Ellen R. Hale

Beauty, In Word and In Image

2009-11-29T16:27:00.010-05:00

To me, pianos represent beauty. If I stumble on a grand piano with no one at the keys, as I did a month ago, I stop and stare.

The photograph I captured reminded me of an assignment I once had for a college journalism class. I was instructed to find something beautiful and describe it in writing. So I attended a recital of music composed by Karel Husa, the Pulitzer Prize winner who was in attendance.

Here is my essay:

The composer's hands trembled as he explained his four-minute masterpiece. The notes had fallen onto staff paper in Ithaca during the summer of 1955, a month after his mother had died. He took his seat among the scattered audience members. They were silent, awaiting the musical elegy.

The grand piano sat alone, center stage. Its cover stood open in preparation.

The musician -- a tall, thin woman wearing a floor-length black skirt and a vivid green blouse -- appeared from behind the folds of the curtain. She eyed the crowd contentedly for a moment, her plain facial features framed by short, straight brown hair. She walked confidently toward the instrument, touching it gingerly as she bowed and took a seat on the bench. She gently closed her eyes, and then the music came -- a single note followed by another. A solitary melody of grief.

In subtle harmony, her second hand joined in. Her fingers must have been there -- gliding along the ivory keys -- but they were hidden from view behind the piano's black body. As her head and shoulders moved in time with the phrases, she pulled out the composer's sorrow and pushed it toward the captivated audience.

Striking the keys harder, she brought heaviness to the requiem. She suddenly gasped at the sweetness of surprising staccatos and trills. And her eyes widened at the foreboding boom of several low chords before the alternating sounds stopped dead.

The music returned, quietly again, and her gaze drifted up into the bright concert lights. Her single-strand pearl necklace sparkled as she leaned back, fully extending her arms to guide an echoing pair of notes slowly down the keyboard. Her distance from the music widened and the final toll faded.

They Did It Again

2009-11-19T15:05:00.004-05:00

Shane Victorino sounded like a winner from the first time I saw his name back in the summer of 2005 while editing a Triple-A baseball story for the AP. From what I read each night, he seemed to be the star for Scranton/Wilkes-Barre. He was named International League MVP at season's end.

How incredible is it that, four seasons later, Philadelphia Phillies center fielder Shane Victorino made the last out in the World Series, giving the Yankees their 27th title and preventing the Phillies from repeating as champions?

Down 7-3 in the top of the ninth in Game 6, the Phillies were about to lose their status as the defending champs after playing 177 games. Victorino, their No. 2 batter and Golden Glove fielder, stepped up to the plate with two outs against superstar closer Mariano Rivera. Ever since Victorino became a starter midway through the 2006 season, fans have watched him hustle in the outfield and on the base paths. Often flashing a smile in the dugout, Victorino clearly loves playing the game.

But after capturing three straight National League division titles and two straight pennants, the Phillies were about to do what most expect them to do - lose. Two strikes were on Victorino. In anticipation, the broadcasters told us the Yankees were one strike away from winning it all (again).

Not quite. The Phillies weren't going down yet. Victorino fouled off the next pitch. And the next. He took a ball. The count went to 3-2. Only after 10 pitches did Victorino ground out. "We Are The Champions" began blaring from the speakers of the new Yankee Stadium.

Yes, the ending was the same. The Phillies lost. But this wasn't 1950, when they were swept by the Yankees. It wasn't 1993, when they lost on Joe Carter's home run. Unfortunately, it wasn't 2008 either. Cole Hamels wasn't commanding. Brad Lidge wasn't perfect. Harry Kalas wasn't calling the games.

I remember reading a preseason baseball preview in the newspaper, here in Louisville where the game doesn't get much attention. The capsule about the Phillies said they had a strong chance of repeating. I thought then that, although it might look good for them on paper, there was no way it would happen.

I would glance at the scores and standings each day, and there the Phillies were atop their division. When I visited my family over the summer, it was clear the reigning World Series champs were popular. A man wearing a Ryan Howard jersey waited near me in the baggage terminal. I saw a red pickup truck with a giant "P" on the tailgate at a gas station. We Phillies fans had been transformed from hesitant dreamers to enthusiastic believers.

The playoffs finally arrived. I fully realized these were not the Phillies of old when Howard smacked that two-out, ninth-inning RBI double into the Denver night. The Rockies had just taken a 4-2 lead in the eighth with a deflating three-run rally. Howard scored the winning run on Jayson Werth's RBI single. Lidge closed the game, and the Phils were suddenly off to the NLCS. The Phillies I knew growing up never would have been able to deliver in such a clutch situation. (Jimmy Rollins mustered similar magic against the Dodgers when his two-run double with two outs in the ninth gave the Phillies a 5-4 win and a 3-1 series lead.)

That's why, even though they made it back to the World Series and lost in six games, everything is different now for the Phillies. Like Victorino's last at-bat, they give their best until the end.

Top Chef vs. Sports Fan

2009-11-08T17:19:00.002-05:00

It was an innocent statement that, days later, morphed into a startling revelation. “I’m not really a food person,” I informed my relatively new male boss and three female co-workers over lunch at a classy café featuring a menu of bourbon peach chicken, pork dijonnaise and bison quesadilla. I had been attempting to describe the wonderful meal I’d had the night before at a New Orleans-style restaurant. It was seafood – grouper and shrimp, to be exact. My vocabulary did not allow me to offer further specifics.

“You mean you’re not a foodie?” my boss asked in clarification, since everyone seemed puzzled that any living human could not be a “food person.” Yes, I do all our grocery shopping and try to cook a healthy dinner almost every night of the week. But, not having any dietary restrictions, I find no interest in reading nutrition labels or ingredient lists. Or watching the Food Network. Or reading the weekly food features in the newspaper. I am not a foodie.

A few days later, my husband and I were watching the Kentucky-Auburn football game on a friend’s 65-inch TV. A regular-size TV showing the South Carolina-Alabama game was muted beside it. We were enjoying some chili and wings when a new guest arrived, wearing a Buffalo Bills coat. “You’re a Bills fan?” I asked incredulously. Ever since I edited Bills stories for the AP while living in Albany, rooting for a team that lost four straight Super Bowls in the early 1990s has seemed fairly hopeless to me. “When I was starting to follow football, it was better than being a Bengals fan,” he explained later. The Tennessee Titans weren’t around yet, and the Indianapolis Colts didn’t have Peyton Manning yet. I decided not to tease him about his Bills coat again.

Even though my college football loyalties lie with Louisville and Penn State, I enjoyed our evening of SEC entertainment. Kentucky won at Auburn for the first time since 1966. Alabama prevailed to remain undefeated. Once again, I was proud of myself for being a woman who knows about sports.

But later I realized, sadly for the first time, that I am a woman who can talk more intelligently about the baseball postseason than about how to properly marinate steak. I watch ESPN. I read the sports section in the newspaper every day. Among women, I’m beginning to feel like a jock.

