Old Posting Page

I can still remember learning to use both the Subject AND the Your Name boxes for longer subject lines. One needed to start the sentence in the lower box, and finish it in the upper box. I also remember typing in my email address for the first ten or so posts. omg.

I'll label my response preliminary...

Subject: I'll label my response preliminary...
From: Geoff
Date: Mar 30 2004 4:53PM

to pre-empt the charge of undue haste...

I agree that the "smart/dumb" dichotomy has no place, because intellect has no correlation I've observed with wisdom. I'm not quite sure the "genius/fool(or idiot)" dichotomy goes out the window with it, if we use a more archaic sense of "genius."

My recollection of the Tempo "bang" debate was two people flinging their shit at me and asking me to figure out which one had just eaten roses. I think I've once mentioned that back then I placed far greater emphasis on demonstrated malice then than I do today, and as the obviously more empathic of the two, I faulted you for knowing better than to engage in such behavior. Of course, enough time spent wading in the cesspool and such early judgments seem ludicrous.

Tempo seemed an exclusively social poster who was censorious and malicious, but she demonstrates such a colossal lack of introspection, I had no idea how one could even ask her to improve her behavior. I do still very much believe in human autonomy, and I don't believe that Tempo, however venal she may be, is yet incapable of self-recognition and thence improved behavior. I wouldn't put any money down on the proposition, but it seemed and still seems possible. If I've decisively washed my hands of her, it's because I've realized that there's a danger in her pathology that I am foolishe to involve myself with and helpless to protect others from. Tempo is a parasite. She extracts sensitive biographical information from posters then deploys it online to destroy them when they cross her. There's nothing I can do about that. As for whether I ever "ran with the pack," I can't say I feel I ever did.

Intellect and empathy are both traits, both of which can be used creatively or destructively, upon ourselves and upon others. You seem to possess a good deal of both, but I have yet to see you wield either in a manner that I'd find admirable. I feel your frustration, but too often it seems you choose your targets based upon their obvious insecurities rather than their redressable failings. Most of us have a scabrous sense of self-regard, and you can demand that others pick at it and cause them pain, or you can insist that they clothe themselves with habits of civility which, if nothing else, are designed to mitigate the social cost of our human shortcomings.

Humans are innately as they are. Haut or Tempo aren't going to change. But even if Haut remains a pompous idiot, there's no harm in encouraging him not to act as one. Even if Tempo is an evil bitch there's no harm in encouraging her not to act as one. If scorn and derision are the only tools at hand, then I'm not afraid to use them. Either my vision is flawed, or it is solitary, and they can write me off as the lonely voice of delusion, or it is not, and the chorus of calumny that they face should at least inspire them to conceal their shortcomings, which is as good as destroying them... The only way I change my behavior is from learning I'm thought an asshole (or whatever else), so I call others assholes when their behavior needs changing. I'm one brick in the wall, if you will. But picking apart GodOfWine's sense of masculinity or slamming Laurie the way you did... or callously echoing REW_OEM's words... I couldn't find much to justify such behaviors... they weren't criticisms of any specific behavior, they weren't criticisms which, if conceded, would have any salutary benefits for their objects. The alternative to our innate shortcomings is non-existence. All we can control is our behavior.

Our actions in this forum aren't much. Sure, the social dynamic that develops here is as valid as any other society. Sure, we can't hold ourselves to standards higher than our natures can bear. But if you elicit consistent criticism for your wanton cruelty it is because you appear wantonly cruel. Interestingly, you bring it into the sphere of autonomy when you say:

In fact, I suspect you could tell the people of Hauteur's universe what they wanted to hear better than Hauteur ever could if you put your mind to it.

What if we DO live in his universe? What is the relation between what we feel we could do and what we choose to do? If we choose NOT to do something and follow up on that choice, what profit is left in the awareness of that former distinction between our capacity and our intent?

I dunno. Consistency of vision and consistency of action probably aren't my forte. What was it? "Mostly manic?"

http://fray.slate.com/?id=3936&m=10358384

that's right. he wasn't the freditor when he wrote this...

Help Me To Help You To Help Me To Help You...

Subject: Help Me To Help You To Help Me To Help You...
From: Ender
Date: Mar 4 2004 4:00PM

1. What is your most heretical heresy?

Or, to put it another way (since heresy evokes religion and I don't want the question to be limited to the theological), your most unpopular or contrary opinion/belief?

