A lot has changed in the past twenty-five years. Okay, I concede that’s not the most original observation. But the concept—the idea of the passage of time—has been on my mind a lot lately. For one thing, I’ve been watching the Farewell Season of the Oprah Show. I’m not exactly what you’d call an Oprah fan—over the years I’ve sometimes been annoyed by the pomposity that I suppose only naturally comes from being one of the most powerful and respected women in the world; occasionally she’s even slipped into grand posturing that has an almost messianic flavor. But I’m not a hater either. Watch a little of her show and it’s easy to see how she’s come to be such cultural phenomenon. Despite her wealth, power, and influence Oprah Winfrey has managed most of the time to retain the common touch. Against all odds, most days she seems like a regular person—or at least what we regular people imagine we would be like if we achieved her high station in life. Furthermore, she is an excellent interviewer. On her best days she is a master of withholding judgment and so she is able to get her guests to open up in remarkable ways. When you watch Oprah interview someone you get the sense you’re getting to see the “real” person. It’s not for nothing that it is said that Oprah will make you cry when you go on her show. I was never a regular viewer, but I always found her shows interesting, and for that reason, I determined to become a regular viewer for this her final season.
Opes and her fans celebrate: Oprah's HUGE premiere episode that included among other things a free week-long trip with Oprah to Australia for every person in the audience. John Travolta will fly everyone there (I am not making this up).
Anyway, Opes, as we like to call her in our house, has featured a lot of flashbacks in the first week of her new season and I found it fascinating to witness how much has changed in the past quarter century. For one thing the fashions have changed dramatically. It’s hard to believe that anyone thought they looked good during the eighties. The finger-in-the-electrical-socket hair, the blindingly bright clothes, the too-much makeup.
How could such poor fashion choices have been so widely accepted? Is it just the perspective of what’s considered fashionable today coloring my view, or were the eighties actually an empirically ugly decade? It’s been interesting too to see how the passage of time impacts the people themselves. Smooth faces morph into wrinkled ones, pounds plump out once thin bodies, hair fades to gray. (Though again, such was the ugliness of the eighties that most people seemed to look a sight better now even with addition of a couple decades).
The culture has changed too. On Tuesday Opes featured “A Return to Williamsburg, West Virginia”, a small town that entered the national spotlight in 1987 when a gay HIV positive man jumped into the town’s public swimming pool. The town freaked out and Oprah went to check it out. More than twenty years later Oprah returned to find what if anything had changed.
Oprah Winfrey at the original Williamston interview 23 years ago. The center of the controversy was the HIV-postive gay man Michael Sisco (in mustache, mullet, and Bill Cosbyesque sweater on the right).
The man in question had long since passed away, but his sisters were there and so were some of the most vitriolic guests. In the time that elapsed since the original Williamsburg show aired, the culture has shifted dramatically. What I found interesting was not that the angry, fearful guests had changed into tolerant, accepting supporters of gay rights. Their basic views, it appeared, had changed little. What had changed was how they couched those views. They seemed to recognize that twenty-five years ago you didn’t have to be nice, but today expressing flat-out disgust and derision for homosexuals is no longer met with nods of understanding, but with head-shakes of dismay.
The way we lived has changed dramatically as well. Last night I was taking carryout from Mia Cucina, a trendy Italain bistro around the corner from our house, and I was struck suddenly by the ubiquity of the cell phone. Inside the restaurant patrons furtively checked glowing smart phones before slipping them back into their bags. Outside the live band was on break, and the bassist was not smoking (another outmoded fashion from yesteryear), but instead was checking his Iphone. In the parking lot drivers were ignoring Oprah’s No Phone Zone exhortations and chattering away behind the wheel. Again, this is not a groundbreaking observation, but last night it struck me how such a sight would have been completely mystifying to me just 25 years ago.
In one of the last songs the rapper Tupac Shakur recorded before his death, he noted that people “get jealous when they see you with your mobile phone.” He meant that people in the mid-nineties were jealous that you were living large enough to actually own a mobile phone. Today people still get jealous, but mostly because of the brand of phone you carry. Pity the poor fellow still sporting a Motorola Razr—that is so four years ago.
Times have changed. The fashions we wear actually look good—or so we tell ourselves. Whether you view it as a good news or bad news, it is an undeniable fact that acceptance of homosexuals as social and moral equals will only increase in years to come. We live in an age of Ipods, Ipads, and Iphones. The funny thing is I don’t feel like I’ve changed all that much. It’s been all too easy to tell myself that the passage of time hasn’t really affected me at all. It’s not me that has changed, it’s the world around me. But of course I’ve changed too. And that’s as it should be—only the dead cease to change.
So, as Rich Mullins (and before him, Mark Heard) sang in "How to Grow Up Big and Strong", “the world keeps on turning and the children keep learning” and I wonder where we’ll end up in the next twenty-five years. What kind of world will we then inhabit? One thing is certain, for better (perhaps extremely better if the Advent hope comes to fruition) or worse (perhaps terribly worse if the Advent fear bears out) it will be vastly different from the world we live in now.
With the completion on August 19 (the first day of school) of the Panerathon 5k to fight children's hunger, I'm literally off and running with a new year. Here I am with my new running buddy Erwin Capilitan at the finish line. My time was 25:42.
It's time once again for my annual new year's resolutions. At the beginning of every school year, I take some time to take stock of my life and set goals for the next year.
This years resolutions are weighted heavily towards matters of the heart and spirit. With the exception of one resolution all of my commitments for the year ahead have to do with the way I relate to others and the way I relate to myself. They are less about changes of habit and more about habits of mind. My resolutions are about appreciating others, appreciating life, and being true to myself. Pray for me as I strive, by God's grace, to live up to what I've resolved in the year to come.
Keep Running This one should be fairly simple. It's as basic as putting one foot in front of the other. Still, since I completed the San Francisco marathon last summer, my running routine has been anything but. I went for months without running at all--the Ohio winter provided a perfectly valid excuse. But as the last snows began to melt this past spring, I got back out there and since the start of the summer I'm back to running regularly more or less. One thing that has really helped is having a running partner again. Erwin Capilitan, our friend from Saipan days and neighbor (until tomorrow anyway), has really helped me stay the course. There are many days I'd probably have rolled over and gotten some more shut eye, if it weren't my phone alerting my to a cheery text from Erwin asking if I was ready to run. Another thing that has helped is having a goal to work toward. On the first day of school no less, Erwin and I ran the Panerathon 5K. We're gearing up for a 10K next--I'm thinking, the Buckeye Classic in November. Eventually, it'd be nice to work all the way back up to a half-marathon.