That’s starting to bother me. I suspect it won’t bother my husband as long as I keep putting meat-and-potato dinners on the table.

Victor Hugo's Epilogue

2009-07-13T16:29:00.003-04:00

While it's difficult to see the ending of "Les Miserables" as uplifting, the novel is not Victor Hugo’s last word on redemption. I’m no expert on his religious views, but his writing clearly displays a reverence toward God.

I think it no coincidence that the man who causes Jean Valjean to turn from life as a convict is a humble Catholic priest. He is the only one who will give Valjean food or shelter after his release from prison, and Valjean responds by stealing the priest’s silver in the night. When the police bring Valjean to the priest for justice, he tells them to let Valjean go because the silver was a gift. As proof, he offers his silver candlesticks to Valjean, too. Those candlesticks serve as a permanent reminder of the new life Valjean must lead in return.

Valjean’s death at the end of the novel seems to show that Hugo thought true redemption came through God alone and, most often, in the life to come. Consider the novel's closing words: "Without doubt, in the gloom some mighty angel was standing, with outstretched wings, awaiting the soul."

And before his death in 1885, Hugo wrote the following about his anticipation for life in heaven.

“I feel within me that future life. For half a century I have been translating my thoughts into prose and verse: history, drama, philosophy, romance, tradition, satire, ode and song; all of these I have tried. But I feel I haven’t given utterance to the thousandth part of what lies within me. When I go to the grave I can say, as others have said, 'My day’s work is done.' But I cannot say, 'My life is done.' My work will recommence the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is a thoroughfare. It closes upon the twilight, but opens upon the dawn.”

If that hope trumps the despair of this life, then take heart, readers, for Valjean's redemption is secure after all.

The Dreams That Cannot Be

2009-07-10T16:07:00.004-04:00

“But there are dreams that cannot be/And there are storms we cannot weather … Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.”
– Fantine in Broadway’s “Les Miserables”

The librarian slid the 2-inch-thick volume toward me, her eyebrows slightly raised in curiosity. Little did she know I was checking out Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables” because of Susan Boyle.

Like millions of others, I was captivated by Boyle’s rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” from the Broadway adaptation of Hugo’s book. After watching the YouTube clip of her inspiring “Britain’s Got Talent” performance, I started listening once more to the “Les Mis” soundtrack I’ve had for years. Finally, I decided I wanted the full story – straight from the 500-page book. With each turn of the page, the songs from the musical played in my mind and filled each character with life.

What was Jean Valjean’s story in early 18th century France? The poor laborer began a lifetime of suffering the moment he tried to steal a loaf of bread for his sister’s starving children. Even after his release from prison, he could never escape the consequences of what he had been – a convict. Valjean valiantly pursues redemption while those who know his true identity pursue him. He builds a new life and becomes mayor of a town, only to turn himself in to the authorities to spare the life of a man they believe is Valjean. He escapes that capture so that he can rescue the orphan Cosette from squalor, then builds a new life raising her and giving to the poor. When the man Cosette loves almost dies in battle, Valjean carries him on his back through the sewers to safety. Cosette and Marius are able to marry and begin a comfortable life together, all because of Valjean’s sacrifices. But by then, he has little time left. Valjean dies having fulfilled Fantine's dream for her daughter but having never fully experienced redemption himself.

And what was Susan Boyle’s story in early 21st century England? The awkward woman lived a quiet life until she sang “I Dreamed a Dream” and was thrust into the constant spotlight of the entertainment media. Her life had been full of disappointment and unfulfilled dreams, and one performance gave her hope. Accolades flowed in from around the world, but so did critiques of her physical appearance. She wanted to win the talent competition to redeem herself, but the voices of scrutiny won out instead. When she finished second, her reward was a public mental breakdown.

Has much changed between the time Hugo wrote about and now? The world can often be a cruel place. I suppose that’s why we’ll always return to these bittersweet stories – in books, at the theater, on YouTube – of those who never quite realized their dreams.

He's No Marley

2009-05-30T21:32:00.005-04:00

I wish I could write a book that tops the bestseller lists and inspires a major motion picture, but life has not dealt me the material that it dealt John Grogan when he bought an adorable yellow Lab puppy who turned into a rambunctious, troublemaking dog. “Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog” is a story already told, and my story of life and love with the world’s best dog would be a snoozer in comparison.

One of Grogan’s chapters is titled “The Things He Ate.” He tells of how Marley chowed on the mangoes that fell in their backyard in South Florida. He also swallowed many small household items, including sponges, socks and used tissues. He also destroyed major household items, like the stereo speakers, feather pillows and one leg of a wooden footstool. Most famously, he gulped down an 18-karat gold necklace Grogan gave his wife for her birthday. Days later, the necklace was recovered in a pile of Marley’s poop – fully intact.

As for my laidback 90-pound chocolate Lab, he only eats dog food and occasional treats. So I give you instead “The Places He Laid.”

Cam likes to be close to me, even in the bathroom. He frequently plops down on the bathroom rug outside our shower while I’m inside. It takes more than a few nudges of the stall door before he rises to curl up in our walk-in closet. During warmer months, he loves to sprawl out on the cool tile of the bathroom. He also sticks his snout in an air duct opening directly under our bathroom sink and remains prone there, causing me to step over him as I brush my teeth or apply my makeup.

Cam likes to lie in the morning sun and in the cool night air on our deck (conveniently, in the middle of the night). He lies between the couch and the coffee table while we watch TV, becoming a footrest of sorts. He lies on the doormat so he can keep watch on the neighborhood threats through our front door. His “bed” is a loveseat we keep covered with an old sheet to shield against shedding and slobber – our bed is one place he does not lie.

These days, I’m most likely to find him lying on the kitchen floor next to the air conditioning vent, just waiting for the cool air to begin blowing on him. He’s almost glued to this corner of the kitchen, so that, when I come home from work, I hear his long, thick tail banging on the linoleum. He’s happy I’m home, all right, but there’s no way he’s jumping up to greet me. He’s too comfortable. Slap, slap … slap! The drumming continues until I kneel down to rub his belly. Then our resident percussionist rolls over, fully satisfied.

The Finish Line

2009-05-01T23:29:00.002-04:00

As the horses in the 135th Kentucky Derby power toward the finish line, I will be thinking of two inspirations who finished their respective races this week. Barbaro, the undefeated Kentucky Derby winner who survived a catastrophic leg break for many months, and Robley Rex, a World War I-era soldier who dedicated his long life to serving fellow veterans.

A majestic bronze statue of Barbaro now stands outside Gate 1 of Churchill Downs. The unveiling of the statue the weekend before the Kentucky Derby signified the culmination of Barbaro’s story. His owners, Roy and Gretchen Jackson, and trainer, Michael Matz, were there to pay final tribute to their colt. Dean Richardson, the University of Pennsylvania veterinarian who exhausted all measures to save Barbaro’s life, joined them. The sculptor the Jacksons selected to cast the horse in all his glory, Alexa King, also was on hand. So was a crowd of fans.