**
2. Self Diagnosis: We all have our quirks. Yours are symptomatic of what psychological disorder?

**
3. Mainly for those of you with higher education, but everyone can play. In all your experiences, what one question has intrigued you the most? To put it another way—if you were to devote the rest of your life to the pursuit of finding the answer to one question, what question would you choose?

**
4. Link to an old post of yours that you would like everyone to read.

(a href="www.com")link(/a)

**
5. Your Turn: The fray can get boring. From your answers to the above questions, I hope to get a better idea of who you are, what makes you tick, and perhaps most importantly, be introduced to some interesting ideas and concepts that will spark my imagination. With those goals in mind, conclude your response to my questions with a question for the audience of your own design.

---

The parentheses in Ender's "link" are mine. Blogger kept converting the brackets, so I made a substitution.

TammyFaye, Professor

Ender Tires

Kevin Arnovitz

Sufi-Warrior SpyPoet

Misty Water-coloured Memories...

http://fray.slate.msn.com/?id=3936&m=7202691

Lyle

Subject: Lyle
From: MichaelRyerson
Date: Jun 13 2003 11:55AM

A captain approached me on the parade ground, 'Sergeant Ryerson?' 'Yessir.' "Your father is on the phone, you can take it in my office.' Having only been back from Vietnam a month, I was surprised my Dad would know how to find me on base. Two young secretaries nodded and smiled at me as I walked through to the captain's office. 'I'll pull this shut for you,' he said and I glanced over my shoulder as he closed me in. I picked up the receiver and heard my Dad's voice, 'Can you take a day or two off?' A persistent morning cough had grown to include most of the day. A long avoided visit to the doctor had resulted in a biopsy. He wanted me to come up and go with him to the doctor's office to discuss the biopsy. The captain had the paperwork done when I opened the door. I drove up that evening.

It was eighty-five and a half miles from my barracks at Camp Pendleton to my father's driveway. Eighty-five miles to think, eighty-five miles to let my mind wander over the years, eighty-five miles to fight the traffic, to cross the distance between what we wish and what we have.

My father was a grocer. He was the least affected man I've ever known. He went to work six days a week, fifty weeks a year for my whole life. He wore dress slacks, white socks and comfortable shoes. His short-sleeved white dress shirt carried a ballpoint pen or two and a pack of Camel cigarettes. Two fingers on his left hand were stained yellow.

You have to understand, when I was a young boy, it was a different world. If you dressed like a thug, you were a thug. Pool halls and bowling alleys were off limits to good girls. The growl of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle meant one of two things, either the police were nearby or you wished they were and the only men who wore earrings were pimps who came out after dark and never left downtown. Tattoos were worn with some story of drunkenness or debauchery or both. If you were a don't-give-a-shit kind of guy, you got your tattoo where a shirt couldn't cover it up and you probably dated a girl you met in a pool hall or a bowling alley. You couldn't buy pre-faded Levis and a guy riding a Harley didn't have a crease ironed into his jeans. Everybody smoked or nearly everybody did and because 'everybody' was a smoker, 'everybody' thought it 'looked' cool and only the ladies smoked the filtered kind. If you were a 'Ford man', when you made a little more money, maybe got a promotion, you moved up to a Mercury. If you were a 'Chevy man' and you found a little success you drove a Pontiac or an Oldsmobile. If the Ford guy got really lucky, a couple of promotions or his business took off, he ended up in a Lincoln. The Chevy guy was, of course shooting for a Cadillac. Morticians and bankers usually drove Buicks. If you were thirsty, you drank directly from a faucet or a garden hose. If you had a bottle with you, it certainly wasn't water and it probably sipped nicely into your hip pocket. Men's shoes had shoelaces. Pigs were farm animals and if you called a policeman, a 'cop', you probably knew how to play eight ball. If it got too hot in your house, you turned on a fan and if it got too hot in your car, you unrolled a window. You learned how to add up a long column of numbers and if the room was quiet, you could do long division, sometimes. The nightly news lasted fifteen minutes, that's all the news, including one minute for weather and three minutes for sports and the same guy did the whole thing. Banks were open from 10 am to 3 pm, four o'clock on Fridays. Mail was delivered twice a day, five days a week, once on Saturdays. If you wanted to talk to your relatives, you wrote a letter. If you got a long-distance phone call it was bad news. Last thing at night, your mom would put out the empty milk bottles with a little note and the next morning she'd bring in fresh milk, orange juice and eggs, if you needed them. Mid morning, the Helms man would blow his harmonic whistle and you could go out, into his truck and buy fresh bread and donuts. When you bought gasoline, guy in a white uniform would come out and start the pump and wash your windshield. He'd always ask if you wanted him to check your water and oil and he'd lean back and eyeball your tires to see if they needed some air. If you wanted to pump your own gas, it was okay, he'd come out anyway and do your windshield and the rest or he'd just stand there with you and shoot the breeze. If your hair touched your collar, you were down on your luck. Cup of coffee's a nickel and every time you got it cooled down a bit, girl comes by and fills it back up. Bowl of soup's a dime, soda crackers are free, chili 15 cents, soda crackers are still free, pork chops with corn, mashed potatoes and applesauce maybe 45 and you could find a steak dinner for 95 cents easy. Sold a lot of chili. When your car was caught at a railroad crossing gate, you would bet your little brother how many boxcars would pass before you'd see some men standing in a dark doorway, sneaking a ride. Sometimes he'd win, sometimes you'd win but you never saw a freight train without seeing those men sitting or standing in the doorways of the boxcars.

