So, there I was sitting in the upstairs bathroom, minding my own business. One might say that all was well with the world. Sunlight streamed in through the window, kitties pawed at the closed door, silence otherwise ruled the tranquil halls. While perusing an improving book—1 Macabees if you want to know—I detected a motion out the corner of my eye. It was a yellow jacket, or a wasp, in any case a yellow and black striped, long-bodied son-of-a-what-not of the hymenopteraian order.

It hovered there in the air by the towel hung on the back of the bathroom door. Now, I’m as gentle as the next fellow, and as sensitive to the right of all living things to coexist peacefully, but I must say, sitting there in a state rather vulnerable to the voracious nipping of a maddened insect, I felt an urge to smash, kill, and possibly maim. Unfortunately, my compromised position made me extremely susceptible to a counterattack should the initial wave of shock and awe fail.

I turned my mind to escape. Once free of the confines of the water closet, I could establish a plan of action in less trying times. So, as the menacing creature floated closer to my flaxen, in-need-of-a-tonsure, pate, I leapt from my seat, flung open the door, and dashed into the office with my jeans around my ankles. The kitties, surprised by my sudden outburst, flew down the stairs. After a quick semi-re-girding of the loins, I inspected the bathroom only to find no marauder. Well, thought I, before I go about killing intruders, I should finish what I’d started. So, I descended the stair, and ensconced myself in the downstairs bath to put all things aright before proceeding with the extermination.

Imagine my concern, when, upon taking my seat in the downstairs bath, I felt a slight tickle on my right calf. I could hardly bring myself to look down, but when I did, that blighted insect arose from my crumpled jeans and flitted to the window blind. I, not accustomed to flitting, lurched out of the bathroom, into the dining room, not caring a wit for my state of dress. A peek into the master bath confirmed that the bug was arranging itself on the blind. This cannot be! I thought. So, I quietly rolled up the issue of The New Yorker lying on the vanity, took two steps into the room and rapped that member of the Vespidae family a right sound blow to the head whereupon he swooned, fell to the floor, and wiggled a leg or two. I then finished the job with a well-placed tissue and deposited the corpse in the waste bin.

Though now safe to recommence my improving book, I found the mood irreparably altered. Perhaps a fresh cup of coffee with retore the nerves and return tranquility to the home.

We had evoked the listening child in these men, with the only real story anyone has ever told–that the teller has been alive for a certain number of years, and has learned a little in surprising ways in the way the universe delivers truth.

Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith

Standing in the fog outside the Amasa Stone Chapel on the Case Western Reserve University campus, I was beset with a gnawing concern. I had no worries about the Cleveland Indians home opener taking place blocks away; they were doing fine when I parked the car. No, I was becoming concerned about Anne Lamott’s voice, not her health you understand, but rather how I would respond to it. In the course of reading two of her novels, her book on writing, and two memoirs, I had developed in my head “the Anne Lamott Voice,” a voice that sounded in my head when I read her words. “The Anne Lamott Voice” is a quick moving alto, scratchy with smoke and drink long abandoned, accompanied by sparking, intense eyes. There’s an undertone of frenzy to the voice that probably diminishes as she gets comfortable in a new setting. Having never heard her speak, I’ve had the luxury of never having my fantasy world challenged in any way. In fact, at the moment, the only challenge I’m facing is a parched throat and a pressing need for a restroom.

The hour arrives, and the doors open to admit us into the stately chapel. It is an old building made of large grey stone. The side windows are deeply set clear leaded glass, cross hatched into smallish lights. Flags like medieval guild banners fly from the side pillars, reaching out over the dark stained pews. I notice that the severe pews have no kneelers, cushions, or hymnals. The gothic chapel’s roof skies above us directing attention to an intricate stained glass window above the disused altar. The top half of the window portrays in subdued colors the crucifixion; below is a scene of Mary enthroned, surrounded by the apostles and other saints. The congregation is lit by a series of pan-denominational cylindrical lamps hanging from the high gothic ceiling. The pulpit is off to the right. Centered in the transept are two comfy chairs, a table with flowers. I fully expect the Spanish Inquisition.

