A most entertaining visitor

We were minding our own business, enjoying a peaceful fall afternoon with some good friends. I went to shush the dog; noticed he was barking at something on the deck right in front of him. When I slid open the glass door, I could hear what sounded like the spray of a garden-hose spigot, but intermittent. In the several seconds it took me to identify the source of the sound, ... it slithered across the threshhold and behind a piece of furniture. Um -- sorry to interrupt the afternoon guys, but we have a yellow and black, hissing snake in the house. We all knew the snake was probably harmless, but none of us knew for sure; and this one had an impressive custom of rising up like a cobra and hissing loudly at us. We got a broom and tried to chase him out; he just hissed more, coiled up, struck at the broom, waved his black forked tongue around, and crawled further under the stereo. Finally we decided to open the door again, and leave him alone. This eventually did the trick; once outside, he sped off in a beautiful seamless wave of yellow curves; obviously relieved to be free of us.

I took several pictures of him; I didn't dare get close but thanks to a lovely zoom lens, one or two turned out quite good. (They look their best at full resolution.)

Later I determined that he was probably a juvenile Eastern Hognose; harmless but known as a major bluffer. Apparently the above "show of force" isn't all he can do; as a last resort he plays dead -- turns upside down, lets off a foul stench, and drools. But he's not very smart about it: if you turn him back right-side up, he'll immediately turn himself on his back and insist on playing dead. I'm so sad we missed that! Maybe next time.

Home again

The last couple of days in Boulder delivered about everything one could ask for. Saturday morning, as Suvia slept off her late-night flight, I rode that strange bike partway up infamous Flagstaff Road until my puny sea-level lungs were gasping for air (though apparently the actual "steep" part is further up). Later we visited the Boulder Farmer's Market; toured the Celestial Seasonings plant (favorite part: the Mint Room -- made my eyes sting); dined at the historic Chautauqua Dining Hall, and had dessert at the authentically Tajik Dushanbe Teahouse.

Sunday was a lousy day to visit Rocky Mountain Nat'l Park -- fog, rain, icy winds -- but we drove to Fall River Pass anyway, and climbed Alpine Ridge. We hadn't thought to bring cold-weather gear; but we had all our luggage with us so we layered dress shirts, pajamas, etc. The howling wind gave us both earaches, but those eventually subsided... On the way down from the pass, we caught some elk herds grazing well within range of our zoom lens, and got some surprisingly good pictures. (I'm loving the "image stabilization" on the new camera.)

Made it back into town in time to catch North, where Jeff Davenport spoke about manna (lit. "What IS that?") and flung Wheat Thins around evoking how one might feel when hoping for the Promised Land but seeing only manna. We talked about it all the way to Denver, where we spent the night and caught a Monday morning flight home... to three little boys and their two exhausted grandmothers who greeted us with delight and relief.

We're still trying to get off Mountain Time.

Seven o'clock colors

This close to the equinox, 7 am and 7 pm in Boulder are both luminous. Morning sunlight wraps the foothills to the west in a saffron glow; in the gentle crystal chill you might briefly consider a jacket. Evening sun tints the sky in pastels; then glowing sorbet swirls; then a fiery gauze of clouds punctured by the first stars; as the day's warmth lingers into night and the mountains settle into a deep taupe repose.

Wait, this IS rocket science

Well, that was interesting... A trio of us took a short drive north of Boulder to join DigitalGlobe for the launch of their new "most agile" earth imaging satellite. They fed us lunch, gave us commemorative T-shirts and hats, and we watched the live video feed coming from Vandenberg AFB in California. The footage is now online(*): it's long but the good stuff takes place between about 20:00 (liftoff) and 24:30 (main engine cutoff). The rocket reached 12,000 mph 6 minutes after launch, and orbit 5 minutes later. Given the firm's terrible luck with launches in 1997 and 2001, a good bit of nervous laughter broke out at T minus 2 minutes when someone across the viewing room asked, "So regardless of the outcome here, do we get to keep the T-shirts?" But, everything went according to plan ... so far anyway.

