Notable Notes

I have noted (and whined, and made excuses) many times in this space about the stress of squeezing 10 pounds of tasks into a 5-pound sack of time, but last week I decided to raise the degree of difficulty. My wife was out of town at a 2-day meeting, I was supposed to be at choir rehearsal, and one of my favorite bands was appearing live less than an hour away. And so the usual dilemma, with some extra monkey wrenches: Fulfill my family obligations by staying with the kids? Honor my church commitment by attending choir rehearsal?

Nah.

I booked a sitter, boiled up some hot dogs for the kids, and took off to the MercyMe/Audio Adrenaline/Aaron Shust show in Albany. MercyMe is one of the leading bands in Christian music these days (at least in the more "mainstream", "radio-friendly" category) and one of the select few to receive my coveted "buy every CD when it comes out" status.

The show had its ups and downs -- more about that in a moment -- but all the way around was well-worth the time, expense, effort & overall disruption. Although I didn't actually quiz the kids about that last item. Eh, let them get their own blog.

I've been attending concerts for something like 28 years now, and whether Christian or.... what? pagan? I guess "secular" is the word I'm looking for -- there are always commonalities.

For example: I've still never quite come to terms with the custom of the encore. It always feels like the band is trying to squeeze an extra ovation out of me (and there's nothing that resonates more with me than compulsory enthusiasm): if you don't clap loud enough, we're not coming back out.... I understand the need for "dramatic tension" -- although it seems kind of self-dramatizing, especially for a Christian band -- but it really feels like it's become almost entirely a cliche.

One unique element: I was struck by the irony of attending the farewell tour of a band that's breaking up because the lead singer can't sing any more. Over the course of 16 years recording and touring (and largely screaming), Mark Stuart of Audio Adrenaline has systematically shredded his vocal cords. It was painful to hear him try to sing; as someone who only sings when I'm awake (I think), I can't imagine not being able to do it any more. And this guy had a serious pipe back in the day. Now he's croaking, or letting the other guys sing lead, or pointing the mike to the audience for them to do the singing.

And what is up with the audience singing?? Why would you pay $25 to go to a show and spend the whole night trying to drown out the lead singer? Why, there were so many inconsiderate people singing around me that I could hardly hear myself sing.

One more commonality, at least for a Christian concert: the Compassion International commercial (I won't say anything snarky about them; we've been supporters for a long time and they do great work) and a sprinkling of sermonizing from the guys on stage. Actually, I was pleased with the way these guys approached it; I've been at other shows where I wanted to leap up on the stage, grab a guitar and say, "Here -- remember this?"

Bart Millard, the lead singer of MercyMe, did leave us with a couple of cool thoughts:

• the reason some people in churches are so hard to be around is that they've seen others find a relationship with God and have their lives changed. Meanwhile, they've "hung around" God but haven't really experienced him -- who wouldn't be bitter?
• we need to soak in, absorb, live in the knowledge that the Big, Big God of the universe... all-powerful and knowing you better than you know yourself... is "madly in love with" you, and me, and each one of us.

I don't need to pay 25 bucks to know that... but it's good to be reminded just the same.

Those Who Do Not Organize the Past are Condemned to Repeat It

I read a newspaper article this weekend on the subject of mixed marriages. Of course, they emphasized the racial aspect of it, which only serves to highlight the drama... after all, isn't every marriage a mixed marriage?

I'm a great believer in the power of cliches; they are usually dismissed as trite, but really a cliche is just an observation so powerfully true that it comes to seem obvious. For example, "Opposites attract." It's undeniably true, and I would argue it's better news than it probably seems. I can tell you from this chair that I certainly wouldn't want to live with me. I think the "opposites" part is God's way of helping us fill the gaps -- and clearly if a Renaissance man such as myself is in need of gap-filling, it has to be universal enough to merit a cliche.

One notable mixture in this home refers to cleaning and organization. While I resist any facile characterization as a slob, it's also true that if cleanliness is next to Godliness, I'm probably more of a Christmas-and-Easter kind of believer. My spouse, on the other hand, considerately dropped in my lap an example of her mindset mere hours before I began to write this.

She noted that the wind was blowing pretty hard and that we might lose power (I'm not sure quite why it's so, but we sometimes lose power if a cloud passes overhead, so I understood her point). She said we needed to get prepared. Did she want to:

• a) make sure we had candles and flashlights
• b) stock up on food & fresh water, or
• c) make a reservation at a motel ?

