Shipping and Receiving

The Games Do Go On

2008-08-25T11:50:00.016-04:00

The Beijing Olympics have ended. Next up is London, which will host the games in 2012. To mark the occasion, thousands of Chinese bathed in glowing hues passed the torch to an aging rock-and-roller, an ex-patriot soccer player and a double-decker bus. There will always be an England.

The games just concluded were notable for their majestic opening and closing ceremonies of astonishing human coordination and spectacle punctuated by nearly colorless performances save for Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt. A few other Olympians might have impressed but NBC never gave them a chance to show themselves in prime time. Instead, with an always obsequious Bob Costas serving as host, NBC's delayed broadcasts disproportionately featured beach volleyball with Misty May and Kerri Walsh, who, frankly, became a household joke among many viewers I know. Serve, set, spike. Serve, set, spike. We learned far more than any of us ever wanted to know about this duo than about any other athlete save Phelps and his mother. Meanwhile, many traditional Olympic sports of longer-standing pedigree were given short shrift. Give the Peacock network a perfect ZERO for a sense of proportion if nothing else.

The host city looked magnificent in televised images, especially those breathtaking aerial views of a modern city deliberately and effectively sanitized for its prolonged moment in the spotlight. Nobody does diving, table tennis and limited access better than the Chinese. Still, there was no taking away from the impression that China is ascendant, energetic, efficient, ebullient and determined. The Chinese government may control every aspect of life tightly -- abusing human rights with little or no constraint, displacing hundreds of thousands of inconveniently located citizens, placing barriers in front of unsightly sites -- but they also encourage the pursuit of excellence in many facets of human endeavor while the West, especially the United States, continues to expend enormous energy trying to legislate private morality.

Ever since Nazi Germany the Olympic subtext has been national and racial superiority. Jesse Owens' lonely assault on Arian supremacy was followed by the playing out of the Cold War pitting Soviet collective superiority, the East German sports and doping machine and Cuba's export of revolution against the rugged individualism of America and, to a lesser extent, her allies. By 1968 small portions of the American team itself were in open rebellion and in 1972 terrorism in its now familiar face thrust itself into the middle of the games.

The Chinese are too smart and ambitious to cast the Beijing games in such Manichean terms, but make no mistake they were out to prove the superiority of their system of near cradle to contested teenage years worth of unrelenting regimented training of their athletes. Though the Chinese overall medal count fell short of the Americans, the total of Gold Medals garnered by their Olympians topped all comers by a wide margin.

No one remembers who came in second. England, take note.

The New Order

2008-06-30T11:40:00.011-04:00

Among the most famous ongoing gags from the first season of Saturday Night Live was the one in which Chevy Chase, anchoring the news on Weekend Update, would announce breaking developments that "Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead!" The Spanish dictator had lingered on his deathbed for months before succumbing and the major networks had felt compelled to broadcast updates of the death watch continually. SNL went them one better.

During the intervening 33 years much has changed in Spain. (See my post immediately below.) Yesterday, the last of Franco's Spain was buried for good as the Spanish national soccer team captured the Euro 2008 crown and announced to the entire world, not just the sporting portion of it, that a new order reigned in modern Spain.

The win by Spain over a good but not great German squad was the Spaniards first international triumph in a major championship in forty-four years. It wasn't as if Spanish soccer had suddenly improved. The Spaniards were always highly regarded; indeed, by most accounts, Spanish soccer during the intervening decades was characterized by high expectations, considerable skill and consistent under achievement. The reasons were many but the one most cited by the experts was the fractious regionalism of the country itself, a legacy of Franco's vengeful authoritarianism. Apparently, those internecine hostilities invariably undermined the teams Spain assembled and sent forth to do battle. More than once a better player was left off an international squad simply because an Asturian or Andalusian player was needed to fill out the team's quota of choosing members from every corner of the Peninsula.

The 2008 squad was different, however. In assembling it, the coaches and powers-that-be chose the best players regardless of the cities and towns of their native birth. Instead of Galicians or Catalans they chose Spaniards. If all of the best players were natives of the same village, so be it! The result was a swift, skilled and aggressive team who were among the favorites coming into the tourney and who played up to and beyond expectations throughout it.

Now they are champions and all of Spain is celebrating. They are a fitting symbol of the new order. The old one is buried and best forgotten.

Spain Then And Now

2008-05-20T08:41:00.006-04:00

My wife and I have just returned from a trip to Granada, Sevilla and Madrid. For my wife this was her second visit to Spain and first to Andalusia. For me it was my fourth overall and the first time I revisited the south in forty years.

The Spain I first knew as a student in Granada and Madrid in 1966 and 1968 is long gone. Then it was a dictatorship, ostracized by the West for Franco's "neutrality" in WWII, and sealed off from its neighbors by a combination of its own paranoia and slow recovery from a brutal Civil War. Politically and religiously deeply conservative, it hardly benefited from the largess of the Marshall Plan unless, of course, one considers the location of a major American airbase and sub base on its soil beneficial to the local economy.