Wish people happy birthday
My Best Present: "Happy Birthday Daddy"
I've never ben much of a birthday person. I usually have to be reminded that it's my own birthday and rarely make much of the day. Years of having it "skipped" altogehter as we crossed the International Dateline on our way back to Saipan have further dulled my already low interest in birthday hullabuloo. Because I don't seek out birthday recognition myself, I often find I don't pay much attention to other people's birthdays. I have to confess that until the past few years I wasn't even sure exactly when my own best friend's birthday was.
But this past birthday, I was touched by the many birthday wishes I received from friends old and new on Facebook. I'm sure there were some who saw my birthday listed on their page and fired off an HB message without much thought, but hey, it still made me feel really good. And I especially appreciated those that took the time to say a few kind words or make some specific birthday wishes. Knowing how good these birthday greetings made me--an avowed low-key birthday celebrant--I decided to make more of an effort to wish the people I know and love a genuine, heartfelt happy birthday this year. To my way of thinking, any little thing we can do to brighten someone else's day is worth doing. Now, if only I can remember to check that little list on Facebook!
Write to people I care about.
Speaking of birthdays, the idea I had for Barbara's 40th birthday celebration inspired this resolution. Barbara said getting all those cards on her birthday was one of the best presents she's ever gotten. There is something powerful about receiving something handwritten from another human being--especially when it comes in the mail. In the age of e-mail, Facebook, Twitter, and text messaging writing letters and cards might seem to be an anachronism, an outdated, time consuming means of communication. But letters are the road trips of communication. It's not just about getting the message across, just as the road trip isn't just about getting from Point A to B. There is something truly special about seeing someone's handwriting--their unique stamp of individuality; about knowing that the other person has physically touched the paper you hold, carefully folded it, placed it in the envelope. There's something meaningful about the time you know it took them--choosing words carefully because they can't just backspace or delete if they get it wrong, hunting for a stamp and an envelope. Even the much maligned Hallmark card is embued with care. At least for me when I go card hunting, it's a process of careful deliberation to find the "perfect card"--one that is neither too sentimental or too flip, one with right aesthetic vibe. Combine a well chosen card with a handwritten personal note inside and you have a precious gift.
Another great thing about letters and cards is that you can save them. Granted most e-mail has practically unlimited storage, but it's just not the same. This year, I want to take the time to write people. Seeing how much it touched Babs and knowing how much it means to me I want to pass that joy on to others by writing to them.
Do the Right Thing for the Right Reason For years I have tried to be the Good Boy. I've always tried to do the right thing so that people will notice and approve. But what I've found is that often times the good you do goes unnoticed and unrewarded, but people always notice the times when you mess up. It's human nature, I suppose, but my struggle to gain the approval of others was often a fruitless and exhausting struggle. And when doing the right thing meant that I might be misunderstood or criticized I was truly flummoxed.
So I've resolved to stop worrying so much about being noticed for doing well, I've decided to abandon the cold and less-than-admirable calculations of how I can be assured that I always come out smelling like a rose. If it is right, then let me act for that reason alone. I want to do what I should because I should, not because someone else thinks I should. It will take prayer, wisdom and powr from God, and time to change this habit of mind. As I've begun to take stock of how I make my choices, I've been shocked by how often social calculus has come into play. In the coming year "To thine own self be true" will be my watchword.
Go with the flow Family dinner. Since I went back to work this has been a daily tradition and the highlight of every day.
This year I really want to get in the habit of relishing and appreciating each moment. By nature I'm a very organized, hyper-scheduled person and as a result I also find myself frustrated by my plans not coming together and especially by the constant lack of sufficient time to do everything I feel I need to do to live my life well. Especially in my profession--a high stress vocation any way--I find myself discouraged when I can't keep up with the constant stream of demands on my time. All of the needs--quality lesson plans, a vibrant and engaging classroom environment, meeting the diverse needs of each and every student, spiritual nourishment for myself so that I have something meaningful to share, being a team player and helping out with schoolwide initatives, Shadow drama team and volleyball and 8th grade class fundraising--seem so important to do well, and yet keeping up with it all seems a fools errand, especially if I also want to spend quality time with my wife and son, keep running, go to bed early, have devotions, and hopefully carve out a little "me" time too. Oh yeah, and also do quality work for my courses in pursuit of my master's degree.
What I'm learning, and what I want to put into practice this year, is to go with the flow. To recognize that while everything is important, it's still okay if everything doesn't get done. Rather than despair because I can't do it all perfectly, I want to seek perfect peace in whatever circumstances come my way. While "getting everything done" or having "everything go perfectly" may be a rare occurence, I can always show care for my students, I can always do what I can with my whole heart, I can always stop to note the blue sky or rainshower, the warm days of late summer, or the bracing cold of early January and give thanks. I can always choose to spend time whether a few moments or an hour or so enjoying my son or being with my wife. I can put the million things on my plate aside and eat dinner with my family. The rest will sort itself out, but the moment I have now? This is my life.
Last Years Resolutions A quick look at how last year's resolutions fared:
Live the Big Life
I think so. I'm still often at home on the weekends bound by a toddler's schedule. But we still managed to get out there and have some adventures. We took a few trips--the biggest one was back to Saipan, but we also went to West Virginia and Florida, and I went road tripping with my pals to Indiana. We explored the Short North, went to a few concerts. Two weekends ago Babs and I checked out the Latino Festival in downtown Columbus. I have to credit Babs with helping me keep this resolution. More often than not she's been the motivating force getting me out there to see and do.
Look For Beauty Summer
Fall
Winter
Spring
I've found it in four seasons here in Ohio.
Decorate my classroom I did pretty well last year. Certainly better than I ever have in years previous. The bulletin boards didn't change every month--maybe every other month, but that's progress. My first bulletin board of the new year. Look closely and you'll see Pastor Eliki and Ken Pierson making cameo appearances.
Learn Some Music Well, I know one song on the guitar. "Father, I Adore You." I haven't picked up the instrument in awhile, but I've begun. Now to keep going.
Going even further back, to 2008, I'm please to find that I am still an active dad, a good citizen (I'm registerd to vote and will be voting in this year's local, state, and national mid-term elections. I already voted in our local elections last fall), and a good dental patient (I've had regular cleanings since we moved to the States and I just had my wisdom teeth extracted a month ago). I still need to work on that family worship though.
Sooner or later our bodies will betray us. It is a sad but inescapable fact. That which we take for granted for much of our lives will one day declare its independence. Cells that have long replicated in an orderly fashion, will suddenly go hogwild, mulitplying in an orgy of growth that we call cancer. Hearts that have always pumped along steadily, will shudder and seize. Brains will grow sluggish, the neurons twisiting into to tangled masses, muddling memories and mangling thoughts. Bones, skin, and blood vessels are found vulnerable to impact at high speed. And the body we use and abuse with little thought will betray us. Perhaps we can woo it back for a time, if God wills it, but one day, the body will simply walk way, finished and leave us with. . .nothing.