My father had served in the Navy during the war, his baseball days over because of a bad shoulder, which he had hidden from the Navy recruiter. My mother worked at Lockheed Aircraft Company installing radios in bombers. When I was born, my parents were poor. Not poverty stricken but not middle-class either. Not even lower middle-class. I think the fashionable term now would be working poor.

We lived in an apartment one block below Sunset Boulevard about a mile west of downtown Los Angeles. The Alfred Lee Apartments, a brick building, maybe six stories, on Descanso Drive. My father worked days at the Owl-Rexall Drug Store and at night, he drove a yellow taxicab. My mother kept house.

I didn't know we were poor. I don't think such a thing would have occurred to me. We were happy, I think, never missed a meal that I can remember and usually had money for an ice cream cone at the park where we walked on Sundays. But we also ate potato soup for dinner at least once a week or my mother would crush saltine crackers into a can of salmon and make patties.

At breakfast, my Dad would sleep as long as possible and come to the table at the last minute, but he would still have stories about driving the taxi the night before and then he'd leave for the drug store. When he would come home for dinner, before he had to go to the taxi barn on 3rd Street, he would stand in the doorway of the kitchen and tell my mother stories about his day, who he'd met, funny things that had happened at work.

One morning, he talked about driving a man all the way out to the airport in Inglewood. How this man had talked about going into business and how he was on the lookout for a smart young guy and maybe my Dad was that guy. Well, my Dad was easy to talk to and he was always hearing about some big scheme or another, so he didn't think too much about this guy. But when this guy left on his plane, he told my Dad he'd call him when he got back from San Francisco and about two weeks later, he did.

My parents were surprised. This man came to our apartment for dinner. We had spaghetti. He seemed nice and had lots of ideas and talked a lot. The next Sunday, he picked my Dad up in his car, a Ford station wagon, and they went looking for a building. It took two weeks but they finally found a building they thought would work. They opened a grocery store and my father learned the grocery business.

He kept driving that taxi every night. A year later, my brother was born and we moved into a duplex on Monroe Street near Wilton Place. My uncle Bob, who had been in the Army in North Africa, bought one side of the duplex and we bought the other. My dad quit the cab company.

In these days, we would sometimes walk up to the little diner on Santa Monica Boulevard, across from Sears Roebuck, and have dinner. My favorite times were when we'd sit at the counter and watch the cook fix our dinner right there in front of us. Once when my Dad paid the bill at the cash register, he gave the waitress too much money and she tried to give some back to him. But he just smiled and nodded down the counter toward some old guy who was eating alone and she smiled right back at him and said okay. This old guy had a bundle of rags tied with a belt sitting under his stool and I asked if we could stay around and watch him when he found out he'd gotten a free dinner but my Dad said no, it wasn't any of our business. When I asked him why it wasn't any of our business, my Dad sort of laughed and said it just wasn't. I had to think about that for a long time. I had to think about dignity and charity and why we do things.

I came back from Vietnam a hard man. Not a tough man but hard, able to hear bad news, to focus on probabilities and avoid panic. I had seen death and dying and learned not to let them in. It is a crude, necessary art. It is a dehumanizing art.