A race horse’s life is a labor of love for his connections. The Jacksons’ love for Barbaro illustrated that for the whole world to see, earning him the distinction of being the only horse buried on Churchill Downs grounds. His carefully crafted likeness will be there forever, captured in his moment of triumph – the stride when his four legs rose above the track as jockey Edgar Prado rode him toward the wire. A quote from the Oscar-winning movie “Chariots of Fire” is etched into the base of the monument: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.”

I suspect far less people know about the life of Robley Rex, who died just shy of his 108th birthday. Robley, who smiled his way through the final years of his life, died in the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Louisville where he logged 14,000 volunteer hours over two decades. Before that, he assisted scores of veterans at his local VFW post.

Robley’s wife had died in 1992, and they had no children. He served in the Army for a few years immediately after World War I had ended, then returned to civilian life. Yet he reached out and touched so many people that our elected officials memorialized him on the floor of Congress. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell lamented the loss of Kentucky’s oldest known veteran – “one of our last links to a bygone era.” Robley made an impression on anyone he met, myself and other journalists included.

A beloved horse and a beloved man finally crossed the finish line, having run very well indeed.

Collecting Prizes from the Past

2009-04-15T16:20:00.003-04:00

The dining room clock was chiming three on Easter Sunday. The four of us kids, bellies full of ham and potatoes, were itching to shed our dress clothes. The adults were encircling the house, gingerly concealing the last of the eggs in tulip leaves and evergreen shrubs.

The Egg Hunt was part of the Easter traditions that became a touchstone of my childhood. Earlier, as soon as we arrived at Nana and Papa’s house after church, we raced through room after room trying to locate our five baskets – identified by a ribbon tied to the handle in a color selected months earlier. There was a time when the color of my ribbon was tremendously important. As my knowledge of hues expanded, I’d challenge Nana with colors beyond the basic red, blue and green. “Can I have teal this year? How about gold?”

After the egg hunt, we tallied the results. My cousins usually won. There were prizes (like we needed more candy at that point). Maybe a month later, Papa would invariably find a previously undiscovered egg while doing yard work. Were there anymore out there?

The digital clock on my oven displayed 3:00 on Easter Sunday. My belly was full of my mother-in-law's ham and potatoes, and the dog was itching for a walk. Along the way, we happened upon a few adults in their front yard, hiding plastic eggs in the grass. I steered the dog away, lest his nose detect chocolate or some other edible treat to pursue.

Then the sound of the chimes rang in my ears, reminding me it was still egg-hunting time. Though my legs have been idle and my basket empty for years, still egg-hunting time. Perhaps there is something hidden I have yet to find.

The Triple Fool

2009-04-01T15:53:00.003-04:00

On the occasion of April Fools' Day, I remembered this poem by John Donne. Enjoy!

"I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry.
But where's the wiseman that would not be I
If she would not deny?
Then, as the earth's inward, narrow, crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain,
And by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such which pleases when 'tis read;
Both are increased by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published.
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be."

Scrape, Scrape and Scrape Again

2009-02-03T10:46:00.002-05:00

In college, the trunk of my car contained a pair of yellow ice scrapers and a small snow shovel. A winter day without precipitation was rare in Ithaca, New York, though Buffalo and Syracuse far surpassed the Finger Lakes town in terms of snowfall accumulations.

I lived in an apartment building across from the back entrance of the college my senior year. A typical day involved cleaning the snow off my car four times – when I drove to class, returned to the apartment for dinner, headed to the newspaper office for the night and, finally, came home to sleep. I could have trudged back and forth on the campus of extreme hills, lugging my books and battling the wind. Even though I had short distances to travel, scraping my windshield four times a day was the lesser of two evils.

The recent winter storm that walloped Louisville had me (but mostly my husband) cleaning off my car multiple times. But the experience paled in comparison to the daily grind of winter in upstate New York.

There’s just no way around it, I thought as I gingerly approached my car in my Timberland boots. The only choice in a storm, if you want to go anywhere, is to scrape, scrape and scrape again.

Lego Lessons

2009-02-02T14:43:00.003-05:00

Loot Island, I learned while surveying a toy aisle at Target, is the current name of the Lego set featuring pirates. When my younger brother and I were growing up, Forbidden Island was what they called it. We also had the Shell service station, with its car wash, parking garage and gas pumps. We had so many sets that we built sprawling villages on the family room floor.

I always followed the instruction book. Andy, on the other hand, could improvise. He could imagine different buildings with the pieces supplied. On at least one occasion, I insisted on taking everything apart and sorting all the pieces by color. When order was restored, we rebuilt.

I couldn’t improvise when it came to music, either. I played piano and clarinet and sang alto in chorus. I read and executed music fairly well, though I never did master our school’s fight song while playing in marching band at football games. (Some things were beyond my skill level.) Much to my dismay, especially on the piano, I could never just sit down and play a melody originating from my mind instead of playing from the written page.

What happens when you can’t improvise? You follow the rulebook for life and graduate from high school, finish college in four years, get a good job, get married and buy a house. Then what? Society doesn’t exactly provide many guideposts to reach during the unscripted years of adulthood.

Scattered before me are Lego blocks of various sizes, shapes and colors. There’s no box with a picture showing me what the finished structure should look like – will it be a train station, a tropical resort, a sturdy fortress? Or maybe an unsymmetrical, unglamorous creation I make up as I go, piece by piece.

Give Me a Bud Wright, Please

2008-12-22T16:32:00.003-05:00

At first, I did it for the money. Then I met Bud Wright.

In the spring, I signed up to serve as an election officer for the primary as a way to make an extra $120. Turned out, public service was more fun than I ever imagined.

I realized I was the new kid in the precinct when I met my partners to set up at 5 a.m. Doug, a middle-aged white man, was a physician’s assistant. Glenda, a black woman, was a retired social worker from Ohio currently working part time at a gas station to stay busy. Bud, an 80-year-old white man, spent his career at the Louisville Water Co. I soon learned his full-time job was caring for his diabetic wife.

That primary day, Bud and I had about 35 Republicans vote, leaving plenty of time for him to entertain.

He lived all his years a few blocks from the polling place (located inside the church where he is a member). In that time, his neighborhood transformed from a rural retreat to a suburban setting. He and his wife married after high school and raised several sons. His youngest planned to marry in Florida in June, and Bud was determined to get his bride of 60 years to the wedding.

Bud labeled himself the “mayor of Ferndale Road” and greeted many of the silver-haired voters. By the end of the day, I’d nudge him whenever a senior walked in: “Here’s another one of your friends.”

