Rambling Thoughts on Public Speaking, Praying and the Naming of Hurricanes

I spent much of Friday night and Saturday outside, listening to local bands perform at the town’s summer festival. Much of the music was wonderful. There were, of course, the obligatory bad performers. This one woman looked like a reincarnation of Mamma Cass Elliot (of the Mammas and Papas). She sat through her whole set while she sang to recorded music. Her singing wasn’t bad, but I’d preferred to have listened to the CDs with vocals by the original artists. And then there were the high school head-bangers. They didn’t have a tune or a beat, but they had some real loud drums and amplifiers and diaphragms and vocal cords. Otherwise, the music was good. However, I got tired of each group’s introduction which included an advertisement for the sponsors followed by, "…without further ado." I’d preferred that they were introduced without any ado. And if we had to have ado, don’t end the ado with that little cliché for it sounds like I’m receiving a favor. The problem with ado is that it’s like dodo, a little stinks up the place.

Sage’s number one rule for public introductions: Don’t say, "without further ado."

Another pet peeve of mine is the overuse of the word "just" in prayers. It seems the more conservative the prayer, the more often the word "just" is used. I call these "justly prayers," and I bet God has a name for them too. "Lord, we just want to ask you for this…. And oh yeah Lord, we just want to ask you for that…" This prayer can also go, "Lord, we just want to thank you for…" Or, "Lord, we just praise you for…" Why not say, "God, we just want to ask you for a whole bunch of stuff and here it is:" The same could be used for praise and thanks.

Sage’s number one rule for prayers: Use just only if you have just one item to talk over with the Big Guy

We’ve seen the big one! My heart goes out to those folks down there in Mississippi and Louisiana. Gas is now outrageous. I knew it was going up. I’m not crazy enough to do something like stockpile gas, so I thought I would go out and buy all the hot sauce from my local grocer’s shelf. Ever seen where that stuff comes from? I haven’t yet heard a report on the condition of Tabasco’s operations, but a little speculation never hurt anyone. But then, I was reminded that when I came home from the Banana Republics last fall, I had a suitcase dedicated to hot sauce and coffee. The coffee is gone, but there are still close to a dozen varieties of hot sauce on my shelves. I'll hold off speculating on hot sauce futures. Anybody know if Southern Comfort is still brewed in New Orleans?

In addition to be sadden at the lost of life and the cost of doing living, I’m am gloomy cause another wonderful name is ruined. I like the name Katrina. I’d considered it, if I had another daughter. But not anymore. I’ve known a few Hazels in my life, but they’re all my mom’s age. Only someone suspected of child abuse would have named a girl Hazel after that 1954 hurricane, at least if they were from the East Coast. And I expect the name Camille has been used sparingly since 1968. And after 2005, there will be no more Katrinas. Leave it up to the National Hurricane Center to ruin another good name. Maybe the storms could be numbered instead of names (which would give the newscasters a real challenge in reporting the news). Hurricane number seven is now a category five and expected to hit the coast at six…

pictures

I posted a couple pictures of the north country here: http://sagecoveredhillsphotos.blogspot.com/

Home

The Big Two-hearted River was wonderful, even got a few hours of sunshine which broke through the trees with a welcome display after rain. I love Michigan's north country. Spent time roaming the shoreline of Lake Superior. The big lake foamed from near gale force winds, the blowing sand stinging my bare legs. I went out to Whitefish Point, what a sight. This November will be the 30th anniversary of the Edmund Fitzgerald sinking 20 miles northwest of there. I started reading Uncle Tom's Cabin (a first for me).

On the way back home, stayed in Sault Ste. Marie for showers and food, and got to watch one of the 1000 foot freighters make it through the locks. It's always amazing to me to see who they can get a boat that's a 1000 feet long and 105 feet wide through a lock that is only 110 feet wide (the lock is nearly 1400 feet long). Such size leaves only about 2.5 feet on each side of the ship--that's tighter than trying to back my truck into my garage.

This is a second draft of the poem I had in the previous post (it's a little tighter but still not where I want it).


Ode to Lovers Lost and Unknown

I never danced upstairs at the Luminia
The ballroom exposed to the evening breeze from offshore
Cooling guest Jitterbugging and dancing the Charleston
under the bright lights that guided ship captains
who sailed the coastline until ‘42,
when darkness prevailed due to the threat of German U-boats.

And I never laid in the sand on the beach
watching silent movies projected on a screen
beyond the breakers, a constant rhythm,
for the antics of Mr. Fields and company
until a nor’easter flatted the screen,
by then obsolete with the new talking shows.

And I never rode the electric trolley
ten miles from the beach to Wilmington
late at night under live oaks haunted with Spanish moss,
passing the new bungalows on Wrightsville Avenue,
the summer air scented with honeysuckle
and the sky filled with lightning bugs and Perseids meteors

I did get to shoot pool, a quarter a game
in the shell of a building once called the Luminia
and I showered shower underneath the rotting building
rinsing by body in brackish water,
unaware of the splendor long past
or the soon to be wrecking crew clearing for condos.

