who will be impacted by the outcomes. It gives a sense of ownership, and a stake in the process.
These are the things that I see in Obama. He’s worked at the community level. He knows what’s at stake. He knows how to achieve the outcomes in a way that gives the broadest possible ownership in the solution and its outcome.
I hear some say that Obama is inexperienced. I argue that the very constitution of his campaign says otherwise. He has the broadest support of “every man” that any presidential contender has ever held. He is going to change the landscape. He doesn’t need “public financing” of his campaign as defined by the federal government. He already owns it as the product of 1.8 million supporters who believe in what he is doing.
I am excited at the prospect of his leadership. What he knows better than any leader in recent time is that America is a great place, and that its potential is only hindered by our ability to believe in ourselves and act upon those beliefs for the common good.
I’ll be writing more about Barack Obama as time goes on. Jon, the kids and I are making preparations to see Obama inaugurated. We will be spending about a week in Washington, DC, taking in the sights and witnessing history first-hand at the swearing in of the greatest leader of my generation.
Okay, so that’s a bit hyperbolic, but seriously, this guy is going to be great for the nation.
What brings me to make such pronouncements, you ask? Well, let’s start with a little about my history, politically speaking.
The first “real” campaign I ever worked on was back in 1986. Steve Swendiman ran against Wally Herger for the local congressional seat. I got involved in Swendiman’s campaign because his wife was my high school counselor. I found politics fascinating. After the first day of door knocking, I was hooked. I realized that encouraging others to vote, and inspiring others to find their voice was what democracy was all about.
In the early 1990’s, I began working as a community advocate and organizer, fueled by the environmental issues which were closing down mills all over northern California. It was timber country. I found myself evolving into a Good Young Republican. I was a dragon slayer of various sorts-- wacko environmentalists, inept land management agencies, public apathy. It wasn’t that I really enjoyed working in divided communities, it’s just that there was really no other choice at the time.
That was until I became a part of a community collaborative in Quincy, California, that later became a model for consensus building and community-based solutions. What I learned then was a painful lesson. As I went to all my entrenched Republican friends and proclaimed the power and goodness of working with the “enemy”, I was ridiculed. Thus, I became a Disenfranchised Republican. That was fine by me, though, because what I had learned while working across socio/political/economic boundaries was that the best solutions are those that are crafted by those who will be impacted by the outcomes. It gives a sense of ownership, and a stake in the process.
These are the things that I see in Obama. He’s worked at the community level. He knows what’s at stake. He knows how to achieve the outcomes in a way that gives the broadest possible ownership in the solution and its outcome.
I hear some say that Obama is inexperienced. I argue that the very constitution of his campaign says otherwise. He has the broadest support of “every man” that any presidential contender has ever held. He is going to change the landscape. He doesn’t need “public financing” of his campaign as defined by the federal government. He already owns it as the product of 1.8 million supporters who believe in what he is doing.
I am excited at the prospect of his leadership. What he knows better than any leader in recent time is that America is a great place, and that its potential is only hindered by our ability to believe in ourselves and act upon those beliefs for the common good.
I’ll be writing more about Barack Obama as time goes on. Jon, the kids and I are making preparations to see Obama inaugurated. We will be spending about a week in Washington, DC, taking in the sights and witnessing history first-hand at the swearing in of the greatest leader of my generation.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Gratitude...
As I was driving back from dropping off Jesse and his friend, Hannah, at Brandy Creek for a Planned Parenthood outing, I was struck by all of the handmade signs along the roadway thanking the firefighters for their efforts. It was encouraging to see the gratitude for the wieldy, enormous task that is wildland fire management.
For the past few weeks, I have driven to work down Highway 273, passing fire trucks and crews switching shifts at the command center set up at the fairgrounds. I have met fire fighters from all over the western US-- Idaho, Montana, Oregon and elsewhere. I have thanked them all, and shared my awe of the sacrifices they make to help an entire region of strangers. They sleep on the ground, away from their families, their homes, the things that make them comfortable in their everyday life. They get dirty, sweaty, burned, and otherwise injured.
They do their jobs like lives depend upon it.
Then I wondered to myself: why it is that we only see this kind of outpouring of compassion and gratitude after the fire bells ring? What if we were this considerate of one another even after the dangerous flames were extinguished? What if, every day, more people made an effort to extend kindness to others, as if their lives depended upon it? Because, maybe it does.
I am the first to admit that I’m not always as courteous or kind as I should be. Heel that I am, I often forget to remind my family how much I appreciate it when they do something right, or kind, or extraordinary. I wonder if life would be better if I hung out a huge banner in the driveway that said, “Katie, good job getting home on time!” or, “Jesse, thanks for doing the dishes without being asked!” or, “Honey, thanks for ditching golf last night!” ?
For the past few weeks, I have driven to work down Highway 273, passing fire trucks and crews switching shifts at the command center set up at the fairgrounds. I have met fire fighters from all over the western US-- Idaho, Montana, Oregon and elsewhere. I have thanked them all, and shared my awe of the sacrifices they make to help an entire region of strangers. They sleep on the ground, away from their families, their homes, the things that make them comfortable in their everyday life. They get dirty, sweaty, burned, and otherwise injured.
They do their jobs like lives depend upon it.
Then I wondered to myself: why it is that we only see this kind of outpouring of compassion and gratitude after the fire bells ring? What if we were this considerate of one another even after the dangerous flames were extinguished? What if, every day, more people made an effort to extend kindness to others, as if their lives depended upon it? Because, maybe it does.