(* Update Oct. 4 -- DigitalGlobe has now posted the good parts of the video in Flash format -- much more useful than the original Windows-only version. I'd embed that here but without its "home" Javascript environment, it starts up automatically -- lame.)

Recumbent in Boulder

(Oops, missed a day! Trying to find a new rhythm here...) I'm traveling again this week (like some sort of snake-oil salesman); in Boulder, Colorado for a meeting of my de facto professional community. Suvia will join me on the weekend for a Rocky Mountain Front Range mini-vacation: our first time away together since... let's see, Dylan's almost 6. Can't wait.

To get into the Boulder spirit, I canceled my car rental and rented a recumbent bicycle for the week instead. (I'd always wondered what those things were like.) I brought my own pedals and SPD shoes from home, like the serious rider I'm not; and this morning I felt very "with it" setting out for the one-mile walk to the Boulder BikeSmith to pick up my 'bent... until I stepped outside. Into dripping rain. Hadn't even considered that possibility! Talk about overlooking the basics. Once the rain tapered off, I felt even less clever when I actually tried to ride the thing: who knew a recumbent was such a wobbly, scary ride? (OK, well, the angle on that front fork speaks volumes...)

So I'm bobbing and weaving all over the lane; I feel like a kid learning to ride all over again. Loads of fun! By tomorrow I might even feel confident enough to click those shoes into those pedals. Meanwhile, I can't wipe the grin off my face; it feels like I'm riding a deafening chopper to the Monster Truck show, with my arms outstretched, my little front wheel 'way out past my feet, and my 8-inch Hulk Hogan mustache blowing in the breeze.

Something borrowed, something blue

It's nine o'clock and the house is finally quiet. It was a tough day: disappointments, fatigue, irritation, screaming, whining, spilled milk, ... and the kids weren't much better! As the day winds down, I'm at a loss to draw any particular insights from it -- but Mark Heard's liner notes for Second Hand fit pretty well:

I am always telling my wife that a day doesn't seem to have a full twenty-four hours anymore. I always wish they were longer, or I had a much faster metabolism, say, like a shrew or a hummingbird, because two or three o'clock in the morning always comes too soon and I'm still trying to figure out where the day went.

There are days when you suddenly glance around as if awakened from a stupor and are struck by the great magnitude of life, the realities of mortality, the ironies of our time. ... You cringe at your stupidity. You cower under the future. You fear for the world of your children.

There are other days when the intuitive awareness of the great and wonderful depth of life you felt and harbored as a child, that feeling brought gushing by a certain, sound or smell or time of day or season, will come flooding back in again. You relish the past, you pity the present, you play to the imagination of your children, you try vicariously to re-experience your own fresh youth. I must admit these days seem to become rarer, and worth the effort it takes to remember them somehow.

Most usual are the days you wish you could feel anything. You wish that you could care more than you seem to be able to, or could focus on something beyond the mundane little dance steps involved in the busywork of subsistence. At least there is the impulse to ask yourself, "Why?" There are reasons to be thankful just having something to keep you busy. Songs written by those so inclined to busy themselves in these days tend to become a simple documentation of feelings in the waxing and waning of our awareness of events on the planet, both near and far. But the clock seems only to remind you that there's more to do and you're behind in whatever it is you're already supposed to have done. Your children are loud. Things could be better. Things could be worse. Luckily a few things never change.

I have a T-shirt with those last two paragraphs printed on the back. No-one ever bothers to read them. That's OK.

Now that's a Sabbath

My first piece of car art is complete -- it came out pretty nice! (and doesn't Dylan do a great Vanna?)

Paul Klee's "Fish Magic" was the obvious inspiration here; we'll keep improvising our way 'round the car until it's all or mostly covered with strange and wonderful stuff: the minivan as a plus-size canvas for self-expression. (True confession however: we're not actually painting the car, but magnetic sheeting that sticks to the car. We bought a 50-foot roll of the stuff on eBay; it weighed about 40 lbs.)