Today, it can be argued Spain is one of the most liberal countries of Western Europe in many respects. Vibrant, progressive, thriving, vital. One sees it everywhere from the sophistication of Madrid, which four decades ago was a dowdy and officious capital in name only, to the extensive public recycling and conservation projects. Cultural life and national patrimony, always rich, are experiencing a renaissance. The Prado, one of the world’s great museums, has expanded and is now one of three important museums within walking distance of each other, the Thyssen-Bornemisza and Reina Sofia forming the other two-thirds of this golden triangle. Everywhere there are signs of urban renewal and reclamation.

Forty-two years ago when I first landed in Spain, the generation that fought its Civil War, a conflict that inflamed world passions as much as Vietnam did in ours, was exhausted and spent. By comparison, today's youth have grown up in a democratic society whose transition has been relatively smooth. (The 1981 coup attempt, shockingly recent but virtually overlooked when one considers post-Franco Spain, was never really a serious threat to the new state.)

Reminders of the Civil War are still present in unexpected places, the Reina Sofia Museum with its most prized possession Guernica being principal among them. (In an adjoining room a propaganda film runs continuously. Made during the Civil War, it pleads the Republican cause. In another, Robert Capa's pictures from the Civil War fill the walls. And the Guernica does not sit alone; all of Picasso’s prepatory sketches line the adjacent walls and enrich our understanding of his intense probing for the final expression of his grief and outrage.

In conversations with a few cab drivers I asked what had become of “los grises”, the gray-clad police one saw everywhere, and of the Guardia Civil, their tri-cornered black hats and green uniforms a common and intimidating sight? Both drivers referred to these vestiges of Franco’s police state as “bastards” and “thugs”, public utterances that would have literally been dangerous in the past. The Guardia Civil can still be glimpsed maintaining their vigil at public buildings, military installations and other sensitive sites, but their public presence is much less conspicuous, Behind the scenes, however, they remain an important national police force. Los Grises have been replaced by a more modern looking force, just as formidable in appearance, but not nearly as plentiful.

Despite these reminders of the Franco years, for Spain's worldly youth of today the Civil War is not really that much closer than the Peloponnesian War. Their war is the global one on terror and in Madrid, especially, they know its effects all too well. Not only do the airports have the now-standard security practices, so do the train stations with high-speed service to the capital, their platforms guarded by checkpoints and screening devices. Internal strife has not altogether disappeared, either. In the north of Spain, ETA, weakened but hardly extinct, continues to wreak havoc. The day we departed for the U.S., the separatists killed a civil guard in a bomb attack.

In the Spain of 1966, 27 years after the Civil War ended, the streets were still filled with beggars, the blind, the disabled and the walking wounded (less politically correctly referred to then as "mutilados"). They are largely gone now, too, most from old age and disease, but no state can simply banish the disabled from its midst. Today Spain has developed a sophisticated health care system and social services network (what Western European nation today is not offering better health care for ALL of its citizens than the US?) that doesn't simply warehouse people in the streets. There were two big lottery systems in the ‘60’s, the national and the one specifically sold by and benefiting the blind. The latter has been replaced by ONCE, an organization that uses proceeds from lottery sales to provide employment for the disabled. Their kiosks have replaced the wooden stools of four decades ago.

Some things never change, fortunately. Each evening, all of Spain still enjoys the paseo, the stroll during which every ambulatory inhabitant of the peninsula sallies forth. Joining them each night, Ellen and I made note of the physical evidence of Spain's evolution since my first visit. The oldest generation invariably features a husband and wife of decidedly small stature and, most interesting, nearly equal height. The middle-aged generation, on the other hand, is taller than their predecessors with the differences in height between men and women more pronounced. And the younger generation? They are much taller, with the full range of body types and heights (though very little obesity). They look like, well, everyone else their age throughout the Western hemisphere and Europe.

Spain has literally grown.

Adventures Of A Craigslister

2007-05-27T11:04:00.001-04:00

In the weeks leading up to our recent move from suburban Wynnewood to Center City Philadelphia my wife and I concluded we needed to divest ourselves of some possessions. We were motivated by more than a desire to reduce the overall load and thus expense of moving; several pieces of furniture we owned had either outlasted their usefulness or we had come to the conclusion they were never very useful in the first place!

To our surprise, nearly everything we owned, especially furniture, was a candidate for deaccession. Having heard of craigslist for years, I decided to investigate what was involved in listing our items for sale there. To my delight, the process was simple and the cost nothing.

Among the items failing to meet our criteria for surviving the move was an antique wooden baby crib we rediscovered in our basement. It had resided there, disassembled, ever since our last move nearly seventeen years before. We brought it upstairs, dusted it off and began to reassemble it, no mean feat since it was put together with dowels and grooved slots rather than hardware and had two rows of spindles on its long sides that had to be aligned in order to fit the top railing on them. After 45 minutes we had the piece reassembled and I photographed it for posting that evening, a Sunday.

