The Natives are Restless

We did not see Trumpet in the Land last week. We saw Footloose instead.

If you don't know, Trumpet is an outdoor drama telling the story of the first white settlers in Ohio. It comes complete with love, war, brotherhood, racism, fat jokes, fire dancing, sacrifice, selfishness, smoking, drinking, murder and forgiveness.

It's a great way to spend a summer night outdoors. You're among the hills and trees of Tuscarawas County, where the natives roamed and the settlers lived and died. It's easy to suspend disbelief for a couple of hours and feel like you are actually watching events unfold.

If you haven't seen it, well, do. Check it out at http://www.trumpetintheland.com/

We did however see the outdoor stage version of Footloose, played in the same setting. I was trying to watch the story of a Chicago rebel convincing a small town to dance. But I kept expecting David Zeisberger or Simon Girty to crash the party. Rent the DVD instead.

Breakfast Bribery*

*or - How to crack your son's shell without getting egg on your face.


To my half-asleep son on a late morning -

"Hey Caleb, I'm making scrambled eggs with feta cheese, do you want some?" He loves feta cheese.

He rolls over, one eye half open. "Um sure, if you don't mind."

Does he know or care that my part of breakfast was already over? No.

Does he like that I sit and drink coffee and talk while he enjoys breakfast? Yes.

And that's the really cool part. We do get to talk. Cuz like many guys, my son has his Rambo times, when communication is in grunts.

But if you don't pigeonhole him, you can gently crack the shell and discover all the wonderful things inside. Like a feta cheesy sense of humor. I wonder where he got that.


A bribe is a charm to the one who gives it; wherever he turns, he succeeds. Proverbs 17:8

Jueves Gracias

I'm grateful today for...

* Newcastle Brown, tall. If you don't know, you don't wanna.

* The musical genius that is Joas. And the Delta Legion, all (1) of him.

* Summer nights in July with loud music.

* Summer nights in July with a cicada serenade.

* Mudd Valley vanilla ice cream. With Ghirardellhi chocolate.

* A sister who listens without judgment.

* A daughter with the guts to start two new jobs within three days. Rys rocks.

* HIM. He makes sunsets. Really good ones.

Rebuttal

*This post is best enjoyed a day after reading the previous one.*

Some things go like clockwork. A good shot of espresso runs for 27 seconds, give or take 3. A well produced and coreographed show doesn't have 10 seconds of dead time. Basketball even has a shot clock to force the action.

Other things run at their own pace. Bad espresso goes from 5-45 seconds. The preschool Christmas play, well, kids will do what kids will do. Baseball is our national pastime because it passes a lot of time while batters scratch and pitchers spit.

And then there's the rodeo. You cannot cue a wildly bucking horse to exit the chute now instead of 30 seconds from now. A raging bull will not run the route you hoped. And therein lies the thrill of the rodeo. The unpredictable wildness.

And it's that brief untamed moment that keeps you sitting for hours on end. The knowing that you don't know what will happen. The chute may open and the bronco may decide he's quite happy trying to scrape the cowboy off his back without getting out in the ring. Or the bull, having successfully thrown the rider, may continue his rampage on the spot, trying to pulverize his victim. Then he'll take a few victory laps, ignoring wranglers attempts to direct him back to the corral. And of course, animals don't understand that the horn at 8 seconds means the rider won and the game is over. The animal stops when the animal wants to stop.

Does the same thing happen in other sports? Kinda. We watch cars going around in circles hundreds of times, when the real excitement is the crash. Football teams can grind out yards back and forth for half a game, but it's the 50 yard pass play or the 80 yard punt return that really gets us going. Baseball has its home runs, golf the hole-in-one. But trained athletes and engineered equipment will always be more predictable than untamed animals.

Which may make rodeo riders the bravest, or the craziest athletes out there. Suppose baseball allowed the pitcher to bean the hitter. Or football had no rules protecting the quarterback. And Nascar drivers could throw grenades in passing cars. Heh.