The doctor's office was on the ground floor of a nondescript hospital squatting behind an acre of broken asphalt, a hard afternoon sun glinting off of glass and steel. The interior hallway was dark and cold. My father said I'm glad you're home and I said I was too. The door was solid and heavy and closed silently on a stainless steel return. We sat down, the doctor took a breath, I saw it coming.

'Six months' he said. It hung in the air on hooks of disbelief. My mind raced, looking for another meaning in those familiar words. "Six months, I'm sorry.' He said some other things but mostly I heard, 'Six months.' And, oh yeah, he said, 'Maybe.' I didn't blink. I felt my father look at me and I know I looked focused, calm even, and in control. I asked one or two surprisingly intelligent questions. I didn't listen to the answers. I felt my stomach opening up, hot blood pouring across my knees onto the floor. I didn't flinch.

On the ride home, he said, 'This is going to be hard.' I glanced at him and he said, 'No one's to know. This is just between us, you and me.' I don't remember the rest of the drive.

We spent the next two months in a sea of casual excuses as to why we'd dropped in on rarely visited friends. As his body weight dropped, he went through a cruel moment when he was the picture of health. People would comment on how well he looked, that he was taking care of himself and how they wished they could lose some weight. He'd just laugh and say to watch what you eat. Until, finally one Sunday morning, I came by to pick him up and he said, not this morning. His shirt seemed too big. He was looking drawn. He was becoming less sure of himself. We'll stay home today, he said. We didn't go visiting again.

I remember one time, when I was a kid, on our way home from my grandfather's house, my Dad picked up a hitchhiker, an older guy with gray hair curling down over his collar, carrying a bundle tied with some rope. When he got in the back seat with us kids, I noticed his collar was frayed and stained and he sat on the edge of the seat, like he didn't want to get the car dirty. My mother got real quiet and just sort of looked out the side window. But my Dad and this guy talked about traveling and the weather and work. Seems like they'd been a lot of the same places. Anyway, it was kind of late at night but we went out of our way to drop him off down by Union Station and the Terminal Annex building. At night, there wasn't much of anything going on in that part of town, just the stockyards and the railroad switching yards. So he gets out of the car and says goodbye to us kids and my mom. And my Dad gets out too and they talk for a minute or two off to the side of the road and I see my Dad give him some money, maybe a couple of dollars. As we drove away, I watched him out the back window until he went down the slope toward the stockyards. I asked my Dad if he was a bum and my Dad said no, just a guy down on his luck.

In his last days, my father would sit in his room and gaze out into the backyard. I would sit near him and sometimes hold his hand. His favorite thing was when our two adult cats would chase each other and tumble, wrestling on the lawn. They were littermates and although they were fully-grown they apparently took great pleasure in stalking each other and would spend several minutes each afternoon, rolling and tumbling on the grass. He loved watching.

I sometimes think about the last time we do things. You know, sometimes you don't know it's going to be the last time and you don't pay attention and later you're sorry and wish you'd known you weren't going to be in that place again or see that person again and, if you'd known, you'd have paid real close attention and gotten every bit out of that last time. I wonder when the last time was we played baseball barefoot on a summer day and didn't know it was going to be the last time, or the last time I saw Mr. Ankrum walking to work at the studios. I wish I could remember the last time I heard my mother and father laughing together. I wish I'd told Ed he reminded me of my grandfather. They sold the grocery store. Strangers run it now. I wish I could remember the last time I sat on the counter with my Dad, drinking a cold soda. That's the way it is with last times, they happen and you don't know it and you just go on until, one day, you look back and they're hard to remember.

We buried my father on a Tuesday. The cortege stretched out two miles. He was just a grocer.

Rightwing Nuttery is Not Harmless

Seductotron Likes to Talk Dirty

my virility furtively undulates

your orifice satisfies dirty kimchi

JD Connor

The Red Chair

Subject: The Red Chair
From: MichaelRyerson-3
Date: Jun 14 2002 7:54AM

My grandfather was a Methodist minister for nearly sixty years. He was a tall, thin, handsome man with a shock of white hair and a quiet bearing which seemed to put people at ease. He had an uncanny ability to remember names and stories and every year sent out nearly five hundred Christmas cards, each with a brief handwritten note sharing some special memory or specific event. I grew up convinced I was his favorite grandson. Later, I found out nearly all of my cousins and my own little brother, felt the same way. When he died, seven of his sons, including my father, gathered at a memorial service in southern California. Three of my uncles delivered eulogies, the Philadelphia Street pastor spoke briefly and then we filed by the open casket. I clearly remember his hands, quiet finally but tanned and strong. Following the service and a short cortege to the train station, he would go back home to Kansas. He would be reunited with his other boys. And with gentle Anna, one final time. They would lie side by side in the country of their youth, where they met, where he was ordained and where they had raised this huge, vibrant collection of sons.