Monday morning I turned on the computer in my home office at 7:30AM and there was a response that began the way nearly every inquiry about a listing on craigslist begins: was it still available? Unlike the live auctions on Ebay where the bid status and remaining time are clearly posted, one never knows if an item on craigslist is still available unless, of course, it has been sold and the owner, not wishing to receive more emailed inquiries, deletes the listing.

I replied to the email informing the sender the item was indeed still available and provided my phone number suggesting she call. Within minutes I received another email asking whether or not it was too early to call. "Of course not," I replied. "Aren't we communicating now?" A few minutes passed and the phone rang. It was Sally.

"I love the crib. It reminds me of the one that was in my grandmother's house. When can I come see it?"

"Anytime you would like," I answered. "I work at home. When would you like to come?"

"How's Thurday?"

"Fine. I will send you directions. Where are you coming from?"

"Steubenville, Ohio."

"You're kidding," I blurted out.

"No," she said. "We just moved here from Spokane, Washington. Where is Wynnewood?"

"Just outside Philadelphia, clear across Pennsylvania," I said, simultaneously looking up "Steubenville" on Google maps.

"Great. We are just on the other side of the Ohio border. I've never seen Pennsylvania," Sally enthused.

"Well, I cannot say the trip across the Pennsylvania turnpike is exactly enchanting," I warned her.

"No problem. Send the directions. I will be there Thursday."

I hung up and appended directions from Steubenville, OH, to the directions to our house I already had pre-saved on my computer. I emailed them to Sally.

A few hours later my phone rang. It was Sally.

"My mom and I had to drive into Pennsylvania this morning to pick up a used laminated countertop we are installing in my sisters's house. Anyway, we figured we were already in Pennsylvania so we might as well keep on coming. Can we come today?"

Flabergasted, I said, sure. Sally further informed me she had left her house before my email with the directions arrived. I told her to take the turnpike all the way east and call me when she was approaching the Valley Forge exit. From there I would walk her through the rest of the trip. I glanced at my watch and calculated she should arrive some time around 4PM.

Four o'clock came and went and no call from Sally. At 4:30 I called her cell phone.

"Sally, where are you?"

"We just passed through Fulton County," she replied.

Again, I consulted Google maps. "Fulton County!! You aren't even half way here. What happened?"

"We got lost getting from the place where we bought the countertop back to the turnpike."

"The hard part comes on this end," I moaned. "OK, call me when you hit Valley Forge."

At 6:45PM the call came. Sally handed the phone to her mother who wrote down the directions. I told her to call me as she approached our street and I would meet her outside. Our house was one of several in a small group of Tudor homes known as English Village and it was confusing to visitors as to which driveway belonged to which home.

As she approached the house Sally dutifully called and I went outside. A minute later a huge double-cab pickup with a camper on the bed rounded the corner. I waved and Sally pulled over. Out jumped Sally, all 5'2" X 5'2" X 5'2" of her. Next came her mother, all 5'1" X 5'1" X 5'1" of her!

They were covered in plaster dust, which Sally explained came from some of the demolition work they'd been doing earlier that morning at her sister's house. The camper was also covered with dust and mud as well. Clearly it had seen some hard living.

"Would you like to come in and use the bathroom?" I asked.

"Sure, but can we see the crib?"

I took them into the living room, where the crib was standing, and Sally immediately exclaimed, "It's gorgeous!"

They freshened up and we took the crib outside and carefully loaded it into the camper, which was occupied by a ten foot long laminated kitchen countertop that projected part way out the back of the truck. After the crib was loaded and secured Sally asked me, "Do you have any other antiques or old things for sale?"

"We do have a quilt I was about to list."

"Great. Let's see."

I brought out the quilt and opened it up. Sally never hesitated. "How much?"

"One hundred dollars," I said.

"I'll take it." Sally's mother peeled off another two fifties from the roll.

While all of this was going on my wife ascertained Sally was 32 years old and the mother of eight children. They had moved from Spokane to Steubenville because they were Catholic and they wanted to live in a community where there were more Catholics. She could have stopped in Chicago, I mused, but I thought better of saying anything.

When everything was paid for and loaded Sally asked where there were some restaurants and motels near by where they could spend the night. They also asked if Valley Forge was worth visiting. I told her there were plenty of places to eat and stay nearby in King of Prussia, PA, and that the area was also convenient to Valley Forge. I looked up some names of motels in King of Prussia, gave them directions and off they went.

I calculated by the end of this little excursion Sally and her mom would have driven at least 700 miles or more to buy a crib and quilt, would spend a large sum on gasoline for a vehicle that probably got 8 miles to the gallon downhill, spend a night in a motel and eat at least a few meals in restaurants. I also concluded they appeared pleased as punch about the whole thing and so were we.