Depressing? Perhaps, but it isn't a little silly to say that I'm being unnecessarily bleak? Isn't that a form of denial? "Why all the gloom and doom? It's not like we're all destined for death. . .geez."
The irony, though, is that recognizing rather than avoiding this reality can make for a more positive outlook on life. After all, when we recognize that health and life itself is not a given, we are compelled to truly appreciate each day that our bodies remain faithful. When you are faced, as I was about a week ago, with the possibility that the betrayal is upon us, you suddenly find that all the things you were so stressed about--the work you had to do, the disarray of the house, this little peevance and that little annoyance really don't matter that much. Why not live that way all the time--with an attitude of gratitude for health and strength and life itself--rather than waiting till it might be too late, until the body threatens to turn against us.
When I woke up with the unbearable pain in my chest, and the hours that followed where I began to wonder incredulously, if I, a young, active man, might actually be facing the betrayal--much earlier than I ever expected, I found I wanted to live. Not just for myself, but mostly for my son who needs a father. After all, he gets broken up about me leaving for work--how can I break my promise that "Daddy will see you tonight?" I wanted to live for my wife--how could I leave her to parent alone, carrying a burden of grief and loss. Fortunately, after a normal EKG and chest x-ray came back and the diagnosis was a simple case of inflamed rib cartilige or perhaps a touch of pleurisy, it became apparent that betrayal was not yet at hand. But in the wake of that false alarm, I determined to remain committed to fully appreciating my life, trying to keep the ordinary complaints and frustrations in their proper perspective. I also found a renewed appreciation for the hope of eternal life--a promise that often loses its luster when we begin to buy into the delusion that our bodies are beyond betrayal, that life as we know it as endless.
To fully live in the now, to paradoxically "forget that I have a chest" (as my manically enthusiastic doctor described it) by remembering that I do is my goal from here on out. The betrayal is sure to come someday, but in the meantime, let me take joy in this moment, let me relish the love of my son and the embrace of my wife, let me take comfort in the presence of God, let me enjoy good food, good friends, a nice run. Let me celebrate the sunshine, rejoice in the rain, find peace in drifting snow. Let me take pleasure in my work and the daily round of chores. Let me sing, sleep, read, listen, laugh, and yes, eat, love and pray. Today is a gift. Let me accept it with joy.
Babs poses with some of her "guests" at her birthday party, Friday, August 13, 2010.
Yesterday, August 13, Babs celebrated what we are calling her New 30th birthday. If you want to be all technical, she's 40, but you know what they say: "Forty is the new thirty." So the New 30 it is!
For such a milestone it was a pretty quiet day. She went to work in the morning as usual and in the afternoon we went to see Eat Pray Love together. ("Little Sister", our former student from Saipan and a close friend of the family had been visiting with us all week and she stayed home with the Little Feller). It was nice to spend some time together--a birthday gift that was a treat for me as much as it was for Babs.
Yesterday evening we headed downtown to Basil, a Thai restuarant in the eclectic, bohemian Short North neighborhood. There we met up with more than forty of Babs dearest friends from the first four decades of her life. Wow, you're thinking, you must have had to reserve the whole restuarant. Well, technically, there were only nine people there--J and Evelyn Carlos and their son, Erwin and Rachel C, "Little Sister", Babs, the Feller and me. But many others were there "in spirit"--everyone from her childhood friend Robyn to her high school gymnastics coach Rick Schwarz, to college friends Darchelle Worley, Heidi and Eric Starling, to a host of Saipan friends including the Piersons, Virle and Joeie, Bev and Greg, the Knowltons, the Staffords, the Quinns, the Lacorte family, Judith, Mai, Brit, and so many others.
In the last two weeks or so I had contacted more than forty of the people I knew meant a lot to Babs throughout her life and asked them to send a card, and in so doing, joining us in spirit to celebrates Babs' birthday. I knew all the people who practically could be there, would be there--but most of our dearest friends over the years were scattered across the globe.
I have to say I was amazed and Barbara was deeply moved by the fantastic response we received from our friends--some of whom we hadn't seen or spoken to in many years. Not only did these lovely people send the cards, but they wrote heartfelt words of love--reflecting on shared memories, expressing appreciation, admiration, and affection. It was so evident that each person had put real thought and care in to what they sent and the love could be felt across the miles and years. A big thank you to all who participated. Thanks for being there, once again. Babs says your efforts are the best birthday gift she's ever gotten. (And if you sent your card late, don't feel bad. We got another handful today and more are still to come in the next week, so the celebration is extended!)
This may have been Barbara's New 30th birthday, but it was made special by a lot of old friends! The dinner party at Basil. Excellent Thai food by the way and a very cool setting. We will be back for sure. Clockwise from bottom left: "Little Sister", Me, J, Evelyn holding the Maycock and Carlos boys, Babs, Rachel, and Erwin.
Rachel C. with her husband Erwin, flashing four in honor of their fourth wedding anniversary which was the same day. We were touched that they chose to celebrate with us. Rachel was an SM in Saipan during the 2004-2005 school year. She met Erwin (whose sister Myla was a student of mine) in Saipan and they married in 2006. Our friendship with Rachel has been marked by amazing coincidences. On more than one occasion we've run into her in the most unexpected times and places. Most recently, we discovered that she and Erwin happened to be living in the same apartment complex as us--just a few buildings over. It's been great having them as neighbors--Erwin has become a pretty regular running buddy. Sadly they'll be moving at the end of the month--but only 25 minutes away so I'm sure we'll still see them from time to time.
"Little Sister" mugging for the camera. It was a real treat to have her with us this past week. Our son had a blast hanging out with his favorite "auntie." That is mainly why she came--to secure her place as Number One honorary "auntie."
The Piersons! We zipped down to Tampa on Sunday, July 18, 2010 to catch up with Ken, Crystal, and Baby Shylah who were in town visiting Crystal's parents and brother. We had a nice dinner with the Piersons and Crystal's family at Columbia, a Spanish restaurant, where this photo was taken.
We took a little family vacation to Florida to see my side of the family from July 16 to July 25. Here's a sampling of some of the friends and family we saw while there. Most of the account of this trip will be found in the Feller's blog, so check there for more pictures, videos, and details.
Ken, Crystal, and Shylah Pierson
The Feller chillin' with his Saipan "uncle" and "aunt."
A photo from Thursday, July 22, 2010-- our visit with Uncle Robert & Aunt Diana, and my youngest cousin Taylor, who at four years old is much closer to Elijah's age than mine.
Four generations: The boy, his dad, his grandmother, and great-grandmother
It's time once again for one of my favorite posts of the year. I literally spend the entire preceeding year thinking about this entry and I'm so excited to be able finally bring this list online. It is such a wonderful thing to constantly be on the lookout for people who inspire you.