I am the first to admit that I’m not always as courteous or kind as I should be. Heel that I am, I often forget to remind my family how much I appreciate it when they do something right, or kind, or extraordinary. I wonder if life would be better if I hung out a huge banner in the driveway that said, “Katie, good job getting home on time!” or, “Jesse, thanks for doing the dishes without being asked!” or, “Honey, thanks for ditching golf last night!” ?
Curly
On this particular day, it was his obvious impatience with the pace of the line was what first drew my attention to the old man in front of me at Wal-Mart. His leathered and wrinkled skin put him at about 80 years old, by my humble estimation. I began to smile as I watched him bob and weave back and forth around the small soda case between checkout stands, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to take up residence in the neighboring line. It was amusing to watch him act out the very conversation I was having with myself: the line I was in was four deep, with each would-be consumer carrying at least 20 items in their cart, the other line only had two customers. What kept me planted firmly in place was the fact that the cashier in our line was much faster than the one in the shorter line. It seemed that the old man thought so too.
As he settled in to wait out the customers in front of him, he turned slightly to size me up. His eyes were a blue-tinted gray, like the shallow still water of an ebb in a mountain creek. I smiled at his smartly checkered shirt and wrangler jeans. His pants hung on him. I imagined that he likely had been a size or two larger some twenty years ago, but something told me that he was never going to stop buying his jeans in that too-large size, no matter how slender he was now. So engrained was his attire that I couldn’t even picture him without the well-worn boots on his feet, and the Stetson on his head.
I smiled at him, and he turned away, startled that I’d noticed him looking me over. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle as I looked down at his handcrafted belt, the name “Curly” tooled into its hide. I tried to recall the old joke about cowboys and their names on their belts, but I couldn’t remember the punch line. As my eyes wandered back up to the old man’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His coarse gray hair was stock straight, nary a curl in sight.
The curiosity and the questions began to mount as I spied the few items in Curly’s cart. A jar of strawberry jam, toothpaste, a room deodorizer, fruit rolls, a block of gouda cheese, crackers, and three vanilla candles in glass jars lay neatly along the bottom of the cart. Curly wore no wedding ring, and had the picture of a six year-old princess in pink taffeta prominently gracing the front of his wallet.
Why is your name Curly?
I thought of speaking the words, but was stopped short by his hard jawline, and the fact that before I could utter them, Curly was swaggering out of the store with his odd assortment of items.
As I finally gathered my purchases and headed out the door, I was twice startled; first to realize that I had exited the store from the door opposite to where I had parked, and second, to see Curly pushing his shopping cart down an aisle of the parking lot, searching ardently over the top of the row of cars, presumably for his own ride.
I strode over to Curly, who looked at me and said nothing as he switched off a ringing cell phone in his pocket. I quipped, “Maybe Wal-Mart should offer GPS in the parking lot.”
A thin smile drew across Curly’s face as he said, “Back in my day, I could just call my ride, and he’d a-come a-trottin’.”
I smiled back at him as I wondered whether he had been roping with Jesus or Moses in his day.
Two rows later, we finally found his 90’s model Ford F-250. “Thank you for your assistance, young lady.”
I smiled as I assured him it was my pleasure, and laughed to myself as it occurred to me how relative age is. Many days I feel old. But heck, up against an 80 year-old, I guess I am still just wet behind the ears.
As he settled in to wait out the customers in front of him, he turned slightly to size me up. His eyes were a blue-tinted gray, like the shallow still water of an ebb in a mountain creek. I smiled at his smartly checkered shirt and wrangler jeans. His pants hung on him. I imagined that he likely had been a size or two larger some twenty years ago, but something told me that he was never going to stop buying his jeans in that too-large size, no matter how slender he was now. So engrained was his attire that I couldn’t even picture him without the well-worn boots on his feet, and the Stetson on his head.
I smiled at him, and he turned away, startled that I’d noticed him looking me over. I had a hard time suppressing a giggle as I looked down at his handcrafted belt, the name “Curly” tooled into its hide. I tried to recall the old joke about cowboys and their names on their belts, but I couldn’t remember the punch line. As my eyes wandered back up to the old man’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. His coarse gray hair was stock straight, nary a curl in sight.
The curiosity and the questions began to mount as I spied the few items in Curly’s cart. A jar of strawberry jam, toothpaste, a room deodorizer, fruit rolls, a block of gouda cheese, crackers, and three vanilla candles in glass jars lay neatly along the bottom of the cart. Curly wore no wedding ring, and had the picture of a six year-old princess in pink taffeta prominently gracing the front of his wallet.
Why is your name Curly?
I thought of speaking the words, but was stopped short by his hard jawline, and the fact that before I could utter them, Curly was swaggering out of the store with his odd assortment of items.
As I finally gathered my purchases and headed out the door, I was twice startled; first to realize that I had exited the store from the door opposite to where I had parked, and second, to see Curly pushing his shopping cart down an aisle of the parking lot, searching ardently over the top of the row of cars, presumably for his own ride.
I strode over to Curly, who looked at me and said nothing as he switched off a ringing cell phone in his pocket. I quipped, “Maybe Wal-Mart should offer GPS in the parking lot.”
A thin smile drew across Curly’s face as he said, “Back in my day, I could just call my ride, and he’d a-come a-trottin’.”
I smiled back at him as I wondered whether he had been roping with Jesus or Moses in his day.
Two rows later, we finally found his 90’s model Ford F-250. “Thank you for your assistance, young lady.”
I smiled as I assured him it was my pleasure, and laughed to myself as it occurred to me how relative age is. Many days I feel old. But heck, up against an 80 year-old, I guess I am still just wet behind the ears.
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