a cow in my fridge

This evening I depart for the hills. My destination: a lakeside camp nestled in the oak forests of the hill country. I will be on retreat with my church family, and I am looking forward to it for many reasons. I need to get out of Austin; I need to be away from my office and work. I need to be away from the internet; to staunch my addiction to current events. I need to spend time in nature and hear around me only wind in the trees, songs of birds, laughter of friends. And, should He choose, the gentle whisper of God.

Of course, there’s another reason my excitement grows. Other than renewal of spirit and mind, retreats are good for meals. I have much to say on the subject of meals, and should devote time in another post to that. For now, just let me say that we are too quick and exceedingly solitary with what sustains us. Our destination this weekend requires that we prepare our own food, which I find superior to having the food prepared by an unknown staff, which has been the case for the latter portion of retreats I’ve attended. I understand the convenience of it; to relieve retreat-goers of the burden in the kitchen allows them to focus on “more important” things. But in my mind, this misses the point. The discipline of preparation and cleanup in regard to meals allows myriad opportunities for service to others in addition to the personal rewards.

There is a cow in my fridge. Okay, I admit it’s a bit of an exaggeration. Yet, there is enough meat to feed a significant number of people. The main course of our meal Saturday night will be brisket, made in true Texas fashion. I was thinking last night that many people are a little afraid of brisket. It’s been my experience that if you prove capable of cooking one well, there’s a little bit of fame coming your way. People will whisper to one another, gawk, smile sheepishly in your presence. Sometimes people will ask for your autograph and girls will swoon. Again, I’ve dipped a little bit into the well of hyperbole, but the impression should be clear.

When asked about my favorite holiday, I usually respond with the Fourth of July. The appeal of rockets exploding into bright colors against a darkened sky is hard to deny. There is the great movement of history and the destiny of brilliant men preserved in the prevailing document of freedom we celebrate on this day. All of those things come to mind, of course. A more primal reason, however, is our family backyard barbeques. Early in the morning, my father would light the fire. I would be apprenticed to him throughout the day while checking the meat, the temperature, the initial tasting, and the final carving. It was about recognition, appreciation, and good things done well, which even now seems a good analogy for the holiday. I learned from the master.

On a retreat in 1998, our campus minister committed a grievous error. I have a deep admiration and love for this man, and he is a person of extensive ability. Even at the grill, he wields a certain skill (shark steaks come to mind). Despite prowess in other areas, the ability to cook a brisket eluded him, and by a wide margin. The fall of 1998 found him manning the grill, which was piled with chicken and brisket. Apparently, he was under the impression both these items would cook in the same amount of time. The end result was good chicken and a brisket that was still bleeding. Some were polite and nibbled around the cooked edges. It was too much for me; and somewhere inside, I wept. On that day while staring into red tragedy, I determined that no longer would I suffer ill-prepared brisket. I would bring to bear whatever training and knowledge I had, and I staked a claim to the barbeque pit. Looking back, this was a bold step for a nineteen year old, although necessary.

I am eager to get started. Tonight, the ritual is renewed. Tomorrow evening, I will have the opportunity to serve my friends, a deeply humbling experience. I will treasure the reward, surely. I am only a dot in time, a representation of all that has come before and all that will flow after. I admit a certain anxiety that things won’t turn out perfectly. Do they ever? But I have faith…

Already the goodness of the coming days is within me.

lists and reservations

There are many things in my life that I haven't done, which were long ago accomplished by my peers. One of those things on the old "to do" list was supposed to be crossed off last night. I was signed up to attend a free screening of a movie. Obviously, this is nothing on the scale of a ride on the space shuttle or helping out on a cattle drive. It doesn't have the nobility and self-sacrifice of spending a year in the Peace Corps or committing to helping the homeless. That I have deigned place it within the same paragraph as these things is perhaps a wrong.

We need more perspective. I was fifteen before I had ever tried a jelly doughnut. I never felt that I had a sheltered life, but certain ordinary benchmarks were bypassed in my childhood. Eating a jelly doughnut was one of those. There were several others on this scale. Getting to park in a parking garage for the first time was one of my favorites.

So, throughout college and my early adult years, never did an opportunity arise to attend a free screening of a movie until last night. Had it not been for an email sent by a friend encouraging me to do so, I wouldn't have known about it. I'm not sure how people find out about these things. I've been to the theater on more than one occasion and been witness to the long line of people outside a particular screen and noted that they somehow obtained this singular opportunity. I then went on to my show thinking only how they were lucky and then thinking about it not at all.