When we first bought the minivan, over a year ago, it was on the condition that we would do this. I thought it might take 3-4 Sunday afternoons; but I spent one Sunday after another holding a baby, sleeping off late nights, browsing the Web, or fixing and cleaning things. Sometimes I'd start to tackle the art car project, but then (daunted) I'd fritter away the time measuring or planning the work (mere engineering) instead of actually creating SOMETHING.

But a couple of weeks ago something clicked; I grabbed a paintbrush, mixed up a goopy orange blend, and quickly covered a couple of panels, knowing they might turn out awful but trying it anyway. Once that dried, another layer of bluish paint went on, and while it was still wet, the real fun began, using a knife, fork, and comb. And viola!

I suppose one reason for the "click" was a recent conversation with some new friends: is Sabbath rest perhaps defined by intentional non-productivity? I'm no artist, so painting is well outside my usual "sector of production." By foregoing any attention to sensible, necessary things for a bit, I found a creative "discovery zone" (as Makoto Fujimura describes Eden) more restful and invigorating than a nap or a mowed lawn; Mako might say it "fed my soul." Not a bad view of the Sabbath... The Westminster Confession limits the Sabbath to "worship and ... duties of mercy or necessity"; to this I would add "or works of beauty." (Of course good Presbyterians would never tamper with, disable, or destroy their Confession like that.:-)

Traveling mercies

This week I took a grueling 2-day trip to Tucson, Arizona: 6am out of Baltimore, then a redeye back the next day; I'm still recovering. On the way out, I finally read Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies. I'm a bit late to the Lamott party, but glad to be here. It's quite a book: a bit slow going at first, but on p.50 it all becomes worthwhile as she recalls her surrender to Jesus ("Fuck it. I quit. ...you can come in.") and the writing abruptly shifts to vibrant, poignant, and very funny essays for the rest of the book. I almost brought Grace (Eventually) with me as well (her latest); I could've read it on the way home. But they were both hardbound, and I was packing light; I thought I should limit my in-flight reading to half my total luggage weight.

With three young'uns at home, reading is becoming the best part of travel. It's nice to know that under the right circumstances (no network, no to-do list, no interruptions) I really can tear through a book at a McKnightly pace (books per week, instead of the other way around). When I'm not traveling, it's hard to follow the story arc of "Tuxedo Park" or the overall logic of "Velvet Elvis" when I'm only reading two pages per sit-down bathroom visit.

More broadly, I guess, living entirely by the dictates of duty or happenstance is a habit that's hard to break. It's convenient to blame it on my kids (and yes, they're part of the challenge); but if I'm honest I have to admit that intentional living is a skill I'm still trying to acquire.

They're baaaack

Suvia and the 3 Amigos returned from their month away with Wild Tales from (down)East and a camera-card full of photos. Here, I think, is my favorite.

What kind of cold-hearted mother calmly snaps this picture instead of rushing to her young son's aid? But wait, she protests:

• Just before the camera came out, Diesel had been happily playing in the mud, and was standing there muddy and smiling;
• he doesn't ride a bike yet; Dylan's bike had been lying there all morning, and just happened to be in the frame;
• The holes in those jeans weren't new;
• he was upset that Nana had gone to the Post Office without him (and who can blame her, with all that mud?).

So the picture is eloquently misleading. Nice work, Suvia. A future with National Geographic awaits.

There were some other great pictures as well, summarizing new stages in young lives. Timo turned 1 and learned to walk right on schedule. Much like a novice ice skater, he often catches an outside edge and lands on his (amply padded) derriere. Fortunately, since this video was taken, he has managed to kick his dependence on saliva-soaked socks.

And last but not least, Dylan's reading has really taken off; he spent much of the month making mincemeat of Volumes 1-30(!) of the Magic Treehouse series.