No, I'm sorry, the correct answer is: "Clean the house so it will be easier when we get back."

On top of that, you know she believes in Tackling Things Head-On -- I would contend that tackling head-on has been proven to lead to head injuries and brain damage. I much prefer the time-honored "just don't bring it up at all and maybe she'll forget it has to be done" approach.

With the following consequence: for most of the past week our dining room table has been completely engulfed in loose photos and the albums designated to organize them. This isn't a new phenomenon; it happens every several months or so. Sometimes it's the den that's immobilized. I'm proud to report the following results to date:

1. as many as a dozen photos successfully placed in albums
2. several sporadic bouts of Putting Photos Into Piles, the significance of which no one can quite remember scarcely moments later
3. several meals eaten on a blanket spread out on the floor in the den ("Hey kids, good news! We're having another 'picnic!'")

There are all sorts of complicating factors, of course. I like to take photos of places -- sometimes because they're aesthetically pleasing, sometimes because they're personally significant -- but here's a hint: don't wait to label them for 10 or more years. You're just asking for trouble there. And while I'm an involved parent, if you're serious about 'sequencing' photos, it can be deadly difficult to distinguish between 3 and 4 years old. Or 2 1/2 and 3. And I'll admit it -- even to the dad babies often look alike....

Working together ought to be faster, but we get sidetracked both by the "look at this one -- remember?" factor and the inevitable discussion of priorities. She: "Where is this, exactly?" He: "Hmmm... it looks familiar...." She: "Well, if we don't know where it is, I'm throwing it away." He: " " (sorry, can't talk right now -- too choked up over the idea of throwing away a Piece of My Past. At least I figure it must be my past).

I have come up with the best possible solution: we bought a digital camera. Now instead of piles of photos, we have folders of photos on our hard drive (Of course, we've really shifted from "When are we going to organize photos?" to "When are we going to print photos?"). But if I can keep ducking it... it'll be our children, and maybe their children, who will have to sort out img_0147.jpg from all its numerically-anonymous digital brethren.

Almost But Not Quite

So I think it's safe to say it hasn't sprung yet -- or if it has, it's still buried under the foot-plus of snow that remains out there -- but spring is at least giving us the Coming Attractions trailer.

Speaking of which, this weekend, through the miracle of Digital Video Disc technology, I watched the trailer for a movie after I watched the actual movie. I was surprised to find (being normally such a trusting soul) that about a third of the scenes in the trailer didn't even make it into the movie; several of the rest were re-arranged to give a slightly skewed version of the story. So the next time you're in your local Multiplex and they tempt you with the charms of the Coming, caveat emptor.

Where was I? Oh, spring... anyway, I think we have a few more hurdles to clear before we get there. These include both a forecast of high temps in the 20s later this week, and St. Patrick's Day. This was rammed home for me with spectacular force on my weekly visit to the grocery store (I should say "our" weekly visit, accompanied as always by my faithful four-year-old companion).

I usually enjoy the music wafting over the PA, but it was a "wee bit" of a trial today as the Irish fiddles were skirling away at full volume. Now, remember, I love music -- in fact, I wrote one of last summer's posts at the intermission of a concert by an Irish band -- but I guess I have a skirling threshhold. By the time we got to the dairy aisle I was bleeding from the ears both internally, from the volume; and externally, from trying to claw them off. I was almost wishing for country music.

Of course, I'm usually a big enthusiast about holidays that have devolved into an excuse to drink till you hurl (yeah, I'm looking at you too, New Year's Eve).

As eager as I am for spring to get here already (or for this post to get to the point, whichever comes first), it's just as much true that I won't be too sorry to see winter go. You might know I always have an idealized goal of how "family life" is going to go; in this case I always envision us frolicking merrily through Outdoor Winter Activities. That butts up against reality, like no snow followed by blizzards followed by zero-degree weather... as well as at least one family member who from November to March is usually restricted to the "winter activities" that can be conducted from the corner of the couch under the electric throw. Not to worry, it has a 4-foot cord.