Perhaps some of my readers are wondering how I go about the process of choosing my heroes. I don't have a set number of slots to fill and I don't have a precise system or list of criteria I follow in choosing my heroes. My choices are not a judgement of how each person compares to other people I know. In fact, the main criteria I use in choosing my heroes is how they make me feel. At one point or another each person on my list is has made me go: "Wow! That is amazing. I want to be more like that!" When I get that feeling, I jot that name down in my pen-and-paper journal, and so the list builds throughout the year.
I generally don't repeat names from year to year (otherwise Babs and the Feller would appear every year--they inspire me daily) unless something happens in relation to the person that inspires me in a whole new way. So far only one person has appeared twice on the Inspirations list-Virleshay Gayatin, who appeared once in 2007 and again in 2009.
This year's honorees are all women. In the comic book world, most of the heroes tend be male. This year you could say I'm adding more Wonder Women to the rolls. Five on the list are people that I know personally, and one that, if there is any justice in this world, should only become more well known as time goes by. This year's honorees (as well those added to Inspirations lists in the years to come) will receive an invitation to attend a very special gala in Columbus in the spring of 2011, the Second Annual Heroes Reception put together by my 7th and 8th grade students and me. I know some won't be able to attend, but for those that do, it will be a very special evening.
Enough chit-chat. Let's get to the main event. Without further ado, let me introduce to you my inspirations for 2010:
Carol Leen
Angiemil Perez
Sharla Schroeder & Cyndi Rearrick
"DeepBlue"
Crystal Bowersox
Carol Leen
I'm inspired by her quiet generosity
We wouldn't have the life we have now if it weren't for Mom Leen. When we first arrived back from Saipan, we were dependent on my income alone and couldn't afford to rent with just what I made. She and Dad let the three of us live in their home for more almost seven months until we got on our feet. With a three hour round trip commute every day, I needed to get a car of my own right away. She lent us the money for the down payment on our new car that enabled me to get to work every day. And when Babs found a job in Columbus, and we moved, she exceeded her previous generosity even more by giving us her car. At first we thought that gift was a merely a helpful convenience, but we quickly came to recognize that it was in fact an absolute necessity. We literally could not have continued to live in Columbus without that second car. These acts of generosity, along countless other smaller gifts, all came unsolicited. Mom Leen saw a need and offered to fill it, without expectation of reward, recognition, or repayment. She gave simply out of love. Mom Leen's the sort of hero who often goes unsung. She is unassuming, avoids the spotlight, and doesn't care to draw attention to herself. She exemplifies Christ's admonition to those that would give that the right hand not know what the left hand is doing. But while she may never sing her own praises, acknowledgement of what a difference she's made in our lives is long overdue. The band U2 often extends this accolade to their fans during their concerts and I offer it to Mom as well: "Thank you for giving us a great life."
Angiemil Perez
I'm inspired by her dedication
When push came to shove, Angie was there. In the darkest days of Saipan SDA School last fall, she was there to comfort, encourage, and pray with her colleagues. When the interim principal Amy Foote (a hero in her own right--see last year's Inspirations) needed a sounding board or shoulder to lean on, she was there. When the school needed a fundraiser, a facelift, a frontman, or a revamped website, she was there. She was even there to take our dog, Kimo to the beach! Last summer Angie said she wouldn't be returning to Saipan. She'd said that she'd come if she could and stay if she was able but it really didn't matter what she said. People say a lot of things. What mattered most was what she did. And what she did was show up in the trenches, doing what was needed, with her sense of humor, can-do spirit, and stalwart faith. Passion is great and commitment as admirable, but when you put the two together, you have what Angie exemplified this past year: Dedication.
A parable, paraphrased:
"What do you think? There was a Father who had a daughter. He went to her and said, 'Daughter, go and work today in the vineyard.'
" 'I will not,' she answered, but later she changed her mind and went.
"Did she do what the father wanted?"
"She did," they answered (Matthew 21:28-31)
Cyndi Rearrick & Sharla Schroeder
I'm inspired by their courage
It took more courage for Cyndi and Sharla to stay in Saipan for ten months than it did for us to stay for ten years. After all, never once in all the trials we faced as missionaries did we ever fear for our lives. They felt that sickening fear more than once last school year--when their homes were repeatedly burglarized, when one of their roommates was attacked less than a half mile from home and barely escaped. Sharla surely felt that fear when she literally struggled to keep her head above water while awaiting rescue after a freak wave swept her off a cliff on one of Saipan's rough east side beaches and into the raging sea. Were they afraid? Absolutely. Did they seriously consider throwing in the towel and going home? Undoubtedly. But courage is not the absence of fear, it is the choice to act in spite of the fear, and this past school year these two young women demonstrated remarkable courage. They stayed when everything screamed "Leave!" They stuck it out. It wouldn't have been unreasonable or dishonorable for them to say that enough was enough. Yet, somehow God gave them the will, the courage, to carry on through the tears, the anxiety, the discouragement, and the doubts. Why did they stay? Perhaps it was a sense of duty. Perhaps it was pride. My guess is it had a lot to do with a classroom of third and fourth graders who needed their teacher, seventh and eighth graders that expected Ms. Schroeder to show up for school come Monday. I bet their courage had a lot to do with love.
Just after she returned to the States this summer, I asked Sharla if she was glad she stayed. Her answer was a hard-earned, unequivocal, "Oh my, yes!"
"DeepBlue"
I'm inspired by her integrity
"DeepBlue" became my hero when she got in trouble. The day "DeepBlue" earned a detention--the only detention she would receive for the entire school year--was also the day she earned my respect and admiration. Ironically I can no longer recall what the exact circumstances were that lead to the disciplinary incident near the beginning of the year. What I do know is that I had questioned "DeepBlue" along with several of her classmates regarding some classroom mischief. While most of her classmates responses ran the usual gamut from wide-eyed "Who Me?" innocence to sullen denials, I was floored by "DeepBlue"'s response. "I didn't do it," she said, "but I did do something else"--and she admitted what she had done--"and I think I deserve a detention for that." This is integrity! Not to never to do wrong, but when you do wrong to step up, take up responibility, and accept the consequences. I've never been more proud of a student as I wrote out her detention letter, or more happy to speak to a parent about disciplinary action then was when I called her mom that night. As the school year continued I would learn that this kind of integrity is the hallmark of "DeepBlue's" character. She's a hard worker, has a great attitude, is consistently respectful, and carries herself with remarkable dignity. What I hope to teach my students--responsibility, respect, and a positive attitude--"DeepBlue" already understands. Indeed, I learned from her.