Cheap Entertainment

2007-03-14T11:06:00.001-04:00

Democracy, as we all know, is messy and no where is that more apparent than on craigslist, the every man's eBay.

My wife and I have been packing our belongings, preparing for a move back into the heart of Philadelphia after nearly sixteen years in the suburbs. In so doing, we have tried to abide by a few simple rules when trying to determine whether or not to keep something or sell it: (1) if we haven’t used an item in several years, out it goes; and (2), if a piece of furniture was acquired cheaply long ago and hasn't improved with age, it's time to sell. Toward that end, craigslist, has been of calculable albeit modest value financially and incalculable value as a form of cheap entertainment. My wife and I have literally had hysterics on numerous occasions, not over some of the things we’ve seen listed but rather with regards to the pictures people post with their items.

Hard as it may be to believe, there are a substantial number of pictures posted that are badly out of focus. That's right, utterly and hopelessly out of focus. It’s difficult to imagine what the sellers were thinking. If someone agrees it is very useful to include pictures of an item they wish to sell, takes one digitally, sees instantly it is out of focus, and says, what they heck, that’s good enough, one has to wonder about the written description of said item, which presumably requires more effort. (We will ignore for the moment all of the dark pictures posted. Not everyone can be a good photographer when it comes to lighting, but nearly everyone should be able to focus.)

Then there are those budding entrepreneurs who take their digital pictures vertically, which display horizontally unless they rotate the images 90 degrees CW when processing them out in the various software programs available. Yet, many don’t bother. Instead, they post the picture sideways, in essence saying, if someone wants this thing, let him crane his neck! Some sellers actually post multiple pictures and all appear sideways. Once in a great while someone else will post a picture upside down! We laugh until it hurts.

Then there are the pictures of, say, bookshelves surrounded by clutter on all sides and in front, literally spilling over with knick-knacks, books and other flotsam and jetsam. It is nearly impossible to see through all the clutter to the item itself. You know it's there, holding up all that junk, but it's difficult to determine what color it is let alone its condition. And what are we to make of those sellers who take multiple pictures of, say, a breakfront or cabinet, and post as many as three or four views, all of them close-ups that fail to show what the overall piece looks like?

It’s all so entertaining...and it's free.

They Always Get Their Man

2006-11-03T11:07:00.001-05:00

The other evening I was preparing to undergo a sleep study at The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. As the technician readied me for the test with an assortment of wires, leads, patches and other small indignities, I turned on the television to watch some local news.

During the broadcast, Fox 29’s crack investigative team presented their latest "triumph" in the station's ongoing effort to weed out the scoundrels and other miscreants in our midst. In this case they had been surveiling a city worker from Wilmington, DE, who was apparently double-dipping. Our crack investigative team followed this fellow, a water meter reader, as he drove to work one morning in his company car. Once there, he went inside, presumably punched in, and then departed to make his rounds. Or at least that's what his boss must have assumed. But not our crack investigative team, who soon revealed that the subject drove to where his own car was parked, changed into a different "uniform" and reported to work at another institution where he spent the majority of his day laboring. From there, our crack investigative team followed him as he returned to his city-issued car, changed back into his Water Dept. uniform, reported back to said Department, and presumably punched out.

Later in the piece, our crack investigative team confronted the worker and asked him whether or not he thought what he was doing was fair and balanced, a rhetorical question if ever there was one (and one tinged with a bit of irony considering the network doing the asking). Naturally, the double-dipper wasn't happy about being questioned on camera. In fact later in the broadcast, on a separate occasion, the subject got more than a little huffy when the crack investigator pressed the point.

So, what was this scoundrel doing on the taxpayers' time and dollar, our crack investigative team wondered out loud no less than 25 times during the piece? It turns out he was on the payroll for Habitat for Humanity. Yes, that's right, our double-dipper was helping to build shelters for the disadvantaged and underprivileged. Not Toll Brothers. Not Hovnanian. He was working for Habitat for Humanity. Now, I am not excusing his malfeasance in the least, but I have to admit I was a little bit ambivalent when I learned just who he was working for when he should have been working for the good people of Wilmington.

So, by the way, was the technician who was prepping me for the sleep study. He kept repeating over and over again, "Habitat for Humanity??!! They're going after this guy and he's working for Habitat for Humanity??!!"

Our crack investigative team didn't stop there. They interviewed the local head of Habitat for Humanity who admitted on camera he was both surprised and dismayed to learn of our miscreant's double life. Our crack investigative team was unsuccessful in interviewing the head of the Wilmington Water Dept. but we can be sure being the crack investigative journalists they are they will pursue the matter to the end.

I don't know about you, but I wanted to sleep a whole lot better that night, wires notwithstanding, knowing that of all the double-dippers in all the world our crack investigative team leaned on this one. I wanted to, but couldn't!