Still, we've had a couple big outings so far: one trip to the sledding hill, and one ice skating trip. I took one trip down the hill myself (and crashed), which was almost exactly as successful as the skating. A few things I learned about skating:

• Most of your Olympic skaters probably don't go quite as long between trips to the ice. I realized with a start that I hadn't had skates on since a year with a "19" in it... pretty sure those were the first two digits.
• An outdoor ice rink is a quaint and homey notion, but after a certain point in the season is not to be relied upon. Ah, the sensation of gliding along -- and coming to an abrupt halt as your blade slices through a thin veneer of ice the approximate consistency of a slice of toast. Without butter.
• Sometimes it's better to just go ahead and fall. It's actually quite possible to hurt yourself more contorting to avoid falling than it is just to hit the ice... particularly when the ice is the approximate consistency of a slice of toast.
• There is such a thing as biofeedback. After a few minutes (OK, less than one minute) on skates, several parts of my Bio were giving me all kinds of Feedback: particularly my ankles, which were retorting, "you're kidding, right?" and my hip flexors, which were making a sound reminiscent of when I tune my 12-string guitar.

Surely spring has to be better, right? Let's see: take the kids for lots of walks; teach them how to play baseball; wean the 7-year-old off his dependence on the training wheels......

Tune in again in 6 months to read about how I managed to blow the warm weather as well.

Working Through the List

The plan, of course, is always to post just about every seven days or so... after all, there are a few people who read this from time to time and I'd hate for them to think I'd given up and gone on the road as a professional Sudokuist (Sudokuer?). Rest assured, I haven't abandoned the goal of posting as often as possible. In fact, if you could read my mind, what a tale my thoughts would tell. Of course, if you could read my mind, I wouldn't have a reason to post at all.

No, I fully expect I would have posted this weekend if not for another episode of "Cancel School Just in Case", brought to you by our friends at the local school district. And yes, the forecast was relatively scary, but I would really advocate the use of that old-school weather forecasting technique called "looking out the window".

I don't like to be The Guy Who Grumbles About the Way Things Were In the Old Days (OK, I do -- "curmudgeon" can be pretty funny -- but at least I try not to overdo it), but quite clearly things were different when I was a student. The schools always gave the impression they were looking for excuses not to cancel. Now I wonder if the frequency of lawsuits doesn't have the administrators figuring it's better to eliminate any chance of an incident.

It wasn't just the kids' unscheduled presence that put a ripple in the schedule; I was also trying to put together the powerpoints we use in worship. That took forever, due in large part to the fact that the church laptop I use has about the same speed and memory as an Etch-a-Sketch. For that I can blame the person who arranged its purchase -- which is extremely convenient because he's right here in this chair.

Fortunately all that effort was vindicated by the production of an outstanding, error-free presentation... no, wait, not that either. The less said about that, the better; but all in all, pretty close to what Mom used to call an Alexander day.

Meanwhile, the daily chores go on. I know laundry has to be easier than it was in the "pounding on a rock" era, or even the "manual-wringer" era -- they called Mondays "Laundry Day" for a reason -- but on the other hand, in frontier days people had, what, one change of clothes? Not counting Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' clothes. Granted I wouldn't want to be downwind, but the laundry volume had to be a lot smaller. It's not unusual for my daughter to go through multiple changes in one day all by herself ... although some of it is fairly necessary, since she is hard on clothes. Apparently it's prohibited by law to just laminate her.

That's another thing. In those days the four-year-old was caring for the chickens and the seven-year-old was out plowing the back forty, out from under foot like God intended. I have to be like Peyton Manning, with a clock constantly running in my head: the difference is, he's calcluating how long he has to throw before the rush gets him; I'm calculating how much laundry I can get done before WW III breaks out downstairs.

At such times I go to the Priority Folding Protocol, where stuff like socks & underwear is triaged into the "fold later (maybe even tomorrow (OK, next day at the latest))" pile. As a result I found myself faced with a significant clean-sock pile. With my gift for hyperbole in the pursuit of a laugh -- did you know I use hyperbole more than anyone else in the history of written communication? -- I said (yes, said aloud; I'm That Guy too), "I'll bet there are 50 pairs of socks here!"

Of course, I was just complaining to myself, and besides I can never guess the number of M&Ms in the jar, so I wasn't surprised when the count came up short of 50... in fact, there were only 43 pairs (plus 3 odd socks).

And by the way, don't even let me get started on the whole question of why they make "hand wash only" clothes in size 4T.