He liked getting a rise out of me, showing me his NRA membership card and his license to carry a concealed handgun. He told me he sleeps with a gun under his pillow and drives with one in his car. Late in the afternoon, a concerned voter shared the latest news with us: “Ted Kennedy has a brain tumor.” Bud, an avid Rush Limbaugh listener, leaned over and whispered “that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” I scolded him, for that statement and several others. But the Oreos he shared with me at lunch made up for his antics.

As we prepared to close the polls, we teased each other about our election day titles: Doug (the sheriff), Glenda and Bud (the judges) and me (the clerk). Bud declared the four of us a “microcosm of society.” He was right. Despite our different ages and backgrounds, we had joined together to do our part to keep American democracy rolling.

On November 4, voters poured in from 6 a.m. until lunchtime. By the end of the day, we had 65 percent turnout. The camaraderie between me, Doug, Glenda and Bud remained.

I found out Bud and his bride made it to the wedding. He also had ordered a chair lift online and installed it himself so that she could get around the house more easily. When I told him I’d lost my grandfather a few weeks earlier, he expressed his worries about who would care for his bride if something happened to him. I nodded in understanding. But soon, it was back to the bantering.
“Don’t you think Sarah Palin is attractive?” he asked Doug.

Doug shook his head and wrinkled his nose.

“You would if she were a Democrat!” Bud teased.

Lying at home waiting for the election returns on television, I felt simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated by another day with Bud Wright.

Salute to My Centenarian Veteran

2008-12-17T11:17:00.004-05:00

A smile spread across my face when I turned to the inside of the newspaper’s Metro section and saw a color photo of a man I had interviewed five years earlier. There was white-haired Robley Rex, in a navy blazer and red bow tie, saluting the crowd gathered for his 107th birthday. He’s still alive!

In an era when fewer and fewer World War II veterans are living, Robley marches on as Kentucky’s oldest known veteran. He entered the Army at the end of World War I and spent time in France and Germany before his discharge in 1922.

When I met Robley at age 102, he was living in his home. Friends drove him to the VA Medical Center three days a week so he could stay active by volunteering. Here’s a portion of what I wrote about him:

“On a characteristic Friday morning, Rex arrives at the medical center in his white shirt and trousers. Patriotic badges are fixed to his Veterans of Foreign Wars baseball cap. He still wears his wedding ring, even though his wife died more than a decade ago. Not much can wipe the smile off his face.

The hospital is a big place, but Rex navigates his territory with ease. Pushing a walker in front of him, he quickly shuffles to an elevator to begin his volunteer rounds.

On the fifth floor, he drops off a laboratory sample. Several workers thank him, but his failing ears don’t hear.”

Because of Robley’s hearing problems, I had difficulty interviewing him. I learned much more by watching him and how his contagious joy spread to others. From what I saw in the newspaper, he hasn’t changed much.

He now lives in a nursing home, but he still wears his wedding band. During his birthday party, he received the Kentucky Governor’s Award for Outstanding Service.

“I enjoy being alive,” he told me five years ago. I suspect that’s still so.

Hello, WALL-E!

2008-12-09T11:44:00.002-05:00

It’s been four days, and I’m still happily humming a few lines from the Broadway classic “Hello, Dolly!” They were surprisingly transplanted in the futuristic animated movie “WALL-E,” featuring a love-struck robot as the title character.

The movie opens with a view of Earth from outer space and a lone voice singing:

“Out there,
There’s a world outside of Yonkers,
Way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby,
There’s a slick town, Barnaby.
Out there,
Full of shine and full of sparkle,
Close your eyes and see it glisten, Barnaby.”

For those who haven’t seen “Hello, Dolly!” – either the 1969 movie starring Barbra Streisand or the stage version – Barnaby and his pal Cornelius are store clerks in Yonkers who don’t see much excitement. Then Dolly, the comedic widow-turned-matchmaker, rolls into town to find a bride for their wealthy and grumpy boss, Horace Vandergelder.

WALL-E is a trash-compacting robot trying to clean up an uninhabitable Earth. He loves watching a discarded video he found of “Hello, Dolly!,” probably for the same reason so many have enjoyed this old musical and this new movie: They’re both funny love stories.

While doing his work, WALL-E has the lilting tune “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” on repeat. It’s what everyone’s dancing to when Dolly and company set off for New York City to have Horace meet a prospective wife.

“Put on your Sunday clothes when you feel down and out.
Strut down the street and have your picture took.
Dressed like a dream your spirits seem to turn about …

Put on your Sunday clothes there’s lots of world out there
Put on your silk cravat and patent shoes
We’re gonna find adventure in the evening air …”

One day, a female robot (EVE) lands on Earth to see if life exists. It’s love at first sight for WALL-E, so he gives her a green shoot that’s growing inside an old boot. The discovery sends the star-crossed robots on an adventure to the spaceship where humans have been living in a “Brave New World”-like dystopia for 700 years. With robots catering to their every desire, the overweight humans live in constant virtual reality. They don’t even know what dancing is.

The musical thread continues through the end of the movie. Another song has taught WALL-E and EVE about their feelings for each other: “And that is all/That love’s about/And we’ll recall when time runs out/That it only took a moment/To be loved a whole life long!”

The happily-ever-after ending has the humans abandoning their spaceship to experience real life on Earth – a reminder that there are always new worlds worth exploring as well as abandoned worlds worth returning to once more.

Victory

2008-10-30T11:40:00.002-04:00

My grandpa, a lifelong baseball fan, turns 90 years old this weekend. He clearly remembers when 16 teams played Major League Baseball – eight in the American League and eight in the National League. Growing up in western Pennsylvania, he listened to the Pittsburgh Pirates on the radio. He tells me the other Pennsylvania team – the Phillies – always finished at the bottom of the standings.

The Phillies have been playing for 126 years without much success (see “The Ecstasy and the Agony”). No more. I was a few months from being born when they won their first title in 1980. Now they are the winners of the 2008 World Series, the best of 30 teams in baseball.

And we will always love them – Jimmy Rollins, Jayson Werth, Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, Pat Burrell, Shane Victorino, Pedro Feliz, Carlos Ruiz, Cole Hamels, Brett Myers, Jamie Moyer, Joe Blanton, Ryan Madson, J.C. Romero, Brad Lidge and the manager who led them all, the brilliant Charlie Manuel.

“The players is what makes a good manager,” Charlie told reporters after the Phils’ Game 4 slugfest. “If you go ask any manager in baseball, if he’s got any sense he’ll tell you that he has to have good players.”

These Phillies are winners. They won their division, beat the Milwaukee Brewers 3-1, beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 4-1 and beat the Tampa Bay Rays 4-1. The only wrinkle (something had to go wrong) was a rainstorm that suspended Game 5 in the sixth inning. Still, they didn’t lose a postseason game at home.

What a reward for the fans, who finally know what victory feels like. Bring on the parade, Philadelphia.