There goes the neighborhood

So I joined Facebook this week. (Kester made me do it.) Before I fully grasped what was happening, it had harvested my Gmail address book and was knocking on a few dozen virtual doors asking to be "friends." Afterwards I marveled at all the people who'd preceded me (and were now welcoming me) to this lively terra nova, without having ever mentioned it.
So far my "sphere" is mostly fairly young (18-22 or so ... must be that film series I'm doing with my church's "college/20s/30s" crowd); so I'm trying not to creep anyone out. Still, I think some may already have mixed feelings about my presence there: I inadvertently learned a few "secrets" meant for -- well, probably not me. Oops. Sorry to intrude; I guess if "no man is an island" [& this is a SOCIAL NETWORK after all] then my efforts to be unobtrusive, and other people's efforts to keep secrets, are a bit limited. On balance, I think that's a good thing... Shades of Life together... Let's just be careful out there.

El Viaje Misterioso de Nuestro Jomer

No, we're not blogging in tongues (how cool would that be?). That's just the title of the Simpsons episode I watched the other night (thanks Ryan): Homer eats a Jallucinogenic Jabanero and embarks on a Mysterious Voyage as reality warps before his eyes. Cartooning at its finest. (If I weren't on a Web-fast this week, there'd be a picture right about here. Posting via email has its limitations.)

I'm on a bit of viaje misterioso myself this month: with Suvia and the 3 amigos away in Maine all month beating the heat, I've got the house and schedule to myself. In the whitespace, I'm discovering all kinds of things. The first week was fun; I dropped into the nearby up-and-coming pub, twice, and finally got to hear acoustic-speed-rockers ilyAIMY perform. I'd forgotten how much I like good live, local music. That first week also established what a distracted, self-absorbed slob I can be when no-one's around to see it. Plants died; I ran out of underwear; stayed up till 2am; the dog escaped; I kept forgetting to call the family; ugh.

In the second week, I've been watching and reflecting on the film "About a Boy," a clever story that runs as deep as you want to go on the themes of isolation, community, charity, and friendship. I'm confronted with my poverty of relationships: for who knows how long I've used my family as a handy excuse for not seeking out meaningful friendships; and I've seen my family mostly as constraints and duties, rather than people to share life deeply with. So, both at home and elsewhere, it's been a lot of pointless, painless, joyless, isolated "island living" -- I've been pretending "I'm bloody Ibiza!" (from the film).

... At this rate, weeks 3 and 4 should be interesting.

A hirsute tale

Sometime in April, one misstep led to another and after nearly 42 clean-shaven years, I decided to find out what nature had blessed (or cursed) me with in the facial-hair department.

Within a week I'd blown past The George Michael (greasy kids' stuff) and with shaggy grays coming in, I was hurtling towards The Dr. K.

(Whereupon, let us pause for the
[famous] 1996 haiku:
Open your present
No, you open your present
Kaczynski Christmas)

By the 6- or 7-week mark, I started getting the occasional compliment. (It was all polite silence before.) I took a couple of self-portraits. Still, I continued to hear a little involuntary shriek every time I passed one colleague's office.

One comment I received: "You're looking more and more like your Savior!" High praise indeed. I'd been leading a class using the "Gospel of John" film of 2003, ... so I know I could never approach THAT hunky look (or so Suvia tells me). But on rereading the prophet Isaiah, I perceived the commenter's devious intent:

He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.

At about the 60-day mark, I began to worry that -ummm- The Charles Darwin was looming. And beyond that, what -- The Billy Gibbons? It was time for a trim. But wait; I'd started the beard in hopes of avoiding that kind of maintenance.

...so I chickened out. Beard's gone. I sort of miss it already: I never realized I had such a weak chin! Here, then, is the conclusion of the matter: some are genetically gifted; beards are for the rest of us. I think I'm growing a new one already.

Sheep Chutes / Earth As Art

[clearing the backlog...] On my recent trip I can't say I experienced Sioux Falls in any meaningful way -- too short a trip. I did, however, bring a camera with me; and on the way to my meeting I skidded to a stop to take the photo at left. Not something you see everyday in the Washington suburbs.

My destination there was the NASA/USGS data center and satellite receiving station, where I learned over lunch that the Landsat "Earth as Art" collections are now online at full resolution: dozens of beautifully rendered views of the planet, each 8,000x8,000 pixels (give or take), freely available for any use you care to dream up. Thought you'd like to know.