Without ado, Lamott appears from a side door dressed in jeans and a casual white shirt, her frizzy dreadlocks tied back with a pink ribbon. The now full chapel and balcony greet her with loud applause which she acknowledges with a lifted hand. She looks exactly like her book jacket photos. As there hasn’t been any speaking yet, the “Anne Lamott voice” remains intact. She takes a seat and grins graciously as Timothy Beal, director of the Baker-Nord Center for the Humanities and Florence Harkness Professor of Religion, blathers on giving thanks to various sponsors and making some metaphorical point about meeting in a decommissioned chapel. After rehashing the theme of CWRU’s Humanities week, “Childhoods,” Lamott is finally allowed to take the stand.

She began by greeting the folks in the balcony, wondering about their welfare and assuring them that they are indeed loved and valued, but exhorting them to get to the venue earlier next time if they wanted to be among those with seats. After a sip of water (to soothe her ravaged throat I imagine), Lamott reads a piece that she “had just now finished.” In fact, it still needed revision, but she wanted to share her process since some of the students present had been reading Bird by Bird. Her piece was about teaching Sunday school. While not perhaps dynamic in a motivational speaker sort of way, she was an animated reader. She seemed a bit bashful about our laughter.

I won’t reveal much about the piece except to say that it was vintage Lamott. The speaker begins a seemingly doable task with great preparation and confidence only to have the train completely run off the rails. After some cross words, an intervention by a dear friend, and a small epiphany, all works out much better than thought possible. In this case, the children actually learned something about a physical and mental state she called “soft body,” a relaxation of the body that not only signals acceptance and comfort but which also allows the body to do more things better. Finding a way to soft body spiritually is difficult but necessary.

After the reading, Lamott moved to the comfy chair where Beal was also sitting. They proceeded to have a “conversation,” which really meant that Beal asked a question or asked Lamott to read something, and then she commented or answered for a while. When the seventh cell phone went off—with a ring tone that sounded like a maniacal madman—she stopped the session for a moment and said, “Let’s all turn off our phones. It’ll be ok, really. I’m not upset, it’s ok. But from this point forward, for each phone that goes off, I’m sending $15 to Bill Frist. Really.” She knew her audience: there was quiet for the rest of the session.

Towards the end of the “conversation,” students and other audience members were encouraged to approach the throne and ask a question. In these interactions, it was a treat to see Lamott respond to each person with unfeigned interest, even though they were asking questions I’m sure she’s been asked hundreds of times before. It was also these interactions that produced many gems. In response to a young writer asking about approaches to revision, she encouraged him to get out of the way of the story and just let the truth out. “The truth is so stunning. There’s so little truth in the popular culture today.”

When asked about what she reads for spiritual inspiration, C.S. Lewis was at the top of her list. I should say that Flannery O’Connor made several appearances throughout the day. When asked about what she’d suggest for kids to read, Lamott got much applause for suggesting that people ask their librarians. “Librarians will get better seats in heaven than most of the rest of us.”

In terms of teaching children to write, Lamott claims that the greatest gift you can give a child is a pen. “If the child is a child of color, they’ll need some paper too,” she added with a smile. But the key, to teaching children to write and to teaching anyone just about anything is attraction not promotion. In recounting her own spiritual journey, it wasn’t any preaching that drew her to the Gospel; she was attracted by the people in a small church.