Sticking Together, Moving Forward

2008-10-23T12:15:00.002-04:00

They appeared as my dog and I approached the last turn of our walk one summer evening. The traffic light turned green, and the family on bicycles with helmets in place pedaled furiously across the four-lane road. Someone urged everyone to “go, go, go!”

With that, I was back in Ocean City, New Jersey, on a breezy summer morning. The bikes were lined up in the alley behind my grandparents’ shore house. Papa took the lead, Nana brought up the rear, and the rest of us stayed safely in between. We had to bike more than 10 blocks to get to the boardwalk, and the widest street on the small island was particularly daunting. We always crossed West Avenue at a traffic light. The instant we saw green, there was a rush of urgency to “go, go, go!”

Papa kept our family together. He was an admirable man – attended elementary school through college along the same street, committed himself to the woman he married for 60 years, built a home where hospitality to family and friends abounded, worked for one company until he retired 24 years later, attended church faithfully, served his community on the school board and traveled the country with his kids.

He picked me up from school, he drove me to piano lessons, he attended all the athletic and musical events involving his four grandchildren. He made holidays – particularly Christmas and Easter – unbelievably exciting for us. He washed the dishes for Nana each night, did the grocery shopping, helped her tend their gardens and kept the household in order at his desk.

This August, on the patio where so many had visited and played cards over the years, he fell and never recovered. His sharp mind had become fuzzy in recent years, and he was unconscious when I finally made it to his hospital bed. I was thankful no tears flowed like they had each time we said goodbye. Instead, I could freely express my deep appreciation to him.

Now, without our patriarch, our family is kept together by the common experiences Papa gave us. So we will continue to ride the waves, build sand castles and pedal across busy streets until we reach the place where the light is more brilliant than the morning sun glistening on the sea.

Psalm 84

2008-10-11T12:47:00.002-04:00

For my dearest papa, Robert Stapleton (October 16, 1923-October 10, 2008):

"How lovely is your dwelling place,
O Lord Almighty!
My soul yearns, even faints,
for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and my flesh cry out
for the living God.

Even the sparrow has found a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young -
a place near your altar,
O Lord Almighty, my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house;
they are ever praising you ...

Better is one day in your courts
than a thousand elsewhere;
I would rather be a doorkeeper
in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of the wicked.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
the Lord bestows favor and honor;
no good thing does he withhold
from those whose walk is blameless.

O Lord Almighty,
blessed is the man who trusts in you."

War on Words

2008-10-09T15:49:00.002-04:00

I am not writing about politics. I am writing about political jargon.

The overuse of certain words by the media, the pundits and the candidates themselves gets old fast. We stop listening. The words don’t count because we’ve heard them so many times. Further, one might argue that the redundancies display a lack of creativity, knowledge and diversity in discourse. Three examples follow.

1. Maverick (noun). As Sen. John McCain conducted his primary campaign, the media seemed to label him in every news story as a maverick. If not, the reporter would quote someone who called McCain a maverick. “What’s the problem with these journalists?” I thought in frustration. When I turned to my thesaurus, I realized why. Here are the alternatives for maverick: nonconformist, unconventional person, eccentric, individualist, rebel, one of a kind, odd one out. None are very flattering. When Gov. Sarah Palin became the vice presidential nominee, it became clear it wasn’t completely the media’s fault. She and McCain seemed to increasingly refer to themselves as mavericks and, together, a team of mavericks. Just reporting the facts.

2. Vet (verb). When we should be talking about the needs of our nation’s veterans, instead we’re talking about how the candidates are being vetted. We must vet the candidates in every way - personally, spiritually, economically, politically. The etymology of the verb “vet” comes from the examinations performed by veterinarians or doctors. Now the dictionary includes as a definition “to evaluate for possible approval or acceptance.” Here, there is no excuse but laziness. There are plenty of other suitable words we can use to describe this process: examine, scrutinize, inspect, investigate, evaluate. See how I’m scrutinizing the word “vetting”?

3. Fundamental (adjective). I’ve particularly noticed this problem word in the debates. Both the presidential and the vice presidential candidates have told Americans “the fundamental difference” between their campaign and The Other Campaign. Unfortunately, I’ve heard more than one fundamental difference mentioned on both sides. So, I ask, what is the fundamental difference after all? Can we not make our point just as well by saying, for example, “a major difference,” “an essential difference” or “a vital difference”? The same goes for bringing change/reform to any institution – the government, the economy, the health care system. Nothing less than fundamental change is in order, apparently.

As for me, I apologize for using the word “candidate” five times in this 400-word post. That kind of unnecessary repetition won’t happen again. That’s the fundamental difference between me and other writers.

The Ecstasy and the Agony

2008-10-01T14:11:00.002-04:00

The Phillies were going to blow it. We unfortunate Philadelphia sports fans are conditioned to expect our teams to get heartbreakingly close to a big win before coming up just short.

The scene was Citizens Bank Park on Saturday. The Phillies had the opportunity to win the National League East for the second straight year. The Phils had been on top of their division for much of the season before the New York Mets took first place in late July, causing me to watch them go back and forth in the newspaper standings every day. Now the Phillies were up 4-2 going into the top of the ninth against the Washington Nationals, an inferior opponent. Closer Brad Lidge, who hadn’t blown a save all season, took the mound. Surely, the game was over.

Next thing we knew, the Phillies were going to blow it. The Nationals scored a run and loaded the bases. There was only one out. Then, in one miraculous moment, star shortstop Jimmy Rollins prevented a base hit and turned it into a double play, ending the game in an improbable flash. We could scarcely believe it.

After all, this was the Phillies. The team that won its single World Series in 1980, the year before I was born. The team that lost the 1993 World Series in Game 6, leading 6-5 in the bottom of the ninth when Toronto’s Joe Carter hit a three-run homer off "wild man" Mitch Williams.

And just last year, the 126-year-old franchise became the first in professional sports to reach 10,000 losses. But by the end of the season, the Phils surprised us by making the playoffs for the first time since 1993! Ecstasy. But then they were swept by the Colorado Rockies in the first round. Agony.

It’s been 25 years since Philadelphia celebrated a national title – the Sixers won the NBA crown in 1983. The disappointments after that are so staggering I can’t recount them all. The Sixers lost to the Lakers in the 2001 NBA Finals, 4 games to 1. The Eagles lost the NFC championship three times in a row before going to the Super Bowl in 2005. Tied with the Patriots going into the fourth quarter, they lost by a field goal.

So we’re not expecting anything from the Phillies. Really. Tradition dictates we watch our beloved Fightins’, as my dad calls them, find the most excruciating ways to lose when it counts most. A season that ends with ecstasy instead of agony? We dare to dream.

Departures

2008-09-30T16:05:00.002-04:00

Fact: Air travel is an uncertain experience. Security lines are long, flights are delayed and luggage is lost. We all have to deal with it.