My opportunity last night was to watch "Thank You For Smoking", a satire depicting vice-lobbying for items like cigarettes, alcohol, and firearms. I was looking forward to it. In recent months while attending movies, I've watched the preview maybe three times. It appeared funny, upbeat, with an established presence that was self-aware. I added my name to the list via the website, and was delighted upon receipt of the email confirming my reservation.

Do you recall that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry and Elaine are standing in the line at the car rental agency? Jerry needs a rental because his is in the shop, and he has made a reservation for a mid-size. However, when he approaches the counter, the rather smarmy attendant informs him that they no longer have a mid-size, but they could provide him a compact. Jerry, confused by this turn of events, inquires further. Taken aback, the clerk defensively indicates that they do have the reservation. Jerry responds with the classic line, "Oh, sure you have the reservation. You know how to take the reservation, but you don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's the most important part; the holding."

I arrive at the movie theater at 7p for the 7:30 show, and join the already long line. Okay, I think to myself, so we won't have our choice of seats; no big deal. Soon, I realize from the doubling of the line behind me that it is unlikely all these people will get in. Around thirty people in front of me are yet to enter the theater when, with little surprise, the coordinator of the event comes out to tell us the capacity has been reached. He thanks us for coming and then says something about seeing the movie, but I don't really hear him because by this point he is no longer important to me. I know him only as the person who dashed my dream of checking one more item off my "to do" list.

Disclaimer: I'm not a marketing expert. Despite the previous disclaimer, I wonder at the wisdom of allowing what occurred. I understand that having a larger than necessary group could help drum up excitement for the movie. "Wow," Bob says to Pam as they pass the long line on their way to "Date Movie 3", "that 'Smoking' movie must be really good. Let's see that next time." This type of interest generation can only go so far, I would imagine. Now consider the one hundred fifty people who were told they had a 'reservation' but didn't get into the film. How many people will they tell about their inconvenient experience and a wasted time of waiting to see a movie? How many will be turned away because they were, in some ways, deceived? The simplicity of limiting how many could be added to the list is what bothers me. It is in fact such a simple process that it can only have been intentionally excluded. I admit this is an assumption.

Some day, perhaps in the not-so-distant future, I will be able to mark free screening of movie off my list. For now, I must turn to other items on my "to do" list. First up is hitching a ride on the space shuttle.

trailhands

Now on my “current reading” bookshelf is Larry McMurtry’s 1985 oeuvre Lonesome Dove. Even halfway through, it seems odd that I’m reading it. On the surface, it seems somewhat outside my normal scope. Yet, this is something I’ve intended to get to for some time.

A college friend expressed more than once her favorite movie was the Lonesome Dove miniseries. I have small snippets in my memory from this movie, mainly involving a tumbling ball of snakes which may or may not occur in the movie. Whenever she had occasion to say this, I looked at her quizzically not comprehending how this story fit in with the rest of her character. But according to a Wikipedia article, “The mini-series is considered by many to be one of the finest westerns ever made.”

When I hear the word ‘western’ or even the name Larry McMurtry, I am immediately reminded of my grandfather who could often be found snoozing in front of the TV while someone organized a posse or conducted a hanging or managed to get a herd of cattle across a river. Despite the requisite fascination with the movies “Shane” and “Old Yeller” in middle school, my general impression has been that westerns are a boring lot; definite snooze territory.

So, I had practically discarded the entire genre as not worth my time. When I discovered McMurtry’s novel had won the Pulitzer Prize, my elitist nature took over and it found a place on my reading list. There was some additional motivation, again a hook to my youth. My father also enjoys such things, and reading this book is in an odd way like helping him in the woodshop or under the hood of the car. Probably better for you to trust me on that than for me to botch the sentiment in awkward explanation.

One thing I want those of you who remain skeptical to know is that this book is funny. It’s neither comical which implies a certain contrived nature, nor is it designed to be joking. It is simply a compelling sketch of believable men moving through the events of the story. The humor is often subtle, and coaxes the reader into the background of the statement and taking the side of wit.

For the past few days lunch has allowed an opportunity to withdraw from a world of 21st Century technology and business infrastructure. Instead, I am immured in a land 130 years distant, which causes the sixty minutes I have to seem much longer.

an elixir called Volleyball

Sand. A ball. The net. Friends. Warm Texas evening. Once upon a time, Thursday was reserved. Work over for the day, I would wade through traffic with a smile. At home, I would change, eat a snack, fill a jug with tea or water and relax. An hour later, I was on the road to the court, anxious to be in motion. For three hours or more, I knew nothing but the camaraderie of my team, the stinging smack of fast leather against my fist, and the course grain of sand surrounding my feet and caked to my legs and clinging to every fiber of clothing. For three hours or more, there were no computers, no project planning, no phone calls; just a mind and body focused on the game.