Crystal Bowersox
I'm inspired by her authenticity
Under the hot glare of the media spotlight, in noise of the 24-7 reality TV junkyard, it's not just her talent that's rare. I'm not so foolish as to claim to know what Crystal Bowersox is really like. I don't know her personally. All I've seen of her is her weekly appearances on last season's American Idol. Somehow--so far--she has survived the numbing, homegenizing starmaking machinery and emerged as someone different, someone unique. While her fellow contestants ranged from needy self-doubt to premature arrogance, she projected a remarkable mix of confidence and humility. While others struggled to figure who they were artistically, Crystal already knew. She exhibited compassion for her fallen competitiors and grace in her seemingly ineveitable victories. In an age when the ever-present eye of the camera seems to reveal increasingly false personas, physically, emotionally, and spiritually--where everything and everyone it seems, is an act, Crystal came across as refreshingly real. And of course she could sing everyone else under the table. Each week last spring, I was looked forward to seeing her on TV, not only for the original take on her song for that week, but to see something you don't see much any more on television (or, sadly, in real life)--a person with authenticity as real as her talent. She didn't win in the end, but if she is anything like what we saw in her performances, whether her star continues to rise or fades from public view, she will continue to shine to those for whom she is not merely a star but a daughter, mother, friend. As for this fan, I'll gladly buy a ticket if I get a chance to see Crystal Bowersox live in concert. After all, isn't it always great when you get a chance to see the real thing?
Mat Kearney sings his soul at the Alban, Saturday, July 10, 2010, St. Albans, West Virginia.
It just occured to me that live music has been a important part of the romance between Barbara and me. It's not immediately obvious as we've never been regular concertgoers, but then in Saipan there's not much to be had in terms of concerts beyond the local bar bands. But nonetheless, from the very beginnning "our songs" have been played live. Our first real date was to the best concert I've ever attended, a Rich Mullins show in South Bend, Indiana. In the years that followed we saw Michael W. Smith, Twila Paris, Jars of Clay, Michael Card, Caedmon's Call, and Rich Mullins (again) among others. Sometimes we went with friends, more often it was just the two of us--a drive to some far-flung town, dinner at a new restaurant, holding hands when we weren't clapping along to songs we loved by artists we admire. This has been the archetypical date night for us--a date night we hadn't had in years, until last weekend. So it was somehow appropriate that the artist we would be seeing is the one who sings "our songs." You know how some couples have "their song." Well, we have a whole album's worth of songs that are "ours"--all tunes by the one artist Babs and I are equally enthusiastic about--Mat Kearney.
Our first "real" date since Elijah was born was Saturday evening, July 10, to a Mat Kearney concert in the little town of St. Albans, West Virginia. On Sabbath afternoon, Barbara's parents came up from Dayton, with Barbara's sister, Jenny and her two dogs in tow. (Matt, Jenny's husband, is still in Minnesota closing up shop. Jenny got a new job in Cincinnati and they will be relocating there. Until their house sells, Jenny is staying with her parents in Dayton and Matt is in Minnesota). After providing them with detailed instructions for the Feller's care, the two of us jumped in the car and started for West Virginia. I was a little anxious about leaving Elijah. This would be the longest we'd both been apart from him, both in terms of time and distance. But after a few cell phone calls back home and receiving assurances that our son was doing just fine, I relaxed and enjoyed the drive.
And it was a beautiful drive. We headed southeast on OH-33 and within the hour the landscape changed dramatically the flat farmland giving way to rolling hills. Virtually all of the drive was on the old system of state roads and U.S. highways instead of the Interstate highways. You can't drive as fast on these roads that predate freeway travel--sometimes you're cruising along at 65 mph, but a few miles down the road, you're slowed by traffic lights and residential speed limits as you cruise through a small town. But in exchange for longer travel time you gain atmosphere--beautiful countryside, bucolic little towns, picturesque slices of Americana (On this jaunt through America's heartland I actually did see a Mail Pouch tobacco poster on the side of rotting barn, just like in the Rich Mullins song). The time seemed to fly by--Babs talked to my sister Dawn and to Carol, our friend from Saipan, on the cell, putting them on speakerphone so I could listen in. When we weren't talking on the phone, we played Mat Kearney tunes as a primer for the evening's concert, talked, and marveled at the beauty around us. We drove through the Hocking Hills, traced the Ohio River, and finally crossed into West Virginia about 40 miles from St. Albans.
A glimplse of the green hills of West Virginia from Main Street., St. Albans.
St. Albans is a charming little town nestled in the Appalachian foothills about fifteen miles from Charleston, the state capital. Like many small towns across America it seems to have seen better days. Babs and I arrived in St. Albans just before eight o'clock in the evening and walked Main Street a little bit before the concert. There were empty storefronts, and even the stores that were still in business seemed to be relics from another time.
Looking up Main Street, St. Albans, WV.
The heart of Main Street is the Alban the tiny old theater that was the venue for the concert. We couldn't figure out how Mat Kearney ended up at this little town in this theater so small that with door open, you could stand on the street and hear the performers on stage. There's no nearby college town or enclave of urban ex-patriots to explain the St. Alban's art scene--it would appear that Kearney's concert was simply the work of St. Albanians determined to keep the arts and culture alive in their town. We only spent a few hours in St. Albans, West Virginia, but I came away impressed by the spirit of this town--small but proud, open-hearted and open-minded.
St. Albans Celebrates the Arts (with high-quality recording artists, I might add) The pride of Alban's art scene, the little Alban theater. After our little walking tour, as the Sabbath faded with the sunset, we drifted into the Alban, arriving just after the opening act Jane Carrey (daughter of the famed Hollywood actor Jim Carrey) had left the stage. In a little place like this any seat would have been a good one, but we were able to find really good seats, on the left side of the stage, six rows back from the front. Seated next to us was a teacher from St. Albans who was working at a school in Saudia Arabia--a kindred spirit! His date was an aspiring jazz singer who would herself be singing at the Alban later this year.
Mat slipped on to stage with little fanfare, joined by only his friend and guitarist Tyler Burkum. What followed was a little more than an hour of Mat's finest work.
A relatively new artist, Mat Kearney has rapidly ascended the ranks of my favorite music to inhabit the rarified air occupied by U2 and Rich Mullins. I first heard his major label debut Nothing Left to Lose in the summer of 2007 and was instantly blown away. Mat’s music on that album was a perfect and original combination of rich, warm acoustic guitar, the occasional smooth rhythms of hip-hop style rhymes, and poetic, literary lyrics. I’d never heard anything like it before and was instantly hooked. During our annual week of teacher’s meetings in Hawaii that summer, Mat was in heavy rotation. To this day every time I hear the buoyant thrum of “Undeniable” it takes me right back to the drives over the mountains from Honolulu to Kailua. I hear “Nothing Left to Lose” was and I remember walking on hand in hand with my favorite girl along Waikiki ten years along into our journey together.
Later that year, J sent me some of Mat’s earliest work—songs like “Chicago”, “Memorial Stones”, and the song that has become my Favorite Song of All Time, the Theme Song of My Life, “Lifetime.” This “old-school” song (as Mat himself described it to me) is from his earliest days as a recording artist and is quite hard to find now. Unfortunately, I can’t post a link to YouTube because there isn’t one—that’s how rare it is—but I can direct you here to an 2007 entry where I posted the lyrics to this powerful song.