We display our IDs and boarding passes numerous times because of the Sept. 11 terrorists. We remove our shoes at security because a would-be terrorist put explosives in his shoes. We are permitted only small amounts of liquids in our carry-on bags because terrorists plotted to use liquid explosives on transatlantic flights.

As I dutifully proceeded through the security checkpoints at Louisville’s airport, a TSA agent took my purse off the conveyor belt and looked inside. He pulled out a small tube of pink hand lotion and informed me it needed to be in a sealed plastic bag.

“I didn’t even remember that was in there,” I apologized.

“Well, do you have a plastic bag?”

I shook my head.

“Just remember next time.” He handed me my purse.

My flight landed late in Philadelphia, pushing back my schedule to arrive at my parents’ home by an hour.

On my way out of the terminal, a woman with a hysterical toddler was screaming at a TSA agent who had confiscated a box of Play-Doh when she went through security. She yelled mercilessly as he tried to explain they would have to go back through the line so that each Play-Doh can could be examined.

Passers-by couldn’t help but stare at her tantrum, which did nothing to make the situation better or to comfort her child. Perhaps she had reasons that justified her overreaction. Perhaps airport security has gone too far.

Whatever the case, the conflict seemed utterly unimportant as I left the airport to head to my grandfather’s deathbed.

Pictures at an Exhibition

2008-09-23T11:20:00.002-04:00

Like Rocky Balboa, we had finally made it. My brother and I climbed the iconic steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in triumph.

It was an early September day a few weeks before I married and settled in Louisville. Andy had just started his first semester of seminary in Philadelphia. We had talked for years of going to the museum together, but it never happened.

We came close once. I had to attend a college networking event in the city one night during semester break. My family insisted Andy accompany me for safety, and we decided to make a day trip out of it. We excitedly walked up to the museum doors only to find they were locked: the museum was closed on Mondays.

It was pathetic, really. I had been to the National Gallery in Washington, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Andy had toured the Philadelphia museum on a high school trip; I had not gotten that opportunity. Yet I had no excuse – I spent a summer living within sight of the museum and never found the “right time” to darken its galleries.

Now, with a deadline, Andy and I were there. We weren’t going to miss a thing. We carefully explored every gallery on the two floors – analyzing, discussing, appreciating.

The great American landscape artists of the Hudson River School had long attracted my attention – Thomas Cole and his successors. After reporting on several Hudson River School exhibits for The Associated Press, Frederic Edwin Church became my favorite. The excruciating detail in his landscapes, as well as the exotic locations he captured, were unmatched in my eyes.

There was a Church painting at the Philadelphia Museum of Art – one of his large canvases depicting a South American volcano with lush jungles and a fragile wooden bridge in the foreground. The setting sun coloring the whole scene took my breath away.

Every night I sleep beneath “Cayambe,” a Church print similar to the one we saw together – Andy’s wedding gift to me. The snow-capped mountain rises in the background, framed by an inviting tropical oasis.

Stanley Drucker, Principal Clarinetist

2008-09-22T15:04:00.001-04:00

During the past 60 years, there has been one constant among the changing personnel of the New York Philharmonic: Stanley Drucker, principal clarinetist. My grandfather, Walter Rosenberger, had been a fixture himself in the percussion section for 39 years.

He and Mr. Drucker kept up a busy performance schedule, traveled the world on tour and made recordings. They played under the direction of numerous conductors. All the while, they sustained their level of supreme musicianship.

What longevity my grandfather had! He joined the orchestra upon discharge from the Army after World War II. He and his pals – Elden “Buster” Bailey, Morris “Arnie” Lang, Saul Goodman, and later, Roland Kohloff – made for a tight-knit percussion section. But even Grandpa decided to be done with the daily grind in 1985.

I took up the clarinet in fourth grade and played in the school band through high school, never to play again after graduation. Frankly, I didn’t love the instrument. Mr. Drucker, however, was accomplished enough to join the Philharmonic at age 19. Since then, he has made 150 solo appearances with the orchestra. He has received two Grammy nominations for Best Instrumental Soloist/Classical with Orchestra. I suppose the thrill of making a clarinet sound gorgeous never gets old.

My grandparents, who now live at a retirement community in Pennsylvania, tuned in to the orchestra’s season-opening gala concert on “Live from Lincoln Center” and saw some familiar faces. My grandmother commented that “Stanley Drucker was still playing his clarinet … amazing!!” He plans to retire next year when music director Lorin Maazel’s tenure ends.

I think he’s earned it.

Brotherly Love and Bluegrass Dreams

2008-09-19T09:07:00.005-04:00

Along the split-rail wooden fence near several shade trees, the chestnut colt stood quietly on the dark, thick bluegrass of central Kentucky. The scene appeared perfect – but the soon-to-be stallion had a cast on his leg, and I had just learned The Associated Press was laying me off for corporate reasons.

I am no betting woman. Still, I took a risk when the AP offered me a temporary job in Louisville following graduation. Growing up near Philadelphia, I had never been to the Bluegrass State and knew little about horse racing beyond the children’s books I had loved growing up.

A half-hour before the running of the 2004 Kentucky Derby, I slipped up to the betting window in the press room at Churchill Downs, shoeless and soaked. Heavy rains had just drenched the racetrack and collapsed some of the infield tents. One lady dressed to the hilts told me she lost her mint julep when the storm hit. Now, waiting for the race to start, I put $2 on Smarty Jones to win.

The undefeated 3-year-old thundered through the slop to win. I turned in my ticket and received $10.20 in return. Soon, the jockey, trainer and owner – all first-time Derby winners – arrived for a news conference. They told of a horse born and raised on Someday Farm outside Philadelphia who nearly killed himself when he hit his head on a starting gate in training. Now, Smarty Jones was on the Triple Crown trail. He was my hometown hero, and my eyes opened to a world I never knew existed – one of predawn workouts, fancy hats, jockey weigh-ins, big gambles and glittering trophies.

My spirits soared as I watched him pull away for an easy win in the Preakness. I was a nervous wreck for the Belmont, and I despaired when another horse passed Smarty on the outside to win by a length. He was so close! Why couldn’t they have let him win? Unfortunately, the win wouldn’t be worth a carrot unless the horse won on merit.

During the summer, Smarty developed a leg injury and his owners decided to retire him to the lucrative world of breeding. And there, at the picturesque horse farm, the two of us stood – far from home and unsure of what role was waiting for us.

Because the AP didn’t want to lose me, I received an offer to work in Albany, New York. I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend in Louisville, but I knew I needed more experience in my journalism career. The horse racing Hall of Fame was located just north of Albany in tony Saratoga Springs, site of the sport’s premier summer meet.