The Cleveland Plain Dealer ran a profile of Lamott on April 6 written by Evelyn Theiss. Theiss uses words like “refreshing,” “liberal,” “honesty,” “unflinching,” “acerbic,” to describe the author, and Lamott herself uses the word “ferocious.” What is missing from these (marketing friendly?) descriptions, and what was missing from my own version of the “Anne Lamott Voice” is an all-important, over-riding sense of gentleness and caring that is present in Lamott’s tone. Yes, she makes uncomfortable observations and can even be a tad bit cutting in her remarks about certain 21st century presidents, but at no time did you ever feel that she wanted harm to come to anyone. On the contrary, the hour I spent listening to Anne Lamott was one of the most life-giving experiences I’ve had. However negative she may come off, she is always promoting life and growing the people around her. My fantasy Anne Lamott Voice was not shattered at this event. It blossomed.

Yesterday, during our Easter celebrations, Todd, Ted, and Nancy decided that there would be no better way to spend our Easter Monday than driving up to Detroit to see the Indians play the Tigers. After seeing the myriads of empty seats for Sunday’s game on the telly, we figured it would be a cinch to nab some choice seats and root, root, root, for the visiting team. Since the game was a 1:05pm start, Ted and Nancy had to set out from Strongsville at 8 to pick Todd up at 10 to get to the park by noon. Or so we thought.

As we wound our way through Bascom, Fostoria, and Van Buren on our way to I-75, all was peachy and keen; the sun was shining and God was on His throne and all was well in the kingdom. We merged nicely onto I-75 heading towards Toledo, the city of glass, and all was smooth as a pig’s ear, until we entered the great state of Michigan. Apparantly, the folks in the Michigan DOT have decided that they wish to act as gatekeepers and discourage entry into their fair state from the south. For, not only were their miles of construction impeding our path, but the blighters couldn’t decide which side of the road to put us on. For miles and multiple signs we were instructed by sign and barrel to merge right, merge right. Form a single lane to the right. And we did so. Slowly. Sometimes at a dead stop. Then, with no warning, and still no sign of any work whatsoever actually being done, the barrels and signs moved us all to a single lane on the left. Well. One can only say that much stronger words than “consternation” and “golly” were being thought by the drivers on this fine, sunny morning.
Instead of arriving comfortably an hour before game time, we found ourselves hustling up to the ticket window scant minutes before game time. At that point, we were faced not with bored ticket sellers pondering yet another dull day at Comerica Park watching the hapless Tigers slog through another losing season, but with a throng of Tiger faithful decked out in blue and orange waiting in long lines to see the game. Arrgh! As we stepped into line, an overly friendly man clad in a Tigers hat, shirt, and leather jacket ,spied Todd’s Tribe jersey and struck up a one-sided conversation about Jacob’s Field, the Tiger’s hopes in coming years, and other inanities while draped over Todd’s shoulder like a mothy afghan that desperately needs cleaning. By the time Ted was able to procure our tickets, the score was 2-1 Indians in the top of the third inning.

Fortunately for us, the Tribe was just getting their run-production machine going. As we settled into our seats and watched our first inning at Comerica Park, the Indians rallied to score a total of six runs in the inning en route to a 10-2 victory. Our seats were in the Terrace Level of 118. That is, third base side, just at the edge of the infield/outfield border. The seats were at the top of the lower section. The seating concept was interesting. Instead of normal stadium seats in rigid rows, our seats were wide, wooden chairs that could be moved about. Between each two seats was a small end-table. So, we were able to rearrange our seats so that the three of us were in a row with tables on either end to place our drinks, food, etc. It’s really quite comfortable, and there could be no complaining about the view.

What we could complain about, however, was the temperature and wind. The scoreboard thermometer listed temps as high as 64, and the sky was cloudless and blue, but the wind blew stiffly right into our faces for the duration of the game. Besides knocking down more than one homerun bound ball into the waiting glove of an outfielder, the wind made us quite chilly. The overhang also shaded us from any sun. While these seats may be fantastic in the summer, on a mid-April Monday, they were almost cold. To be fair, Ted and Nancy thought they WERE cold. Todd is a mutant. Ted battled the elements with two–count’em–trips to the pizza stand. Nancy buttoned, zipped, and tied every attachement to her jacket. Todd even put on his jacket. Between innings, we could go to a patio area that had nice sunshine and a glorious carousel with hand-painted tigers.