Halloween In The 21st Century

2006-11-01T11:08:00.002-05:00

For the second consecutive Halloween the number of trick or treaters at our front door was down from the previous year. Despite the overall decline, the usual suspects emerged out of the darkness including witches, devils, fairies, princesses, ghosts, cowboys and girls and people dressed up as urinals. Yes, that's right, every year at least one unabashed youngster dresses up as a urinal and cruises our neighborhood. When the child in question rings our doorbell instead of extending a plastic jack-o-lantern, pillow case or paper bag for the candy, he or she points to a depository clearly ringed by a toilet seat. As of this writing, the transaction is not accompanied by a flushing sound, but, no doubt, that will come when a new, improved version of the outfit containing an embedded microchip hits the stores.

This year's assortment of revelers did mark a new departure in behavior, however. At least six of them arrived at our door throughout the course of the evening and extended their containers with one hand while talking on cell phones with the other. Like those people in a check-out line who reach into their wallets or sign a credit card receipt while simultaneously carrying on a conversation on their cell phones, these youngsters were too otherwise engaged to utter the usual "Happy Halloween" or "Trick or Treat". Instead, they gathered up their goods and, still chatting away, moved on with just a nod.

Shredding The Past

2006-07-24T11:10:00.000-04:00

I shred my past last week. Not entirely, as it turned out, but a sizeable portion including most of last fifteen years or so.

All of this effort was in anticipation of moving to a new home that will likely be half of the size of our existing residence. Among the first casualties of such relocations are the drawers and boxes of documents one accumulates. In my case, this meant both business (I work at home) and personal records, those generated on my own and the collected works of my marriage.

In an era of hyper-consciousness and sensitivity with regards to identity theft, one must go to extra lengths to insure nothing of use to the criminal mind is discarded intact. Financial statements. Bank statements. Cancelled checks. Credit card statements. Correspondence from the IRS. Each document must be inspected to determine if it must be retained or can be safely discarded as is or must be reduced to slivers of paper.

Some documents escape the shredder. Investment transactions showing cost bases are a must lest one wants to risk paying the maximum capital gains if audited. Correspondence regarding legal matters lives to see another day, though hopefully not in court. Depreciation schedules, any accountant will tell you, merit a very long shelf life.

Of course the most fascinating aspect of this exercise is the opportunity afforded to review one’s life. There’s really nothing quite like a stroll through a given year’s business records to jog the memory regarding a certain client’s parsimony. And who would imagine that a simple invoice could stir recollections of a difficult project and its successful execution? Receipts for purchases long since discarded or outdated reminded me how quickly tastes and technology change. Did I really pay over $1400 for a fax machine in 1987?! How many times did we use that treadmill?

A few boxes contained personal correspondence, some of it with people whom I hardly recalled or with whom I had lost touch long ago. There were numerous letters from the potter from Lopez Island via Cambridge and Nairobi who drifted in and out of my life over the course of a year or two. I reread a few of them before concluding there was nothing they could add to the already faded memories. There were newspaper clippings from a boyhood friend who inexplicably stopped talking to me after fifty years. One packet contained all of my report cards from elementary school through high school, dutifully saved by my mother. When she moved into a retirement community several years ago, my brother and I helped her discard some of her own past (and ours). The report cards, among other items, escaped the waste basket then and made themselves comfortable in my home. Now they had to go, but not before I reviewed them carefully for signs of who I was to become.

By the end of the week I had produced sufficient recycled matter to require seven separate trips to the town dump. Each time, I filled my car – trunk, back seat and front passenger seat – with 30 gallon garbage bags brimming with shredded paper. And each time I returned home to survey the situation, looked around and much to my chagrin realized I’d hardly made a dent. By all appearances, nothing had changed. Everything looked more or less the same as when I started. After all, virtually everything I shredded had been out of sight in the first place, in file drawers, cabinets and storage boxes.

Name Games

2006-05-23T14:34:00.000-04:00

My wife and I have different last names. Nothing unusual about that. Ours was her second union and when we married among other things she didn’t want to change her daughter’s last name or confuse things by leaving a then-six year old with a different one than hers.

This arrangement has always worked well for us though once in a while there will be a little confusion when one of us has established a new account and the other makes an inquiry regarding its status. On more than one occasion I found it useful to just pretend I had changed my last name when speaking with a customer service representative who was looking at my wife’s last name on our account.

On one such occasion I had to call a company regarding some errors in a bill. When the representative answered the phone and asked for the name on the account I gave her my wife’s last name, which for purposes of this story will be Smith. The representative then asked for our zip code for further verification, and I dutifully supplied it. Finally, she asked was she speaking with Mr. Smith?

“That’s good enough,” I replied.

“Oh, OK, then, Mr. Goodenough. What can I do for you?”

What's So Special About This?