Leading up to the 2005 Derby, I excitedly leaped on the Afleet Alex bandwagon. The jockey, trainer and owners were all from Pennsylvania and pledged a portion of his winnings to the charity Alex’s Lemonade Stand. Eight-year-old Alex Scott, who died a year earlier from cancer, had sold cups of lemonade from her suburban Philadelphia home to benefit cancer research. Her parents continued her legacy.

Again, I watched in agony as Afleet Alex came up a length short in the Derby. Two weeks later, the colt amazed the world by averting tragedy in the Preakness. Alex clipped heels with another horse at the top of the stretch, causing him to stumble and nearly collapse. Instead, he powered ahead and pulled away from the competition to win.

Afleet Alex’s win in the Belmont appeared easy in comparison. I smiled over the horse who got a happy ending. When I heard Afleet Alex would be paraded at Saratoga, I made plans to attend the day’s races. The crowd barely clapped when the horse strode along the track. What was wrong? Did they not know he was a length short of being a Triple Crown winner?

Several months later, I resigned from the AP to marry my boyfriend and settle in Louisville with him. But on the first Saturday in May, I threw a Derby party at my parents’ home in Pennsylvania. An undefeated colt named Barbaro was in the race, and we were interested in him because his trainer, Michael Matz, grew up in the area. In fact, he graduated from the school district where my best friend was teaching.

Seeing Barbaro charge to victory in the Derby was a thrill. We all missed the Preakness because we were attending my brother’s college graduation, but I had a sense that something went wrong. The TV news finally showed me what I could not have predicted – Barbaro’s catastrophic breakdown. The colt spent many months fighting for his life under the care of University of Pennsylvania veterinary specialists.

Back in Louisville after the wedding, I found myself attending a weeklong seminar at Churchill Downs for my new job. I loved being near the Twin Spires, even if it was bleak and blustery around the deserted track. TV news trucks were parked outside one day. I was puzzled for a moment until I realized: Barbaro was gone.

The next day, I tried to pay my respects at the Kentucky Derby Museum by writing a message to the owners. I could think of nothing worthy of the moment. Instead, I waited in the round movie theater for the final showing of “The Greatest Race.” The sights and sounds of Derby Day quickly encapsulated me. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched the replay of the Run for the Roses. “And here comes Barbaro, the undefeated Barbaro comes up on the outside and he takes the lead as the field turns for home. It’s all Barbaro in a sublime performance. He runs away from them all!”

The moments of triumph, when the stars align for the horses that deserve it, keep the moments of disappointment at bay and make me appreciate how remarkable were the flashes of greatness we saw from Smarty Jones, Afleet Alex and Barbaro. I hope – someday – to experience the Kentucky Derby in person again. Chances are, I’ll be rooting for the horse carrying some brotherly love on his back.

That's Why We Need Grace

2008-09-17T13:42:00.001-04:00

“The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible” was not written for the religious reader. And that’s what concerns me.

The best seller by A.J. Jacobs, out in paperback this month, is a memoir of the agnostic Jewish New Yorker’s attempts to follow all the rules in the Bible, with mostly comedic results. He grows a beard and wears a white robe, for starters.

I must confess I’ve only read about the book. While it may be filled with innocent humor, I’m afraid it also reinforces two misconceptions about God, the Bible and Christianity that are all too ingrained in our culture.

1. You can earn your salvation by “being a good person.”
2. Christianity represents a laundry list of “thou shalt nots.”

The Apostle Paul, who in his day had tried to follow the Jewish law as literally as possible, came to this conclusion: “But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions … For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God.” (Ephesians 2: 4-5, 9)

Jacobs’ readers may ask, then, why the Bible contains so many Old Testament rules that no longer apply today because of Christ’s death for us. One reason is this: to make us aware of our tremendous need for grace. “I would not have known what sin was except through the law,” Paul explains in Romans 7:7.

Of course, recipients of God’s grace will want to respond by loving him, loving others and following the teachings of Christ as best we can. But we’re all going to come up short.

So for me, “I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing!” (Galatians 2:21)

Literary Ballet

2008-09-15T15:55:00.001-04:00

The intrigue found in the pages of “The Great Gatsby” started dancing in my mind again when I read that the Louisville Ballet was performing “the great American novel” on stage.

I pulled my marked-up copy off the shelf of my modest home library to reminisce about Daisy Buchanan, Nick Carraway, Jordan Baker and, of course, Jay Gatsby. The story, set on Long Island in the 1920s, just never gets old. Perhaps that’s because, as so many have observed, there is so much of America in Gatsby.

Here’s a brief plot summary, which cannot delve into the book’s many themes and rich symbolism. Gatsby, lacking the money and social status to marry Daisy as a young man, literally reinvents his identity over the course of five years with the sole purpose of winning her back – changing his name, amassing great wealth and building a mansion directly across the harbor from her. When gorgeous throngs come to his famous parties, speculation runs rampant about who exactly this Gatsby is. Daisy is a mother and married to a man who’s openly having an affair with another woman. With the assistance of narrator Nick, Gatsby and Daisy are perfectly reunited for a time. But the past is the past and, in an ironic twist of fate, Daisy is driving the car that accidentally strikes and kills her husband’s lover, Myrtle. Gatsby takes the fall when Myrtle’s husband kills him in revenge. His dream ends harshly.

What’s more, no one shows up to mourn Gatsby. The narrator’s conclusion always strikes at my heart: “And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him … So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Nothing can replace F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words, but I suspect the story expressed through ballet was pretty memorable too. The newspaper critic wrote that: “There was lushness and sinew, bleakness and brash partying, carried off in a prologue, 11 scenes and an epilogue that manage to both entertain and tug at the brain.” Yes, that’s the magical balance that keeps so many returning to the enchantment and heartbreak of “Gatsby.”

Labs to the Rescue

2008-09-12T11:01:00.002-04:00

This story is a must-read for any dog lover: "Yeager the wonder dog's amazing feat."

In my biased opinion, Labrador retrievers are a remarkable breed.

Bereft

2008-09-11T09:04:00.002-04:00

On this seventh anniversary of our nation's great loss, I simply leave you with Robert Frost's "Bereft."

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking downhill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Somber clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.

You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

2008-09-09T12:04:00.006-04:00

I had just finished writing the final thank-you notes for our wedding gifts when my husband took us on a Saturday drive to meet Camass. We had started house-hunting a month earlier, and Ben was antsy to move out of the dingy (his word before mine) two-bedroom apartment he had occupied for eight years. So when he wasn’t watching college basketball, he was holed up in the office-turned-storage room waiting for the dial-up Internet service to show him dogs that were available for adoption.

Camass was perfect, he told me, dragging me to look at the photos posted online. “Just look at that face!” Ben said. I didn’t share his enthusiasm. It was a brown dog’s face.

Camass was a 4-year-old chocolate male lab who, according to the shelter, was “a true sweetheart and needs a home where he can be part of it. He loves to snuggle up to you and gives gentle kisses. He walks well on a leash, gets along with most other dogs, loves to play ball, loves the water and riding in a car.”