Time passed me by
and I’ll never have a chance to dance with you at the Luminia,
to watch the light reflect in your eyes
and the wind to blow your dress and toss your hair.
But if I had the chance, I’d pull you tight,
my arm around your waist, my head chin tucked on your shoulder
savoring the moment.

Ode to Lovers Lost and Unknown

I haven't felt much like writing any parodies or satires lately, but I did scratch out a rough poem this evening. It's about a special building on the beach near where I grew up, that was torn down when I was in Junior High. If you'd like to know more about the Luminia, check out this site: http://www.wrightsville.com/luminia_days_at_wrightsville_beach.htm or for more pictures and history:
http://www.wbmuseum.com/lumina_daze_2005.htm

Tomorrow I'm off for the Big Two-hearted River (remember Hemingway's Short Stories?), for some camping, canoeing and fishing on what's suppose to be one of the top ten trout streams in the country. Here's the poem:


Ode to Lovers Lost and Unknown

I never had a chance to dance in the upstairs ballroom at the Luminia
it’s walls open to the air to catch the evening breeze blowing from offshore
cooling the evening’s guest as they did the Jitterbug and Charleston
under the bright lights guiding ship captain who sailed the coastline
until 1942, when the threat of German U-boats extinguished the light.

And I never had a chance to lay in the sand on the beach
and to watch silent movies projected on a screen
Out beyond the breakers, which provided a constant rhythm,
for the antics of Mr. Fields and company
until the screen, obsolete with the new talking shows, was flatted in a nor'easter.

And I never had a chance to ride the electric trolley
that carried folks the ten miles from Wilmington to the beach.
What would have been like, late at night under live oaks haunted with Spanish moss,
as the cars made their way passed the new bungalows on Wrightsville Avenue,
the summer air scented with honeysuckle, the sky filled with lightning bugs and Pisces meteors?

Of course, I got to shoot pool, a quarter a game
in the shell of a building once called the Luminia
and to shower underneath, rinsing by body in brackish water,
unaware of the splendor long past in the rotting building
that waited for the wrecking crew clearing for condos.

Time has passed me by
and I’ll never have a chance to dance with you at the Luminia,
to watch the light reflect in your eyes and the wind to blow your dress and toss your hair.
But if I’d had the chance, I’d pull you tight, my arm around your waist,
savoring the moment and licking salt from the nape of your neck.

Back from Vacation

I’m now back from my trip down south—an eleven-day trip that was as restful as sailing though a hurricane. During my sojourn there, in which all my siblings had also come home, we celebrated my parents 50th Anniversary while dealing with my mother’s illness and topping it all off with the death of a step-grandfather. Luckily I had three good days on the beach and another nice day of hiking in West Virginia (Pipestem State Park). During the trip, I read Walker Percy’s novel, The Last Gentleman (good, but too many characters) and David Shenk’s The Forgetting: Alzheimer’s: Portrait of an Epidemic (beautifully written but about a disturbing illness). I also began reading Robert Coles, The Call Of Stories: Teaching and the Moral Imagination.

Although I go home most years, there always seems to be one change that takes me by surprise. This year it was seeing that the old Adventist Church in Myrtle Grove Sound is now an Islamic Center. Although that was a surprise, the biggest change affecting my life is dealing with the realization that my parents are getting older. I’d always assumed they’d be like my grandmother, who is still spunky in her late 80s and has more energy that many people 20 years younger.

Later this month, I’ll take a long weekend break and head up to Lake Superior, with plans to paddle the "Big Two-hearted River" made famous in Hemingway’s short story. Then, in October, I’ll head back south on business, while taking a few days off for surf fishing along the Carolina Coast.

If being on vacation was like sailing through a hurricane, coming back to the office is akin to taming a tornado.

Catching Waves

In the trough, the water is only waist deep. At the top of the swells, it is well over his head. If the wave isn’t breaking, he bobs like a cork, over the top, rising high enough to scan the horizon. If the swell is beginning to break, he dives for safety underneath the water. He’ll feel the turbulence of the wave’s crash on his feet, a signal that it’s safe to come back up. When his head breaks the surface, he instinctually tosses it back as if to free his eyes of hair. He picked up the trait years ago and the habit continues even though his hair hasn’t been long enough to be in his eyes in years.

He continually scouts the horizon for a promising swell, patiently standing right angle to the shore.

When the ideal wave finally approaches, he couches down in the trough for a split second. Then he pushes off hard right before the swell reaches his body. Throwing himself ahead of the wave, he makes a couple strong overhead strokes then stretches his body out, arms far in front of the wave. Effortlessly, it seems, he glides across the face and continues even after the break, riding the foam nearly to the shore. Getting up on knees scrapped by shells, he tosses back his non-existent hair, wipes his face, licks the salt off his lips and sets out for another five-second thrill.