So would I have wanted to be in an artificially cooled theater experiencing a great summer blockbuster? Not on this night, when we sat in the sun without sweating, and long after the sunset without shivering. We were on rodeo time, with nothing to do for the night except enjoy the action, and the lulls between the action. And the sometimes groan-inducing jokes of the clown. And the little Amish boy roping a toddler girl. And the patriotism and prayers. And all the people who dressed their western best for the show.

This is the rodeo, and I tip my ten-gallon hat to Nelson the bull-rider, and all the cowboys who try for an 8 second ride and end up with a face full of dirt.

YeeeeHaaaawwww!!!!

The opinions expressed in this post are not shared by the other personalities of this writer. Tomorrow's post will devote equal time to a less acerbic view.

...so, um, we went to the rodeo last night. And after we were done at the rodeo, we were still at the rodeo. So... we stayed awhile longer, and then after a long time, they had intermission. After which, guess what? We were still at the rodeo. So after we were at the rodeo for awhile longer, we were still at the rodeo. And then..

***loud speakers blast rock music***

BULL RIDING!!!

Yep, three hours after we kicked off this shindig, we finally arrive at the big daddy event.

Cue bull.

Throw rider.

X6.

Game over.

Yeehaw.

Sushi communion

Sometimes it's the bumps in the road that add flavor to the journey.

It was the most gorgeous, sunny day you could imagine for us four to explore downtown Cleveland. We finally found the sushi place we had been planning on all day. And it was closed, for another hour.

How awful then that our family was doomed to a sundrenched sidewalk cafe drinking coffee, reading, and eating espresso brownies.

We endured, though, and eventually found our way to Sushi Rock. The graceful curves of the bars (sushi and booze) combined with the open stairway to the second level made the narrow space look spacious while feeling cozy.

Our utterly charming waiter seemed to assume we knew everything about sushi and still explained anything we appeared unsure of. He recommended favorites like eda mame and the beef sushi which wasn't exactly sushi. And he pointed out that the whole table's order is served on one big tray, of which I thought, big deal.

Until it arrived, four giant rolls on a giant plate, and we started eating. Now it's pretty common for the four of us to taste each other's food when we eat out. But this was different. We weren't four people focused on our own plates. We were a group, dining together off a giant plate in the center of the table. It was communal dining.

Each of us sampled everybody's food. We shared, commented, critiqued. And we enjoyed. Not just the food, the fellowship. The being together. And it was enhanced, I believe, by the hour at the cafe where we decompressed from 24 hours of gotta-be-somewhere-do-something togetherness.

Sushi communion. It was an exquisite climax to a rare family weekend.

Prom Magic

A few months after prom, I still remember the exasperating inefficiency and amazing effectiveness of a familiar group on an unfamiliar project.

You gather 20-30 people together whose only common bond is having a kid in the high school junior class. They see each other at ball games and school plays. A few see each other at church, or the local diner. A few are friends, some are acquaintances, several are strangers. Then you assign them the task of transforming a portion of the high school for senior prom.

On the big night, people dribble in over the course of a couple hours, as their schedule permits. Three or four of the people see the big picture, knowing how everything should look when it’s done, but most just want to help.

And so the magic begins. Two people adapt their skills to join on a task, until they’re stuck, and get help from a third, who replaces the first, who moves on to answer a question, and ends up taking over another task. Three people start on a phase, two more see opportunity, and replicate the actions on another phase. One little task is a serial effort. Guy and girl try, receive advice from a hubby, who steps in and helps, get assistance from a friend, who asks his wife for suggestions, who takes over the task, inviting more help from two others.

There’s lots of standing around, deciding how. Lots of looking for stuff – duct tape, stapler, hammer, cords. Lots of asking those who know. And lots of trying to help where help might not be needed.

But it’s organic. It grows out of the people and the skills that are there. It blossoms into personalities brightening the room. Those who can, offer ideas, suggestions, and know-how. Others simply take a task and complete it to their own satisfaction.

By the end of the night, we had created magic. An ordinary high school hallway became a setting from Arabian Nights. All for our kids to maybe, or maybe not, notice and enjoy on their big night.

Only looking back do I realize; I remember no tense moments, no arguments, no egos getting in the way of the work. Just friends, new and old, working together. Laughter and exhaustion, yes. Frustration or anger, no.

It was community, at its best.