On Bullshit

On a recent business trip (to Sioux Falls, SD), I read (and reread (it's that short)) H.G. Frankfurt's "On Bullshit." I'd been curious about this book ever since I saw it on a "church planter's reading list" somewhere. Given my long-time involvement in federal bureaucracy and information technology consulting, the book rang very true in several places:

Someone who lies and someone who tells the truth are playing on opposite sides, so to speak, in the same game. Each responds to the facts as he understands them, although the response of the one is guided by the authority of the truth, while the response of the other defies that authority and refuses to meet its demands. The bullshitter ignores these demands altogether. He does not reject the authority of the truth, as the liar does, and oppose himself to it. He pays no attention to it at all. By virtue of this, bullshit is a greater enemy of the truth than lies are.

... Been there; done that; it's amazing what one can get away with on PowerPoint slides. I've seen plenty of speech that "ignores the demands of the truth" in the workplace, and even in church leadership; and I've produced my share of it and then some. It's so prevalent that we hardly even notice it creep into our talking and writing. I try to cut through it to verifiable facts and clear, precise, neutral language; but it's often a challenge. The damage has already been done -- as Frankfurt describes:

Telling lies does not unfit a person for telling the truth in the same way that bullshitting tends to. Through excessive indulgence in the latter activity, which involves making assertions without paying attention to anything except what it suits one to say, a person's normal habit of attending to the way things are may become attenuated or lost.

Yup. Been there. I can remember 'way back to my senior thesis presentation (20 years ago this month!) when I mixed lab-bench results with values that would have been nice to have. What looked like "proof" was just my playing "what-if" with a pocket calculator. My thesis advisor just nodded approvingly; but he wasn't too pleased when he found out the truth as he was giving me my grade. The mix-up wasn't intentional -- just careless on my part. (Oops, bullshit alarm going off again...)

i bought a crap detector, it emptied all my savings
it's got a hair trigger feel for the slightest provocation
not there to spill blood or judge out of line
it's just a modern convenience to save you some time
- Bill Mallonee, Earth Has No Sorrow

Drained! at last

Our new septic system is finally in place! Sure is nice to have proper wastewater management again. It was in late March, I think, that I finally faced my denial: the stinky, wet spot in the middle of the back lawn wasn't going to fix itself. We hoped it was just a cracked pipe: a team of plumbers dug around for a morning and said, "Uuhh, you've got bigger problems. Call your county health inspector... and don't flush or shower -- much -- or do any laundry, until it's fixed. Good luck."

Thus began a 6-week lesson in suburban infrastructure, (waste)water conservation, contract negotiation, humility, and patience, as we jumped through all sorts of hoops we never knew existed: soil testing (with a backhoe, 18 ft. down); surveying the project area; having blueprints drawn up and faxing them to a dozen contractors; waiting for callbacks; choosing a bidder; watching the back yard get torn up; and of course paying for it all (last part still in progress :-). The project turned out much larger than I'd imagined: the crew dug two 100-foot trenches, 6 feet deep; filled them with three (four? five?) dumptruck loads of gravel; buried a 10'x5'x5' concrete tank; and felled about 10 trees. The final stage will be to replant some 7,000 sq.ft. of grass in place of the resulting dustbowl; I hope to start that this week if the weather cooperates.

Now that it's all over, flushing and showering still seem like exquisite luxuries; I'll never again take them for granted! To watch water gurgle down a drain and know it's going to a safe & healthy place -- what a comforting thought. :-) And we have a renewed appreciation for all the friends who welcomed us into their laundry rooms -- especially for cousin Silvia whose pick-up / drop-off laundry service was above & beyond.