2006-04-28T14:35:00.000-04:00

When exactly did the daily specials recited tableside at nearly every restaurant in town from the most haute to the most plebian serve as a pretext for gouging the customer?

Once upon a time, these specials were not even daily events. Rather, they resulted periodically either when the chef saw something unusual or appetizing at the market that morning or, more likely, when seasonal delicacies appeared at a time when "seasonal" actually meant something. Other times, no doubt, the special addition to the menu reflected the chef’s decision either to experiment, revisit an old favorite ingredient or simply explore a recipe.

Bear in mind, the ingredients involved in most specials are rarely exotic or expensive relative to the normal fare, though occasionally with something like, say, shad roe, that might be the case. More often than not, however, the following experience is the norm. Recently, four of us ate at a well-regarded Italian BYO restaurant. Three of the four ordered specials that included a pasta dish that turned out to be as expensive as most meat entrées listed on the menu and a fish entrée of a variety (St. Peter's fish) that is common, inexpensive and decidedly not seasonal. This dish turned out to be as expensive as the restaurant's signature dish, also a fish dish.

As one can imagine, it is difficult for some people to ask the server in mid recitation "And how much is that?" and especially difficult when someone else at the table is expressing an interest in the item. Nevertheless, I ask almost as a matter of course but the other night we were treating my step-daughter and her boyfriend and didn't want to embarrass them.

More often than not the special has become a profit center, pure and simple. Instead of being a special culinary experience, it has become a perversion of a tradition that often leaves a particularly bitter taste when the bill arrives.

Lincoln

2006-02-13T14:35:00.000-05:00

Sunday, February 12, was Abraham Lincoln's birthday. With very few exceptions, the country--North and South-- completely ignored it. Instead, they lump the anniversary of our greatest President together with that of George Washington for the sake of a convenient long weekend and retail sales events.

Such oversight would be troubling at any juncture in our history but it is far more disturbing in this era when the intelligent, decisive compassion of Lincoln is sorely missed.

Compare these lines from Lincoln's second inaugural when the newly-re-elected President said "With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphan - to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations” to those of the current President who upon his re-election gloated, “I’ve earned political capital and I intend to spend it!”

Or consider the attitude behind the sentiments in Lincoln’s first inaugural address when, speaking to supporters and detractors alike he said “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.” with those of George Bush who only a few weeks ago urged his fellow Republicans not to “lose their nerve” as they attempted to further institutionalize an agenda not shared by a significant majority of Americans.

In a review of a new biography of Lincoln by Richard Carwardine, Lincoln A life of Purpose and Power, Kevin Baker asserted "most Americans would probably not be surprised to learn that once upon a time such a model president [such as those portrayed on contemporary television] actually walked the hustings...." He is sadly mistaken. Most Americans remain completely ignorant of Lincoln's complex character. To understand the ideals of Lincoln, the leader and man, we need more than the fine works that continue to issue forth from Carwardine, Doris Kearns and others that, sadly, are read by a very small portion of the populace; we need the press --periodicals, newspapers and especially television-- and the schools to play a more active role in keeping alive his legacy. All of them can start by acknowledging the anniversary of his life and the details of it.

Not Going Native

2005-08-19T14:37:00.000-04:00

With a new school year almost upon us, some college students will be preparing to spend portions of it in a foreign land.

There was a time (during my youth to be precise and predictable) when students who spent a semester abroad did so in a country in which they had a passing interest if not fluency in the language and culture. No more. Today, students select destinations for their sojourns having nothing at all to do with their majors, minors or anything in between including family history.

It is difficult to know, for instance, what factors are at work when English-speaking students elect to spend a semester abroad in Australia unless, of course, they like to swim, hike, shear sheep or just be as far away from home as possible. Nor does the attitude at the home universities and colleges of these students offer any insight into this trend. These institutions are often equally complicit in this ironically insular approach to study abroad by demanding little if anything in the way of language skills outbound and no demonstrations of proficiency inbound.

Most student travelers invariably spend their time exclusively in the company of fellow countrymen, living as far apart from the natives as possible. The idea of living with a local family seems so repugnant to them one would think that such circumstances might obligate them to wash the dishes or clean up their rooms. Given they don’t do that at home, one could hardly expect such behavior abroad. Nevertheless, living alone or in an apartment with three or four fellow Americans is the default arrangement.

Contact with the domestic population normally consists of ordering meals or bartering with shop keepers. The students feel no compulsion to learn the names of political leaders and even less to know which party currently controls the government. Friendships with their foreign counterparts is eschewed in all but rare cases. Classes are usually taken separately and, when taught by native instructors, are more often than not conducted in English.

This nearly absolute disconnect does not extend to keeping in touch with friends and family on the home front, however. Many students insist on renting cell phones for the entire semester and using them far more liberally than they do at home. In this regard they definitely go native as cell phone usage in, say, Italy or Spain is far more widespread and intrusive than in the United States.