I am not an athlete (though I could easily have played one on TV), and lack the grace of movement required to be consistently good. But there was no doubt that I loved volleyball. There are other sports that have demanded my attention such as swimming or soccer or hiking, but volleyball is the pinnacle.

For a period of roughly eighteen months, I devoted time each week to the crafting of an email in the hope that careful diction, colorful metaphor, and clever phrasing would persuade the less inclined to participate. I humor myself with the thought that this affected some. Most evenings, we would be spread out over multiple courts in multiple teams; twenty-five to thirty playing at a time. Never in my life have I felt like I had more friends. Skill was never important; there was always one aspect of the game a person was better at than anyone else. I am good at serves and the surprise return, others whose spike inspires dread, still others whose efforts are concentrated on not letting the ball touch the ground (which is bad, btw).

Then came a time when our usual courts became unavailable, which did not precede by much the lack of access to our alternate court. A fervent search for a new court yielded nothing that felt convenient for the group, and playing opportunities grew sporadic. As of this writing, it’s been a year since I played consistently.

There is nothing I miss more than those Thursday nights. Sure, there are things that I desire more and have not attained, but the loss of something once familiar seems a deeper wound. I remember thinking even then how strange it was that this activity should remain popular so long to so many. I want it back, and yet it can never be what it was.

I suppose it’s not just those Thursday nights. Now I see those games as a representation of the amalgam of all the games I’ve ever played during family reunions, lazy college afternoons and retreats. They have become a conclusion to one chapter of my life, and are now indexed beneath the warm sepia tones of laughter and accomplishment and the binding threads of human experience. Play it again, Sam.

Night

"Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree."
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

There's something to this, isn't there?  I think it is a sensory deprivation thing.  While roaming around the earth in the daylight, we rely on our eyesight and do not often find reason to question its authority.  In fact, should we discover reason, it is an event most disturbing.

It is a different thing altogether to be ensconced in darkness.  Eyesight is no longer as important; a greater proportion of our experience is gleaned from hearing and smell and touch, and these are probably more mysterious to us.  It's possible that Man is never more at peace than when confronted with the mysterious, a thing beyond comprehension.  There is something settling about being unsettled.  Given our lack of knowledge, this is the immutable condition.  Resolving the question changes the status quo; it requires we move on to the next thing.  I think this is the root of exploration, of conquering the mountain.

We are more receptive at night.  We are more receptive to interaction; it is a time when being alone becomes bitterly palpable.  Once the stars are out, would you rather find yourself working, or singing around a campfire?  Yes, I know; it does depend on the song.

Mysterious, revealing, restorative...this is night.  It's nice when the sun comes up, too.

Lunch

I just had the best lunch; like a mini-vacation.  And it caused a deep yearning to go camping.

I've spent this week working hard wrapping up projects, creating documentation, and resolving some outstanding issues.  I needed to get away.  I also haven't had a vacation in twenty months.  I needed to get away.

You should know that it is bright and sunny today, just over eighty degrees with a nice, strong breeze.  I knew this was going to be a special lunch, but even as I walked toward my truck, I wasn't sure how it would play out.  I decided on Wendy's and headed there to pick up a spinach chicken salad.

By the way, Wendy's, I am intensely grateful that you've put this back on the menu.  It's been a long time, but it's a favorite of mine.  You've made me a happy man.

After the exchange of salad and money through the tiny window, I headed back to the parking lot, which borders a creek.  This particular parking lot is familiar and preferred territory for tailgaters during the Longhorn's football season, but on this March day, it was just me and the cars.  There is a shady patch of grass along the creek, and this is where I set up my camp chair and got down to the salad.  Sun, breeze, salad, water, trees, and the siren of a firetruck behind me.  Ah, nature as it was intended.  It was enough, though, for my mind to take me away to the mountain peaks of the Weminuche and the forest trails of the Hill Country.

Back at work...three hours to go.

Texas, Our Texas

Happy Birthday, Texas!

 

My father had a tendency to comment to me, at seemingly random times, on how great our state is.  He was fond of mentioning that Texas had every type of geographic feature a man could want.  You want desert and sand, we've got that.  You want an ocean and miles of beaches, we've got that.  You want mountains, here.  Forests, they're here.  Grassland and hills and lakes and rivers and caves and incredible sunsets are all right here in this wonderful land called Texas.  Why would you need to travel anywhere else?  He may still say these things, but I don't get to here them as often.

 

So, I grew up and maintain a great love for this state and its history, which is rich in revolution and independence.  Many offered their lives to make Texas what it is today.

 

Today, Texas, we salute you!  Raise your glass with friends and neighbors and offer a toast for our land.