As the final Tiger was retired, and the Indians chalked up win number eight, I looked about and decided that this was a very nice ballpark. With a capacity of just over 40,000, Comerica Park is an intimate park. The Tigers have successfully integrated the teams storied history into the park with statues and displays of the glories of yesteryear. The team has also taken full advantage of their team mascot and placed prowling stone tigers all over the place. Fans can never forget whose house they’re in. The fans and workers were the icing on the cake, as they welcomed us Clevelanders into their midst with nary an unkind word. There was nice talk about how Jacob’s Field helped downtown Cleveland (and the unspoken hope that Comerica Park and Ford Field can do the same), respect shown to the Indians as fans hope that in a year or so their Tigers can be competing with the Indians for the division title. All in all, you can be sure that I’ll be returning with Sherry to take in another game this season.


As we walked to the parking lot, I was able to see the exterior of Ford Field where my Steelers won Super Bowl XL earlier this year. It was nice ending to the day. For whatever reason, we were able to return home with no glitches or delays of any kind, which I know Nancy and Ted appreciated since they didn’t want to miss Seventh Heaven.

After singing eight verses of Fortunatus’s “Hail, Thee, Festival Day!”, welcoming a new member of the Church body in baptism, and helping the baptismal family celebrate by eating their Easter dinner at Old Trinity Episcopal Church in Tiffin, we trundled into the trusty Ford and motored over to Nancy and Ted’s in Strongsville. Upon arriving, we all gathered round the warm glow of the television to watch the Indians lose a 1-run ballgame to the Tigers.

To drown our sorrows over the Tribe loss, we quickly dashed to the kitchen, pulled out some strawberries and settled in to a rollicking game of Phase Ten: Master’s Edition. Todd roared out to an early lead, but some ill-fated phase choices and superlative play by the rest doomed him in the middle game. Once Sherry got used to the new rule nuances of this new version of the game, she began to regain ground although Nancy was putting up a valiant fight. In the end, Sherry was victorious even though she claims that the game requires too much thinking and that she doesn’t like having to take so much responsibility for the outcome. Because the game took so long to complete, we put away the cards and tucked in to a delicious Easter feast of ham, baked apples, salad, and Nancy’s famous sour cream mashed potatoes. Mmmm mmmm good.

Once the dishes were cleared, and we discussed the fates of our “Pecan Pete” Malley’s chocolate bunnies, we determined that there was time enough for a round of Hearts. In the early going, Todd maliciously dropped the Queen on Sherry’s three of diamonds when he really didn’t have to. The game seemed to be tightly contested, but it soon became apparent that Ted was clearly winning–while being the scorekeeper. Hmm. In the end, Nancy chose to run ‘em, putting Todd over 100 and ending the game.

After enjoying a delightful cake made in the shape of a lamb and covered in coconut, it was determined that a second game could be had, and thus the intrepid band of players continued on. While we played, Ted, Todd, and Nancy came up with the idea of driving to Detroit on Monday to see the Indians play the Tigers in Comerica Park. Sherry was saddened that she couldn’t go–somebody has to work–but expressed excitement at the possibility for the others. Todd needed to check his work schedule when they returned home. Spurred on by the prospect of an exciting morrow, Todd clinched the final game of Hearts, and Todd and Sherry prepared to go home.

On the drive home, Todd and Sherry were treated to an astounding display of lightning in the southern sky. Driving down Rt. 4, the strikes spread from east to west across the horizon. It would have been the perfect night to stop and take pictures had one the proper equipment. Upon arriving home to the loving caresses of Tigger and Emma, Todd discovered that his Monday was free and that an Indians game in Detroit was his boon.