In the end, many American students return to their native shores far less newly-minted members of the global village than earlier generations. They, and we, are poorer for it.

No Exit

2005-08-19T14:36:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I was summoned for jury duty. Like most people, my immediate reaction was to wonder how I might be excused, but my wife, an attorney, convinced me this was highly unlikely. “What if I told the court I consider anyone charged with a crime to be guilty a priori?” I asked her. She just looked at me with disdain. “Ever hear of perjury?” she countered. “Well, won't they let me go when I explain I am a sole proprietor, the CEO and janitor of my company?” I pleaded. "They could care less," she assured me. I knew when I was licked so I returned the required form and awaited what I considered to be my own sentence.

Several weeks later I called the number listed on the summons to learn if my presence was still required. It was. I arrived at the courthouse on the appointed day still contemplating my escape. I was not alone. Nearly everyone with whom I spoke still hoped for a last minute reprieve. Not long after filling out a juror's questionnaire and settling in to what promised to be a long day spent largely avoiding a seat near any television set or incessant chatterers, I was part of a large group called for voir dire, the process of preliminary examination of prospective jurors. As we queued up at the elevator to go to the courtroom on the fifth floor, each of us was assigned a number corresponding to the number on our questionnaire.

When we arrived at the courtroom we were seated in the gallery at the rear according to our assigned numbers. It was a very large room at the end of which we could see the judge seated at the bench, presumably working on various court matters. Nearer to the gallery were the two sets of attorneys, defense and prosecution, seated at their respective tables along with the defendant, who was obviously at the defense table.

As the attorneys swiveled in their seats and eyed the potential jurors among the panelists, they referred often to the questionnaires corresponding to our seat numbers and scrutinized their authors for some telling signs of suitability, at least as they understood that term. Meanwhile, some mumbling was heard among my fellow citizens regarding excuses and exemptions. Even at this last stage some still held out hope.

At the beginning of the review, the group was asked if any among us had relatives who were members of the court, police department or other institutions related to the proceedings. A few people responded positively. They were asked a few more questions and upon further review one or two of them were excused. Despite the small number of our brethren who were freed, those of us remaining brightened at the prospect for dismissal, however dim.

Next, we were asked if anyone among us had been the victim of a violent crime. To my surprise, a much larger number than I would have anticipated replied they had. When queried further about the details, however, most who responded positively had in fact not been victims of "violent" crimes as it turned out, but of lesser ones. Neverthless, once again, one or two people clearly met the conditions and were excused. At that juncture the entire process took a sudden turn.

The judge, who up to this point had remained silent and seemingly uninterested in the proceedings, indicated he wished to address the panelists. He began by thanking us for reporting for jury duty. Continuing, he noted that some of us no doubt regarded our civic duty as a hardship and wished to be excused from further service. While he might be sympathetic under certain circumstances, he allowed, these would have to be very extenuating indeed.

And with that he raised his arm, which heretofore had been covered by his ample robes. It was a prosthesis, plain and simple for all to see, a somewhat pale plastic hand, rigid and lifeless, protruding from his sleeve. The judge continued. As a youth he had been involved in an accident and lost his arm. From that day on he was determined to lead a normal life and did. He never shied away from joining his friends to play ball, regarding his loss as an inconvenience, not a hardship. Now, he merely wanted to offer this illustration to the group assembled before him so that they might know how he understood the distinction.

The room fell silent. No one stirred. Many of the potential jurors simply looked down at their feet, which they shifted nervously. From that point on, no further exemptions were sought nor granted.

As it turned out I wasn’t chosen for that jury or any succeeding ones that day. As I left the courthouse I was satisfied to have served one day or one trial. And I departed certain of one thing: the next time a summons arrived I wasn’t going to hesitate a single moment before sending it back.

A Star is Born

2005-05-16T15:36:00.000-04:00

Some of you are aware our dogs Minnie and Sadie were adopted from Main Line Animal Rescue. As with most shelters today, MLAR often photographs its residents and displays their pictures on the web and in brochures hoping to encourage a speedy and successful adoption.

Sadie (and her brother) and Minnie (and her sister) were photographed in the Fall of 2003, shortly after their arrival in the United States from St. Croix, and their pictures were included in a then-current brochure.

Some time in May of 2005 I was driving to an appointment when I stopped at a red light behind a bus. I looked up and saw the atttached picture and my first thought was how cute the dogs were. Then my jaw must have dropped as I realized the picture was the one of Minnie (seen on the right) and her sister taken for the aforementioned brochure. But did I have a camera with me? Of course not.

When I returned to the office I immediately sent an email to Bill Smith, the director of MLAR. I have periodically sent Bill pictures of Sadie and Minnie as they have grown and thrived so he is quite used to receiving correspondence from me. He responded in a few minutes informing me "They're too damn cute! People are calling us crying that they want the little dogs on the bus. We have placed other puppies through the ads. The old bait and switch." (No one needs to tell me about Bill's ability to "sell". We went to MLAR with the intention of finding one dog and came home with two. "They'll bond with each other," Bill assured us, which turned out to be true but at the time I was more than a little skeptical.)