After the service, my father gave me the keys to my grandfather's house. Each of the children was invited to stop by and find some small memento. Several of my cousins had already visited and I was encouraged to stop by in the afternoon. I could take someone with me or go alone but I was to pass the keys on to someone else when I was done. I watched the cars recede in the sharp afternoon sun. I had never seen my father cry.

I decided to go alone.

***********************

My grandfather's faith turned on two events. The first was a consequence of his premature birth in a 'Soddy' on the plains of eastern Kansas. The midwife was startled by his small size. The doctor arrived the next morning and gently observed that there was very little chance he would survive. His mother, my great-grandmother, sat quietly in a big, overstuffed red chair near a pot-bellied stove and sang softly to him and read her bible. She stroked his head and prayed. And prayed some more. After two days, the doctor could find no earthly reason why he had survived and again gave no hope for a successful infancy. She prayed some more. Her songs began to get a little response. She added a hymn or two. She read her bible aloud. She began to read Mary Baker Eddy. She prayed harder. His chest started to move a bit more. He began to sleep just a little more quietly. He cried out loud for the first time and the doctor admitted there was a chance. His eyes began to follow his mother's face. When she would leave for chore work, she would bundle him into that big, red chair and bank the stove with hardwood. He thrived. The family became Christian Scientists.

He grew up surrounded by women. His father died when he was two, so he was raised by his mother and his three older sisters.

The second event happened when he was fifteen. He found his mother face down in a corral with a broken hip. A mule had kicked her as she removed a harness at the end of the day. He managed to carry her into the house and turned to ride for a doctor when a deacon appeared in the doorway. No doctor would be fetched, they would kneel and pray and if her faith was strong enough, she would heal. It took three days for her to slip away. In his desolation, he searched for an answer, for a way to survive this despair. He found John Wesley and Methodism. He found his calling. He was ordained in 1903.

He started out as a circuit rider in eastern Kansas, ministering to eight or nine small towns throughout the week. He rode a horse and camped out along the way. He shot rabbits and cooked over an open fire. He took meals with church families. He spoke in barns and town halls. He performed weddings and baptisms and delivered the Word at funerals. He was regularly paid in ears of corn, live chickens or salted pork. Sometimes, he was paid with a handshake and a 'thank you.' He preached in the open air of camp meetings and in the sweltering heat of the Chautauqua tents. It was a solitary life but not a lonely one. He viewed the Bible as an inexhaustible mine from which riches could be trusted to appear. He found lessons in the people he met, in the books he read and in the life he had chosen. He once lost his way in a blizzard and took shelter in a barn. The next morning he awoke to find three men saddling horses in the barn to go out and look for the preacher. Smiling sheepishly, he stood up and everybody laughed! It became the subject of his sermon. His voice was rich and deep. He learned to use it to be heard over the prairie wind and to keep his parishioners awake. He found his way over narrow trails in failing light and then, as he liked to say, when the good Lord decided he was ready, he found Anna.

They had eleven boys. My father was number six. As the boys approached adolescence, their father would give each a bible quotation by chapter and verse. It might appear as early as ten or eleven or as late as fifteen or sixteen. Each one was unique. Sometimes it would be included on a birthday card, other times it might be discovered written in the margin of their bible. Peter found his on the top of his birthday cake. When my father was fourteen, as he sat fidgeting in the family pew during Sunday services, he began thumbing through his bible. He found his father's handwriting in the margin about halfway back, it said, 'Lyle, James 1:4'. Quickly, he turned to James and found the fourth verse of the first chapter. It read, 'Let patience have its perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing.' He looked up and found his father looking down from the pulpit directly at him and smiling.

When the Dustbowl and the Depression fractured the Midwest and the Second World War separated loved ones, much of the family was drawn down Route 66 to Southern California. Topeka, Parsons and Emporia gave way to Claremont, Pomona and Los Angeles. Muscular railroad towns and dusty farm roads gave way to long ribbons of concrete and asphalt and to sleepy suburbs. Dry Kansas wheat for California orange blossoms.