In the introduction to The Story of A Shipwrecked Sailor who drifted on a life raft for ten days without food or water, was proclaimed a national hero, kissed by beauty queens, made rich through celebrity, and then spurned by the government and forgotten for all time, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, writing in 1970, admits that he does not “quite understand the usefulness of publishing it” (ix). He laments his suspicion that the only reason it is being published in book form is because “the name of the author…much to my sorrow, is also that of a fashionable writer” (ix). Indeed, the story of Luis Alejandro Velasco is not terribly unique in the annals of survivorship. Washed overboard with seven shipmates, he alone is able to board an unsupplied liferaft and watch the Columbian destroyer Caldas sail on as though nothing had happened. After 10 days of starvation, thirst, sun, and sharks, he washes up on the Caribbean shore of his homeland. The tale contains familiar events and themes: eating raw—newly killed—food, loneliness, the rising and dashing of hopes, the contemplation of the universe. Even in the sense of a newsworthy item, Marquez himself had wondered at the value of re-telling Velasco’s story when the assignment first came to him at the opposition newspaper El Espectador; Velasco’s story had been told numerous times already, to the point where his fame had started to fade and tarnish. In the end, after 120 hours of interview, Marquez not only fashioned a compelling story, but he also uncovered the importance of this re-telling at that time: Velasco’s story had been edited previously, and Velasco revealed certain important details that cast the government in a less than favorable light. At that time in Columbia, that sort of detail was explosive and politically important. But what about now? Looking at the story now, or even in 1970, it is hard to see from the text what the fuss was about. While this was merely a news item—albeit a long one—and it was published under Velasco’s name, the publication of ths book does give us an early look at the author who would later give us One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera. The seemless transition from the natural to the supernatural is present in the hallucination scenes. The subtle presentation of a single man alone with the universe is also there. Readers now can see the early saplings of Marquez’s towering achievements. The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor is a small story, and it seems clear that Marquez’s main objective in the writing of it was to get the thing done. And while I must agree with the author that it is only being published now due to the fame of its author, it is not bad writing. It’s certainly of a higher quality than many other survivor tales, and for that, we can be thankful.

The next time I find myself on a white sand beech, this will give me pause:

Ocean waves crumble dead coral reefs. And parrotfish eat coral polyps. The fish do not digest the corals’ limey bits, but defecate them in dribbles, making that grand white sand we prize on triopical beaches and shallow sea floors.

Today was the first day I was able to have the windows open. Emma is pinned to the screen, being bombarded with all the glorious noise she’s never heard and doesn’t understand. The garbage truck on the next block (near enough to be interesting, far enough to be safe). The mourning dove on the tree lawn. Other birds chirping in the trees rustling in the wind. Cars driving down Circular. Dogs from down the street barking their fool heads off.

Her tiny pink nose is twitching constantly as the breeze wafts in daffodils, cut grass, and rain. The neighbor across the street—the cop—returns home from his shift and her little bean head follows his ascent up the stairs to his mustard yellow house. Now her head swivels 180 degrees back and forth as the chimes from the other neighbor sound. She can’t place the source, and….a passing squirrel distracts her from the chimes.

May Sarton writes about cats reading the newspaper. This morning, Emma has stepped into a Las Vegas casino sports book where there’s screens on every side demanding her attention.

Tigger, meanwhile, the old gob, has found my cardigan sweater, newly washed, atop the dryer.

For this year’s Glen Workshop: Spiritual Writing, we’ve been asked to read Anne Lamott’s Travelling Mercies and Annie Dillard’s For The Time Being. I was rather excited about these choices as both writers are witty, thoughtful, and interesting. I first read Dillard when I used her The Writing Life as a textbook in Freshman Writing at Toccoa Falls College. Turns out that book isn’t so much a book on HOW to write as it is WHY to write and how to go about LIVING a life that produces writing. Or at least that’s what I thought of it then. Reading The Writing Life led to looking into Dillard’s other work.