Batterson hangs ten

The Leadnow/Fusion conference blew through town; not really my thing but I went to hear Don Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz and others) and Dan Kimball (author of Emerging Church and others). My impressions:

• It was my first time in a suburban megachurch. I expected it to be like other (merely) large churches I've known; but no-o-o. Not only was everything supersized; everything was super-perfect -- surround sound, stage lighting, HD video, theater seating, overall architecture, etc. I guess someone's got to be at the upper end of the size and polish range. Still, I had to chuckle at the incongruity of speakers dressed in deliberately casual clothing (to appeal to 20/30-somethings) but bathed in crisp pink-white lighting on a gleaming hardwood stage.
  
• I was impressed that the conference only charged $25 for an evening and a morning, including a working lunch and self-serve snack carts. (Somebody, somewhere, must've stood up to the suits.)
• I heard a few too many very polished talks for my tastes -- delivered mostly without notes, with just the right levels of enthusiasm, humor, and pathos. One of these is delightful; two are lavish; but I found three, four, five to be like too much maple syrup. (Somebody, please lose your train of thought or fumble a joke!)
  
• I realized with a shudder [so long, innocent idealism] that some are approaching "20/30-somethings" not (primarily) as a disaffected, skeptical, or unique group, requiring new emphases, metaphors, etc... but (mostly) as a market for fairly familiar forms of Christian media and ministry, just with slightly different wrappings.
  
• Miller and Kimball were exceptions to that; I felt they reached into a whole new set of metaphors and messages. Dan Kimball drew on his "They like Jesus - not Christians" theme to get people out of the "Christian Bubble". In describing the "bubble" he fearlessly waded right into several aspects of the conference itself (e.g., worship concerts; favoring int'l over local mission). Impressive.
• Don Miller wove some great stories, and vignettes from Robert McKee's Story Seminar, into a call to "write" worthwhile stories of our own, not with ink or camera but with our lives. He introduced the topic by asking people to answer two questions: "What's your favorite movie?" ... followed by "What's your favorite part of the Nicene Creed?"
• Gracia Burnham wisely chose not to rehash her well-known story (dramatized on video screens before she came onstage). Instead she spoke (briefly) of what she's doing now: like Moses in Exodus 4, she prays, "Lord, what have I got to tell people? I'm just a ditzy blonde whose life is a mess..." -- to which He replies, "...Who made your hair?"
• [update] I enjoyed watching Mark Batterson's flip-flops hang ten off the front edge of the stage throughout his talk. But he never did fall onto the audience -- a true professional! His "Chase The Lion" talk was as energetic as his 4-posts-a-day blog; at times a bit too close to a mere motivational speech ("live your life on offense, not defense!" "accumulate experiences, not possessions!"); still, he pointed to "Jesus the author and perfecter" of our stories, and to love as a source of fearlessness.

So, that was my foray into mainstream, suburban, big-budget, business-tainted, but still mostly well-intentioned, American Evangelical Christianity. To think that some would consider this "normal"! Still, I was glad to be there ... once in a while.

Andy Whitman, blast from the past

Well lookie here... Andy Whitman has been syndicating (?) excerpts from his near-daily blog with Paste Magazine ("Signs of life in music, film, and culture"). It'd been 12-13 years since I'd read Mr. Whitman's winsome writing, on the USENET (!) rec.music.christian newsgroup, where he sparked and fueled many a young person's exploration of "real thinking feeling people's music" with pointers to such artists as Peter Case, Victoria Williams, T-Bone Burnett, Bill Mallonee, et al. When he quit the newsgroup around 1995, it quickly lost what little creative / edgy content it had, and imploded in theological squabbles. But apparently, in all these years Andy's flair for writing and his passion for music haven't abated a bit. And his refreshing, holistic approach to music, life, faith, and culture seems to be shared by Paste Magazine as a whole. Nice to see some "signs of life" on the magazine rack.

Mark Scandrette & Soul Graffiti

I joined the Emergent Village DC Cohort for a dinner with hippie cowboy preacher poet Mark Scandrette. He asked us a bunch of questions (? wasn't expecting that); read (and riffed on) excerpts from his new book "Soul Graffiti"; and (with a slight nudge from Mike) closed his eyes and recited his poem "ReIMAGINE!" -- a sort of trippy psalm spiced with wordplay, bright urban sounds and colors, a fleeting mention of "Tai-Chi Mariachi"... you get the idea.