Mat emerged from too-cool-for-Christian-Contemporary-music obscurity when Grey’s Anatomy picked up one of his songs for their soundtrack. His heartfelt singer/songwriter vibe seemed to be a good match for the show and several songs of his ended up being played in various episodes. The Grey’s exposure thrust Mat into the mainstream limelight and his fan base expanded dramatically. His sophomore album, City of Black and White released last year, reflected this expansion with a more commercial sound and the retirement of the rapping over guitar chords that had been a key to his earlier style. Still, the melodies on these new songs were some of the best he’d ever written and the lyrics remained solidly literate, truthful, and fresh.
For this tour, Mat explained that he’d decided to go back to basics—a simple acoustic tour, just him and Tyler in a van criss-crossing the country playing at a bunch of tiny venues like the Alban. Ours was the first show of the tour, and I imagine Mat might have been tempted to question the wisdom of this idea. Many of the people in the audience were unfamiliar with his music and the sing-a-longs fell a little flat. But I felt we couldn’t have been any luckier to see Mat in this setting. Here he’d hit the big time, and we still had a chance to see him as if he were just starting out. And I’m confident that St. Albans was a fluke—the show scheduled for the next night in Ann Arbor, Michigan sold out weeks ago (we had intended to go that one but the tickets were gone by the time we were ready to buy)—and I’m willing to bet throughout the rest of this tour the sing-alongs will be drowning Mat out. I was impressed with how Mat handled the unexpected unfamiliarity of most of our audience with his work. He was funny, friendly, poked fun at himself, and won the crowd over with his charm and undeniable musical talent and songwriting chops. He may have had few fans in the audience when he began, but certainly had a roomful when he finished.
In keeping with the old-school theme, Mat’s set list was stacked with older material—a lot of material from his first album, a few from even before that, a handful of new songs, and only two tunes-“All I Have” and “Closer to Love” from City of Black and White. He even delivered a fantastic cover of the Bruce Springsteen classic “Dancing in the Dark.”
Despite occasional technical mishaps here and there, the show was excellent. My only complaint is that it was too short. Mat played for just over one hour and I would have been happy for a second. But I guess that’s the sign of a good show, when you’re left wishing for more. I highly recommend this tour. Click here to see if he is coming to a city near you, and if the show hasn’t sold out already, GO! You’ll be glad you did.
This video is not from the St. Alban's show; it's from the show the following night up in Ann Arbor at a venue called the Ark. I took two videos, one of the song above, "Undeniable" and one other, but both turned out terribly. The digital camera we had did a terrible job of recording the sound clearly and it is literally unlistenable. I'm quite disappointed, not least because in an amazing feat of lyrical prowess Mat added an extended rap to the end of this song that included virtually everything he'd learned from the audience that evening. Small as the venue was, Mat was able to actually interact with individual members of the audience between songs. All of those littler interactions he turned around into an impromptu rap. Amazing. I got the whole thing, but unfortunately the sound is so bad you can't understand a word he's saying. I don't know if he did the same thing in Michigan the next night, as this video cuts out partway through the song, but at any rate it will give you a sense of what the show was like for us.
The Merch. I decided to buy Mat's latest release, a four song EP on sale only on this tour and available only on old-school vinyl. I don't have a record player, but I bought it anyway, not least for the achingly beautiful ballad, "Rochester", a tribute to Mat's father. I figured I'd find a record player and a way to get it copied on to a format I can listen to. I've heard that musicians make most of their money from touring so I wanted to be sure I did my part to support one of my favorite artists and bought a T-shirt as well.
Babs and me with the man himself, Mat Kearney after the show. He was gracious and friendly in the few brief minutes we talked to him. To all appeareances not only is Mat Kearney a great musician and songwriter but a good guy as well.
So with an autographed record in one hand, Babs hand, soft and warm in the other, and Kearney’s tunes still playing in our heads, we headed out into the balmy West Viriginia night. The show had ended earlier than we had expected, and on the one hand we were tempted to hop in the car and go straight home, getting back to our little boy as quick as we could. On the other hand, this night was special—a rare opportunity to feel like we were college kids in love again. It seemed too early to call it a night. We decided to go with that feeling and hunted up a local diner called Dwight’s for a late dinner. The food was okay, but the folks were friendly and helpful—both staff and fellow diners. An older couple sitting at the next booth over even took the time to help us figure out directions for the drive back home.
Overall, it was a special memorable evening, made so most of all by the woman I got to spend the evening with. Without her the songs just wouldn't be the same.
So I was listening to NPR this past spring--it was the week before Mother's Day in fact. I had just caught the tail end of one of my favorite programs, a buisness-oriented broadcast called "Marketplace". The final commentary of the program was a reflection by Betsy Stevenson, a professor of buisness and public policy at the Wharton School of Business, on recent research that indicates that women (and men) who don't have children are happier than those who do.
You heard me right. The childless are happier than parents. Accounting for religion, stage of life, income, education does nothing to change this stunning stat. No matter how you look at it, those who don't have children are happier. Stevenson, a new mother herself, had some interesting thoughts on this research, and I highly recommend giving a listen (or reading the transcript) to her commentary. It's only a few minutes long and is great food for thought. You can either listen or read here.
Stevenson got me thinking and I decided I'd give my own take on the subject of happiness as it relates to children as well.
Let me begin by saying, that if I'm honest, I can't argue with the research. I think it's true. If we define happiness as being able to do what we want, when we want. If we define it as an absence of fear, worry, or stress. If we define happiness as the confidence that comes with knowing what you're doing and being certain that the outcome of your efforts will be successful. Then yes, those without children are happier. After all, once you have children your life is not your own anymore. It's remarkable, how for some years to come Babs and I will literally be unable to leave our home, just the two of us, without some serious advance planning. Since we're still new to Columbus and to parenthood, we have little in the way of resources so basically, we just don't go out on dates anymore. Ever. And it's not just date night--virtually all our decisions every day are dictated by one very small person.
Also, with Elijah's birth came a sort of low-level anxiety that has remained until this day. Always in the back of your mind are the thousand and one different things that could go wrong--so many ways your child can be hurt, can be taken from you. The love I have for my son makes me vulnerable in a way that is downright scary. And of course, you constantly question whether you're doing a good job as a parent. There is no training manual for this job. It's easy to see the mistakes parents make--it's far harder to know how to avoid making them yourself. In short, parenthood means a loss of autonomy, an increase in stress, and a crisis of confidence. Not exactly a recipe for happiness.
And yet. I wouldn't change a thing. As crazy as it sounds I'm happy to be "less happy." It occurs to me that perhaps there is something more--something beyond happiness.