My grandfather's address was 246 Green Street. When I first learned it, I delighted in it, the obvious progression of twos speaking to a four-year old's desire for order in the world. The house was a study in modesty. A small, white stucco and wood box, plain, unadorned, and unpretentious. It sat on a quiet street facing a large, fallow field in which a dilapidated barn stood leaning amid the fireweed and alphalfa. On the northern edge of that field, hidden behind the unharvested and neglected crops ran the rails of the Southern Pacific. Twice a day, once in the early morning and once in the late afternoon, the Super Chief would thunder by, a great, primordial silver snake, right to left in the morning, arriving from Chicago to deposit folks at Union Station in Los Angeles and left to right in the evening, returning to the upper Midwest three days away. Now I didn't know these things, of course, only that when the far-off horn moaned its warning, I could run and stand in the bay window and watch as this wonder flashed by on its mysterious business. Sometimes my grandmother, sweet and quiet, would come and stand with her hand on my shoulder and watch with me. I know now, that she'd seen this train a thousand times but with me in her bay window, she would enjoy it as though it had never happened before. 'Quicksilver' she would sometimes murmur and give me a hug.

When I was four or five, I went through my 'whirling-dervish' stage. I seemed to touch everything or worse, put everything in my mouth. I would 'taste' anything within reach and tried to use chairs or kitchen stools to extend my reach. I was noisy and singularly disagreeable. My younger brother, of course, always needed an afternoon nap so one Sunday, late in the day I went for a walk with my father and grandfather. Walking between them, I reached up on each side and held their hands. Every few steps I could pull up and lift my feet and swing. We walked slowly down to the corner and back to the front of the house but instead of turning right into the yard, we swung left and crossed the street and entered the edge of the field! This was great! I was never allowed across the street and certainly never into the field. We walked slowly up the dirt road toward the old barn. We passed an old, crooked handled water pump. We stopped and inspected some old chicken coops, which had fallen in the weeds. I picked up some rocks and gave them a fling. In the evening shadows, I found a bottle cap and two empty shells from a .22. I pushed them deep into my pocket and hurried to catch up with my Dad.

We emerged from the field on the edge of the right-of-way. I looked up at my grandfather, he was staring intently toward the eucalyptus and ridgeline shadows, "Not yet", he said. In the dusky twilight the rails shone silver gray running into the shadows of the foothills. "Go and listen to the tracks," my father said and I scrambled up the low bank of the gravel roadbed and bent down, placing my ear against the near rail. The steel was warm and dry. I could hear nothing. I raised my head but my father called out, "No Mick, try it again." I leaned back down and this time there was a slight rumble, I giggled and lifted my head and then listened again, more rumble, deeper. I scrambled down and ran to stand between them, my heart racing.

Far off, a white shaft of light swept across the tracks and swept across again. Loud bells began clanging in panic at the grade crossings. And then came the warning as a breathless, plaintive horn sounded once, twice, three times! A great silver and red Cyclops stood menacing against the twilight! It rose up as on clawed feet unseen and rushed forward, closing the distance with breathtaking speed! I started to pull back but my father bent low, his face close to my ear, 'Stand still, Mick, I have you.' I stood transfixed, my feet rooted, my eyes unblinking! I felt my grandfather's hand close tightly over mine. And in a flash it was on us, the air pocket hitting us at eighty miles an hour! The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up! My heart tried to jump out through my chest! A wall of bright silver ribs thundering by, punctuated with the quaking earth! And then as quickly as it had come, it was gone, the boat tail observation car receding with the startling view of a man in a business suit calmly reading a newspaper in the warm yellow light, getting smaller. I swallowed hard, blinked once and shivered. I felt an immediate sense of being included in something special, something not for little kids. We walked back through the field but this time I stayed right between my father and my grandfather. Somehow, I didn't want to run around.

***********************

Indian Hill Boulevard runs up from the dusty flatlands through boulder-strewn empty riverbeds toward the rocky foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. This landscape is a glacial remnant tending toward coarse sand, scrub oak and sagebrush. The porous soil supports orchards and grape growers but defies most grasses. I unrolled the windows and let the dry afternoon breeze fill the car.