That night at dinner I repeated the entire story to my wife and told her I had already checked the bus schedules on line, knew the route in question and would go out the next morning and photograph the bus. "Let's go now," she said, adding, "We need to get out more at night during the week." I didn't disagree though this sort of expedition wasn't what I had in mind. Nevertheless, we hopped in the car and literally started chasing buses around the neighborhood. Up Montgomery Avenue. Down Lancaster. We saw all manner of buses (short and long) most of which have ads on the back for a local radio station. They have more money than MLAR, we surmised.

By the time we had been out driving for about 20 minutes it occurred to me we weren't that far from the terminal from which the bus in quesion would originate. So, we drove to the 69th St. Terminal, all the while laughing and agreeing we were slightly nuts. Now, as a trained photographer I mentioned several times to my wife that ideally we needed a bus heading East because the sun will be behind it. All of the routes we had followed up to that point were E-W roads but most of the buses we found were heading West, directly into the sun. Not ideal for pictures, I warned her.

We arrived at the terminal and noticed all of the buses faced West. Not good, I said. And, of course, they all had ads for that damn radio station. But, one lone bus did have "our" ad. My wife was thrilled. I parked, jumped out of the car camera in hand and ran toward the bus. It was idling. No driver. Facing due West with the sun looking right down my lens. There was no hope of turning the bus around (bad enough I was taking pictures of the back of an empty bus let alone jumping into the driver's seat and turning it around in a one-way space). So I used the broad back of the bus to shield the sun and took the attached picture. Pleased with ourselves, we headed home. The next morning I downloaded the image and made a few adjustments in PhotoShop.

Thus far we haven't heard from the subject herself regarding a possible raise in biscuits. Since that day, however, we have taken to referring to Minnie as that star of stage and bus.

Vice President for Shipping & Receiving

2004-08-25T14:53:00.000-04:00

The home office revolution has long since been consolidated and the virtues and liabilities of working full time in one’s residence have been well documented with stories of child care, carpooling and scheduling home repair and maintenance. Little, however, has been written about the role pets play in this scenario.

One year ago today I had to put my vice president for shipping and receiving to sleep. That day was and remains the saddest of my life. When Ginger came into my life nearly thirteen years ago I had already been working at home for eleven years. Shortly before her arrival we had just put down Benjamin, our dachshund. Piggy, our cat, remained. I did not want another dog but my wife and step-daughter were determined to replace Benjamin. I reluctantly agreed. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

Ginger was approximately one year old when she arrived at our home and my place of business. Though already housebroken and crate-trained, she was moving into very different surroundings from those to which she was accustomed and I was apprehensive about the responsibilities. Her first home had been in South Philadelphia, a neighborhood of row houses on narrow, thickly settled streets, minimal grass or trees and lots of concrete. Now, she would be living in suburban Wynnewood, far more sylvan surroundings, with a cat and three other strangers.

While my wife and step-daughter were out of the house each day at work and school respectively not only was I left in charge of the marketing, estimating and billing for my business, I also had to feed the animals, walk Ginger and generally pay attention to both animals' needs. Piggy, being an independent feline, did not require much of me; Ginger, on the other hand, demanded a great deal and in the process became my constant companion. She slept in the office, played with her bone in the office and looked forward to the arrivals of the Fed-X, UPS and other delivery people who quickly learned that the best way to address her enthusiastic greetings was with a biscuit in hand.

Soon she even had the mailman trained. Not only had she learned to recognize the sound of his truck and the distinct noise the mailbox made when he opened and closed it, she also recognized Tony if by chance we ran into him during our midday walk. She would see him as much as a block away and pull me towards him. Normally, Ginger walked without tugging on the leash, but the sight of Tony and the promise of a biscuit were more than she could bear patiently.

The entire day was punctuated with Ginger’s needs and wants. They never were a bother; indeed, working alone at home, she was my constant comfort as well as company. More than once I would hang up the phone after a particularly frustrating conversation with a client and get down on the floor and rub Ginger’s nose or stroke her head. She would lick my hand and all would be right.

Ginger was a sheltie mix who weighed about thirty pounds. Very sweet and intelligent, she had only one fault. Whenever people arrived or departed, she barked at them, vigorously but without any malice, letting them know they were entering or leaving the herd. Once in the house she ignored company completely, but only after she had received a treat, either from them or from me. If a delivery person arrived while I was on the phone with a client, I usually hit the mute button and tried to silence her. My efforts were always futile. Finally, after years of realizing nothing would stem her loud and enthusiastic greetings, I abandoned the mute button. If my client on the other end of the phone inquired, “Is that a dog barking?”, I would reply, “No, that’s the vice president for shipping and receiving.”