When I sat down to write this blog, I really didn't know how to articulate the incredible feeling of being a parent--it is a sensation that doesn't lend easily to words. But as I analyzed it, I was able to identify a few key things that I gain from being a father--things that are far better than mere happiness. First, there is the deeply gratifying privilege of simply being around my son. It's very hard to describe the feeling unless you've felt it--there's no parallell in the childless world that I'm aware of. Perhaps it's biological--a God-given instinct, a gift of bonding, that awakens the moment your child comes into the world. As much as I eagerly anticipate those blocks of time to myself--naptime and after he's in bed for the night--when I can finally do what I want, I find that when I'm away from him for even a short while, I miss him. Companionship seems inadequate, but that's the word I keep coming back to. I enjoy the companionship of my child. I am beguiled by his childish efforts to understand and explain the world, to see him discovering new things every day. Even when he is cranky, petulant, and selfish--I find he wins me over.
Parenthood also provides the rewards that come with risk and the satisfaction that comes from great effort. In being a parent, you risk greatly. The entire act of raising a child is a huge gamble--you really have no idea, and less control than you'd like to think over how they'll turn out. You want them to be happy (ironic, isn't it), healthy, at peace with themselves and others, making a positive contribution to the world--but there's no guarantee that they'll be any of those things. The odds are pretty favorable, it seems, but still, if we lose, we lose big. In having children we parents risk shattering heartbreak. Likewise, parenting is hard work--emotionally and physically--and like all hard work, the payoff that comes from putting real effort into something is far more rewarding than the high that comes at the end of say an afternoon of watching movies. As Rich Mullins put it, "there's a rest that you find in work, that you can't get out of sleep." All the things that matter in life--that really mean something, involve risk and effort. It's why we run marathons, climb mountains, travel. The greater the risk, the harder the work, the more satisfying the reward--and the risks don't come any greater or the work any harder than in parenthood.
Finally, there is love. Not just the warm, fuzzy feeling you get--though there's that too, but the choice to love, to focus on something beyond yourself. If all you have is Whitney Houston's much touted "greatest love of all", i.e. to love yourself, that's not much. Love's best gifts come when it is directed outward. When you have a child, putting the needs of someone else before your own becomes second nature, and the reward that comes with the giving is as regular as a royalty check in the mail. Happiness comes and goes, but love remains.
I'm not here to suggest that every one has to be a parent. After all, the blessings of companionship, risk and effort, and love are not limited to those with children. But, I'd wager it takes extraordinary intentionality and wisdom to seek these things out when there's no child to demand them of you. And whether you have children or not, to share meaningful companionship, to risk big and work hard, to make service to others a priority in your daily life may cost you some happiness. But you gain you something else far more valuable. A lot of time we confuse this benefit with happiness, but though they can often seem similar I believe they are not the same. Happiness is what I feel when I'm getting what I want, when things are going my way, when life is good--but this is something else, something better and more lasting, something that I believe can ultimately be immune to the vissitudes of life, something beyond happiness. It can all be summed up in one word, and that word is. . .well, I'll let him tell you:
(Okay, actually he was talking about a person, not the concept, but still, you get the point, right?)
So, this summer I'm on full-time Dad duty. We decided to have the Feller stay home instead of going to daycare this summer. We save some money and he gets to spend some extra time with Daddy. It's not so different from summers past though. I still read a lot--though, now the books are favorites like "Good Night, San Francisco", "God Made Me", and "Tomy's Little Mother Goose."
The Feller goes through phases of favorite books. Right now this memento of our trip to the Bay area last summer is in heavy rotation. It's a beautifully illustrated book of San Francisco's highlights--every time I read it, it reminds of me all the fun we had there last summer. They have a whole series of "Good Night" books and I'd like to collect more from the places we visit.
We have a little worship together every morning after breakfast too--sing a song, read from his Baby Bible (his favorites are Zaccheus and David & Goliath) and pray together. Usually, we read a few more books after that too. I read to him again, if Barbara doesn't come home before his afternoon nap.
We also go to the library once a week for their storytime. The New Albany branch of the public library is just five minutes away, and he's always excited to go and listen to the stories and sing the songs with other kids.
At the library (or "libarebary" as the Feller calls it) for story time.
I still do little reading of my own too--I might sit out on the balcony in one of our deck chairs and read while he naps, and I try to read a bit before bed every night. But the days of reading until my head hurts are long past.
The perfect place for a summer afternoon read while the Feller naps.
In summers past I usually watched a lot of movies during the summer as well. Now, my video diet consists mainly of the BBC video "All About Elephants" (at least a couple of times daily), and Sesame Street. I suppose we could watch more, but I don't want him to get used to watching a lot of television--and his age, he's really not supposed to be watching it at all.
I get on the computer still, although much of the time it's to look at "pictures!", usually of Saipan. The Feller likes to see the "beach!" and Saipan friends like Virle "O Vee" Gayatin, Joy, and Tali "Tidy" Paez. I still manage to steal some time to drop into Interference to discuss politics on the Free Your Mind forum while he's napping. Naptime usually lasts for about three hours from about 1 P.M. to 4:00 P.M., though he can go as long as four and sometimes even five hours. Up until this past week, a good chunk of that time was spent working on my class for my master's degree. I'd usually go down to the library and work in the study room for a couple of hours, coming home around 5:30 or so. That class wrapped up on the July 1 so it feels like I'm now fully on vacation.
This is the little "village square" in New Albany. This photo is looking from the library entrance. When I was working on my master's class, I would be here every afternoon. Now it's just twice a week--once to prep for next school year, and once for story time with the Feller. I usually eat lunch on my "work days" every Wednesday at a tavern called the Rusty Bucket. It's obscured by the trees approximately in the center of the frame.
In addition to the old summer standbys, there's new activities too. On most mornings we're up by 7:30 and done with breakfast, clothes & diaper change, toothbrushing, and worhsip by nine. On many days we have to make a run to the store, something the Feller always looks forward to because he likes riding in the carts that look like cars (complete with steering wheels) at Giant Eagle, and "holding" the groceries (especially the produce) at Aldi. On other days we might go for a walk outside or my friend J "JJ" Carlos will come over with his son for a playdate.
On a morning walk with the Feller. Our apartment complex has a neighborhood feel, with lots of green space for walking, running, and playing.
The mornings usually go by pretty quickly. Before you know it, it's 11 o clock--time for Sesame Street while I make lunch. We eat lunch around noon, and then it's naptime. Barbara usually comes home from her job around this time, though she sometimes has me put him down for his nap so she can run errands.