Reading Pilgrim At Tinker’s Creek was like being doused with clear, cool water when you didn’t know you were hot and dehydrated. Her willingness to find glory in both the ordinary wonders of nature and also it’s hidden horrors was a revelation of observation. In it I saw the fruit of the values written about in The Writing Life. This was a writer who exemplified meditation and contemplation. For, the insights and observations of that book could only have been accomplished by a patient reconsideration of the same path through the woods day after day after day.

It is a patience I lack.

As I begin For The Time Being, I’m shocked to find myself a tad disappointed. While Tinker’s Creek was certainly a book marked by a conglomeration of observations, this book seems downright fragmented, at least in the first chapter. I do see a conceit being set up that I hope turns out to be more than just a nifty organizational frame; Dillard has divided each chapter into titled sections: birth, sand, China, clouds, numbers, Israel, encounters, thinker, evil, now. It will be interesting to see how these groups develop. Will each chapter build on the section in the last? Will the ruminations on Teilhard de Chardin continue? What of the buried soldier statues in China? The sight she describes of these clay human figures slowly emerging from the ground is striking and could be fruitful.

From the section on evil, I was struck by this passage:

Rabbi Akiva taught a curious solution to the ever-galling problem that while many good people and their children suffer enormously, many louses and their children prosper and thrive in the pink of health. God punishes the good, he proposed, in this short life, for their few sins, and rewards them eternally in the world to come. Similarly, God rewards the evil-doers in this short life for their few good deeds, and punishes them eternally in the world to come. I do not know how that sat with people. It is, like every ingenious, God-fearing explanation of natural calamity, harsh all around.

Harsh all around, it is.

I had forgotten just how loud teenage girls can be. I mean, like, wow. Loud.

Last night we went to the Ritz Theater in Tiffin for the last night of the Ohio Jazz Summit. On this night, the featured artists were all vocal bands, largely acapella. The audience, though it did contain a sprinkling of Tiffin residents–like us–mostly comprised members of high school vocal groups who had been attending workshops all day. (Yo, Mom & Dad, there was a contingent from North Olmsted High here.) When opening act, Up In The Air launched into some currently popular song, I do believe my ears wanted to bleed, but they were afraid to.

Up In The Air is flagship vocal group from Tiffin University and is directed by Brad Rees (who also happens to direct the choir at our church). They’re totally acapella and tend to perform a blend of R&B and pop, a very contemporary sound.

While Up In The Air is very “now” and in the popular groove, the second group of the night was what I would call a traditional jazz vocal group. They were the Jazz Singers from the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. Their set was much more intellectual musically, featuring all sorts of wicked harmonies and chord progressions. The group was backed with piano, bass, and drums, which allowed the singers to wander off into all sorts of musical tangents without having to worry about the rythm section. Like a jazz band, most of their compositions featured various solo breaks that featured lots of scatting. They didn’t get quite the raucous reception that Up In The Air did, but I thought they were quite splendid, exactly what I would expect to hear stepping into a smoky, jazz club in the city. Actually, by the end of their set, I thought that if you took the female singers from the Jazz Singers and the male singers from Up in the Air, you’d have a majorly kickin’ ensemble.

The night concluded with headliners In Pulse. Now, I mean no disrespect to the other three members of the group; they were quite wonderful and energetic and likeable and keen. But the delight of the evening, the performer that consistently made Sherry and I turn to each other in amazement, the one whose sound convinced Sherry that he was some kind of mutant rather than a normal human being, was vocal percussionist Paul Donnely. Beck may need two turntables and a microphone; this dude only needs one third of that ensemble. He stopped the show several times with amazing renditions of any style of drumming you could name, all produced with his voice. At one point, all the other singers left the stage, and he performed a “drum” solo that spanned jazz, rock, rap, and marching band style solos.

All in all, it was a wonderful night of listening to people make wonderful noises with their faces.

BTW, did I mention the screaming teenagers?