So my husband, typically a procrastinator, called Happy Labs Rescue and filled out their adoption application by the end of the night. Next thing I knew, we were pulling up to the metal fence at the shelter and dozens of full-size Labrador retrievers charged toward it, barking at the sound of the truck. “Which one is he?” I kept asking. Ben pointed to the chocolate lab that lumbered up after all the others.

I stood nervously inside the owner’s home, trying not to stare at the clumps of dog hair on the hardwood floor. Camass barreled into the room, heading straight to drink from a tub of water and leaving puddles at his feet. We were invisible. Edele was not. She let him jump up, put his paws on her shoulders and kiss her face. I could tell he was gentle. She cleaned his eyes with her bare hands. I tried not to shudder. Camass didn’t flinch when Ben started petting him.

I was a bit more cautious. The dog let me pet him. Lightly. Ben and Edele chatted about his habits.

Finally, after standing there awkwardly for an hour, I asked Ben if we were going to leave. No. He needed more time with the dog. What more could we do?! We’d been watching a dog in a living room for an hour. And I was uncomfortable.

At some point, Ben made the decision. I think it was when he saw the face online. He signed a form and handed the owners $200 cash for the adoption fee. They agreed to keep him until we bought a home.

During the drive back to Louisville, I told Ben that the dog was all his responsibility. I never had so much as a goldfish growing up, so I wasn’t about to care for a large adult dog.

A month later, Camass arrived on the doorstep of our new home. He almost didn’t make it through the door because he wanted to investigate a dead bird behind our shrubs. But he came inside when Edele ordered him to come. A good start, I observed.

Cam quickly proved to be just as the shelter described him. By the time we went out of town for Memorial Day weekend and left Ben’s sister to stay with the dog, all I could think about was Cam. I missed him. He was my dog!

You should see him chase his tennis ball, I told my family. He’s so funny when he splashes into his kiddie pool. He loves going for a walk with me every day.

And his face! You should see that face.

Who Has the Most Influence?

2008-09-08T13:05:00.000-04:00

Her T-shirt boldly declared that “Teachers affect eternity. You never know where their influence ends.”

They sure do. A high school teacher encourages enthusiasm for Latin, and a lifelong love for the dead language ensues. A college voice instructor builds confidence, and a girl sings a tribute at her grandparents’ 50th anniversary celebration. A college newspaper adviser promotes internships, and a brand-new graduate moves from Pennsylvania to Kentucky to work for The Associated Press. In the process, she finds a husband and a new place to call home.

Teachers, coaches and ministers all play a role – often inspirational – in children’s lives. But what about parents? I imagine not many of them own a T-shirt like the teacher wore proudly as she shopped.

My teacher friend tells me how frustrating her middle school classroom is because historically, parents, churches and schools combined to fully educate a young person. In many cases today, parents aren’t involved and churches aren’t in the picture. That leaves the schools to handle more than originally intended.

Parents, more than anyone, affect their children’s futures. For better or worse, their influence extends over their children’s entire lives.

Parenting is a tremendous responsibility; however, parenting also is a tremendous opportunity. Let’s hold good teachers in high regard and good parents in even greater esteem.

A Beautiful Day in the Subdivision

2008-09-05T09:20:00.000-04:00

My husband has taken to watching reruns of “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” with his morning coffee. The make-believe world, now seen through an adult’s eyes, really makes him laugh.

Meanwhile, I pull the newspaper out of our curbside mailbox before leaving for work, only to find another flier was delivered. These infamous fliers are the only reminder I live in a “neighborhood” instead of a nondescript suburban Louisville subdivision of brick homes distinguished only by what is hanging outside – a red University of Louisville flag or a blue University of Kentucky flag.

Vandalism! Theft! Arson! The fliers cry out that criminal activity runs rampant in our neighborhood, and we must band together to solve the problem through the Neighborhood Block Watch (never mind that we have no blocks, just winding roads and cul-de-sacs). I walk my dog for 20 minutes at dusk frequently, and I’ve never witnessed a single violation other than speeding. So my husband and I don’t respond to the overstated fliers.

My grandmother, on the other hand, has lived in a true neighborhood for more than 50 years. There are many streets that lead to her neighborhood, which has no defined borders. There are not two main entrances with landscaped flower beds. There isn’t an attractive name. Because those aren’t the things that make neighborhoods – people are.

She’s been alone in her home for several weeks now while my grandfather recovers from a bad fall. She didn’t pass out fliers, but the neighbors have learned of the news and responded one by one. A longtime friend sat outside with her watching the birds, enjoying the roses and chatting for an entire afternoon. A young couple across the street brought homemade tomato soup on an evening when my grandmother’s stomach was unsettled with worry. My lunchmate from freshman year of high school – after finishing her walk around the block with her family – hurried over with a casserole. I was floored to learn people even have extra prepared food in their kitchens, ready for the sharing.

These are the same neighbors – dozens of them – who celebrate each Independence Day at my grandparents’ home with a picnic. They grill together and laugh together. How I wish I would receive an invitation to an event other than a crime-prevention meeting in my neighborhood, where everyone keeps to themselves and, consequently, can’t count on their neighbors for help.

Why Blog?

2008-09-04T11:28:00.000-04:00

Tucked away in a file somewhere are my media credentials for the 2004 Kentucky Derby. It really wasn’t too long ago that I waded through ankle-deep water to find out how the ladies inside the expensive infield tents were faring. Not well, I discovered. They had lost their mint juleps when the pre-race downpour came. Smarty Jones, on the other hand, thrived in the slop.

Was that the height of my career as a journalist? Now that the 2008 Summer Olympics have passed, I rank Michael Phelps as the most important person I’ve interviewed. At the time, he wasn’t exceedingly important. I was a college student in upstate New York; Phelps was a 17-year-old swimmer in Baltimore who Teen People magazine predicted “will change the world.” The magazine prescribed a list of questions to ask Phelps and, as a serious journalism student, I cringed at ones like this: “If Hollywood made a movie of your life, what actor would you want to play you?” He didn’t know then. The funny thing is, post-Beijing history-making, journalists are asking Phelps that same question.

More than two years have gone by since I worked as a journalist full time. I miss telling stories –it’s that simple. Meeting people, whoever they are. Working with words. Sharing the final product with readers. Deep in my soul, I know that’s what God created me to do.

Like many, no one will pay me to write full time. I despise made-up words like blog, blogger and blogging. Yet here I am, fears pushed aside, because write I must.

There will be days when I don’t have anything to say. My present-day literary heroine, Andree Seu, wrote that “there’s no such thing as an original thought.” What a relief! There will be posts I regret days, or months, later. There will be risks in exposing my observations to a vast, unknown audience.

But there will also be the inherent blessings that come with writing well. That’s why I’m blogging.