Now that my class is done, we hope to spend some time doing fun family summer stuff in the afternoons after he wakes up from his lap. So far this week, though, he's slept so late most days that there hasn't been much time to do much else beyond squeeze in some playtime, have supper, and take a bath. This past Wednesday, we did make some time to run up to the Farmers Market in Westerville. It was nothing spectacular, just a few tents with a handful of local farmers hawking fresh produce, honey, pastries and jams, and free range meat. But it was nice to walk through Westervilles quaint Uptown district browing the Amish furniture store and antique shops.
The Westerville Farmers Market
Uptown Westerville, a slice of small town Americana.
The evenings fly by quickly. Though he's supposed to be in bed by seven or 7:30, with the long naps, he's been going to bed an hour or so later, so by the time he's down it's almost time for us to hit the sack as well. I never manage to get to sleep as early as I'd like, but the old summer bedtimes of 2 in the morning are long gone. An eleven o'clock lights out is late for me, a late bedtime I will pay dearly for the next day. When you spend a good part of your day chasing a toddler around you need the energy provided by a good nights sleep.
My life this is summer is simple, and the time goes by quickly--things like making breakfast and lunch and keeping up the kitchen from devolving into a dirty-dish disaster area seem to be never ending tasks. But the time with my son is precious. On the one day of the week when he goes to daycare (just so he doesn't get out of the comfort zone of being there) and I have time to do prep work for school next year, I miss him a lot. Every day he grows a little more and he won't be this age ever again. So I'm grateful for this golden summer in Ohio with my son, staying at home, and being a full-time dad.
Happy Independence Day! (These huge flower basket line the main drag through Uptown Westerville).
A publicity photo for the English folk-rock band, Mumford & Sons. Were they worth the road trip, the ten dollar admission, and the three hour wait? Absolutely! Ten bucks to see a show worth ten times that much was definitely worth it.
We rolled into Bloomington around six in the evening. Though I’d never been to Indiana University, the place brought back memories nonetheless. College was one of the best times in my life—it was when I think I finally began to enjoy life. Those years were marked by stimulating classes, interesting work on campus, pretty coeds to pursue (one of whom would become my wife), a new sense of independence, and most of all knowledge gained--of myself, of the world, and of God. Cruising the tree-lined streets of the IU campus brought all that flooding back,
We had supper at Mother Bear’s—a hole in the wall pizzeria that lived up to its reputation for serving some the nation’s best pizza. We ordered up a half olive, half cheese deep dish (made with the sauce on top), and it was fantastica—a pillowy, melt-in your mouth crust, rich sauce, and lots of melty mozzarella. It’s hard to do pizza wrong, but it’s equally difficult to do it exceptionally well, and the folks at Mother Bear’s pulled it off.
Our bellies full, we drove over to the Bluebird for the main event of the day—the Mumford and Sons concert. We waited in line outside the venue for about 45 minutes before the doors opened and we were ushered inside. We walked through a darkened warren of bar areas—low lights, wood counters, walls a scrapbook history of the bar’s past—to the performance area in the back. There was an upper level about the same height as the stage, a lower level a few steps below, and a back bar on the wall opposite the stage. We found a good spot on the railing of the upper level and settled in for the wait. And it as it turned out, we would be waiting for a good while. First there was an hour wait before the opening act—a humble man whose name I can’t recall in an overlarge rockstar t-shirt, sporting a mustache and a respectable talent. He played a handful of songs accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar. Though we’d been waiting for almost two hours by the time he came onstage, the audience responded to his gracious self-deprecation with appreciation and patience. We later realized that he was Mumford and Son’s sound tech.
After his exit there was another wait of about half an hour and then what appeared to be an accountant wandered onstage and started fooling with a bright red electric guitar. He was soon joined by a Toby-McGuire look-a-like who took a seat at one of the drum kits on stage. There was a muted sigh from the audience as we realized that this unlikely duo was yet another opening act. Unfortunately, the French & Indian War (that’s the name of the two-man band) were unable to win back the audience’s regard. They were awful. The vocalist in his ordinary oxford shirt, jeans, sneakers, and conservative haircut had no rockstar pretentions, but no rock star talent either. After haranguing the sound guys for various adjustments, including more "reverb" (you know that effect you get in the shower that makes you sound better than you are), he strummed tunelessly on his guitar, intoned a-melodic noises into the microphone, occasionally inserting a dramatic yelp. Toby on the drums, tapped away in the background, looking bored and vaguely apologetic, occasionally laying down his sticks to take a swig or two from his beer bottle, as if to fortify himself. The pair slogged through half-dozen so-called songs, including an unrecognizable cover of Paul Simon’s “Graceland." The audience grew surly, expressing their irritation with increasing boldness as the War wore on.
As is the case with all wars, we were all thankful when the French and Indian War finally came to an end. It was now almost 10 P.M. and yet another wait ensued. Around 10:30 P.M., at long last Mumford and Sons took the stage and proceeded to make the wait worth it.
This photo of the band is not from our show, though the venue and the passion for music that reflected in this photo were similar to what you see here. My camera was dead, so I got this picture off the web. I'll replace it with actual photos that Greg or J took if or when I can get them.
Mumford and Sons is a folk rock act out of England—four guys playing an upright bass, bass guitar, banjo, guitar, keyboards, and drums (obviously not all at once—all four band members seem to be able to switch instruments effortlessly, and did so throughout the show). Greg, in his trademark role as the explorer of the outer reaches of the musical universe, had discovered the band and mailed us each a copy of their album in advance of the concert. Their acoustic-y sound—hard strumming on the guitar and banjo, almost reminiscent of bluegrass--big harmonies, and earnest, emotional lyrics had already won me over, but the show made me a fan. They ripped through their set with buoyant energy and furious skill, playing virtually every song from their debut album and tossing in a couple new songs that instantly felt familiar. The tunes were perfect for singing-along and the audience obliged, belting out not just the choruses, but the verses as well. I got the distinct sense during the show that this was a band that was about to break out big. I think the band felt it too—throughout much of the show front man Marcus Mumford had this amazed, appreciative look on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe the enthusiastic reception they were receiving. This was not an audience with a passing interest in a band who happened to playing. These were fans, as evidenced by the fact that they sang all the lyrics to the gentle, introspective, “After the Storm.” “I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone sing along to that one before,” Mumford remarked gracefully at the end.
“Best show I’ve ever seen for ten bucks,” Greg commented as we walked out of the Bluebird just before midnight. Indeed, it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen at any price.
Greg sent me the link on Facebook to this video for Mumford & Son's soaring, life-affirming "The Cave." This is one of my favorite songs by the band, though not their most popular one. Funny thing, this is music you'd feel safe bringing home to meet the parents--the lyrics are poetic, articulate, and clean, with the exception of their biggest single, "Little Lion Man", in which they drop the F-bomb in the chorus no less. It communicates well what they wanted to say--it's the story of a repentant man who declares (and I'm paraphrasing), "It was not your fault but mine, and it was your heart on the line, I really messed it up this time, didn't I, my dear."