"Soul Graffiti (Making a life in the way of Jesus)" is a book best read slowly and savored. I'm halfway through; I may reread some chapters before going on; I'm surprised at how many times I've paused and thought, "this is what I've been wanting to say but hadn't found the words." Instead of a real book review, I'll post "gems" from the book as I stumble across them. The "ReIMAGINE!" poem above is one (so go ahead, give it a listen); and here's another:

"Graffiti can be a plea for identity or a proclamation to puncture the darkness. ... The fragmentation I recognize in the world and in myself weighed heavily upon me as I cut words into a waxed paper stencil. I prayed as I sprayed the paint through the stencil out onto the sidewalk: CREATOR - RECREATE HERE NOW - INSTIGATE A REVOLUTION OF FAITH HOPE & LOVE...... What question or statement would you shout out to the universe or to God right now? Go public with your yelping. Write it with chalk on the sidewalk or post it on a Web site and see what kind of response you get."

More excerpts in a later post.

"Where Uncle Phil go?"

My brother visited us from Los Angeles for a couple of days this week. He quickly made three young new friends, including 2-y.o. Diesel, pictured here finding a shoulder to lean on at The Awakening in DC. (I'd hoped the statue would be partially submerged after all the rain upstream; but we got some great pictures anyway.)

[UPDATE: the day after posting this, I read that "in the coming months" the Awakening would be moved across the river. I'm pretty sure it will lose some of its charm -- but we'll see...]

It was great to see Phil and his nephews interact, really for the first time. (Previous encounters were all at some kind of family reunion, with kids relegated to a separate room, and lots of competing activity.) In fact, I don't think our boys have bonded so eagerly with any other visitor. A few hours after Phil left, Diesel headed toward the guestroom: "Where Uncle Phil go?" He wasn't very pleased with the answer he got.

On Phil's last evening here, he and I escaped to the nearby brewery for drinks and conversation. Not a frequent occurrence for me anymore ... with anyone! let alone my brother from another planet. Quite a treat. Funny though, we were both tired enough that we stopped to get coffee on the way. (He can blame his fatigue on jet lag and time zones; me I'm just a doofus -- no matter how hard I try to pin the blame on baby Timo.)

Here's to more visits from Uncle Phil.

Gratitude

I'm such a lousy blogger that I forgot to bring a camera on our early-morning visit to the Washington cherry blossoms last week. So imagine, if you will, standing under a canopy of translucent Yoshino blooms that both glowed from the gentle sun shining through them, and shimmered and flickered in the reflections off the Tidal Basin... all of this against a cloudless blue backdrop.

Less famous, but equally delightful, is the Awakening statue at the tip of Hains Point. On this day, its appeal seemed especially broad: toddlers sat on the statue's teeth and fingers while high-schoolers dared each other to jump off his knee, 12 feet down to the ground.

It was a much more successful visit than we had any right to expect, especially with three little boys along for the trip: we found parking on the Potomac; missed the crowds; soaked in the day's best light and springtime warmth; and were home by mid-morning. And wouldn't you know it, the remainder of that week turned rainy and increasingly cold. "Lord, you give us what we need -- and sometimes so much more."

A few days later, I caught a nice picture of the unseasonable weather: I'm not sure when the DC area last saw snow in April, but there it was. I took this out our front window as we were waking up. (Click to see the full-size picture.)


With all of our sickly grass hidden under snow, the front yard looked pretty inviting! Hopefully this spring & summer we'll get it to look nice even without snow on it.

Tonight we took in another Washington-area delight, a Bowie Baysox game. There's something magical about a baseball diamond bathed in electric lights under a richly hued evening sky.

Because this is the Minor Leagues, the mood is calm and relaxed; the playing is great but the stakes are low; and tickets are cheap or free. We had comp tickets, so we didn't mind leaving after the 3rd inning (!) to get the boys into bed. Well worth a return visit.