I had come up this road hundreds of times. I watched for the big irrigation well on the left and then counted two more blocks and turned right onto Green Street. Some new houses had been built on part of the field and the old barn had finally fallen down. Far down the street, a stray dog was trotting in the gutter, head down, sniffing for something or someone familiar. I pulled over and coasted up to the curb at number 246. I sat for a moment. The shades were drawn. I marveled at the lack of decoration. Not a scallop nor a curly cue nor the silhouette of a rooster.

Gladiolas, calla lilies and iris near the house, roses on the right, a white concrete walkway dividing a closely trimmed lawn. Dining room windows on the left, bay window on the right. On the left edge of the lawn, a narrow strip of bare earth hosted a row of short wooden stakes upon which small seed envelopes had been stapled, each package indicating what might be expected in that part of the garden. I decided to walk up the right side and admire the chest-high roses. As always, they were magnificent. Reds, pinks and whites but mostly yellow, my grandmother's favorite and although she had been gone many years, the yellow still dominated the garden. I heard a squeak and a screen door slam and looked up to find the neighbor lady coming across her lawn in her Sunday clothes. I took a deep breath. I'm not well suited for these things. We exchanged greetings and she shared her sorrow and expressed her condolences, I smiled and nodded. She wondered about the roses and I assured her that she would be welcome to take a bouquet now and then. My grandfather liked them in the garden but he liked them better in the house. They should be enjoyed. There was an awkward moment. With the roses between us, I felt I was safe but she clearly wanted to hug me. She smiled as she wrestled with this problem and I took the opportunity to say goodbye and retreated toward the house. Behind me, I heard her screen door close.

Near the house, just to the right of the walkway, someone had left a floral wreath on the lawn and several small bouquets. Two yellow rosebuds were draped on the mailbox. On the porch, leaning against the screen door, a child's doll sat with an envelope pinned to her dress. I picked her up and unlocked the door.

**********************

When I stepped into the dim interior, I immediately looked for Buddy. His 'favorite' place was under the lamp table, opposite the door, his cold amber eyes locked on the door and on any stranger who might dare to enter. But under the table only a deep impression in the carpet remained. For a moment, I worried that he had left with someone else but then I turned and saw him staring from the dining room table! He made me smile. I stepped through the archway and lifted him up. I was always surprised at how heavy he was. He had been carved out of solid hardwood and with his dark glass eyes, was the closest a little kid was going to get to a toy in this house. I put him back under the lamp table, where he belonged. I straightened up and turned on the light.

Next to the lamp table, behind the sofa is a long, narrow table displaying eleven small pictures, nine in wooden frames and two in silver. Rosewood, oak, ash and simple pine, I reached out and picked up the one in oak. A lanky, young man in a baggy baseball uniform, my father. I thought about him in that black car with his brothers. I replaced the picture and bent down. Career military, teachers, athletes, tradesmen, a doctor, one silver frame holding the picture of an child lost to a disease long since defeated, another holding a young man lost at twenty-one to an accident. Tears and laughter, a typical family.

It was getting late in the day. I wanted the house to be bright this one last evening, so I began turning on the lights. I flipped on the porch light and the lamp on my grandfather's desk. I went into the dining room. My grandmother had a specific way she liked the shades. So I reached over the side chairs and lifted the front blinds about six inches, exposing the first wooden slat in the window. I turned on the little chandelier over the table. I played with the switches in the service porch until the outside light over the garage door went on. I walked back through the house and stepped out onto the front porch. I could smell the pepper tree and the night blooming jasmine. I crossed the street and started up the dirt road, raising a talcum-fine cloud of dust. Three generations of men in my family have set their time by the railroad. I glanced down at my watch.

Near the tracks, I looked for a familiar place to stand. The roadbed seemed lower now, not so imposing. In the distance, I could hear the grade crossings starting to ring their bells. A bright white light swept across the tracks and I took a deep breath. I thought about the anticipation of a five year old standing here, of how big my grandfather's hand had seemed and how strong. Of hiding behind my father's thigh and wishing I were brave. The engine rose up bigger and bigger, the air horn and the thundering wheels and the bells ringing. I looked up and could see the engineer smiling and then the windows with people reading or eating or sleeping. The ground shook, the wind blowing my hair back, my eyes watering. And in the observation car, a small group of men in dark suits leaned and looked out the side windows across the field toward my grandfather's house and then the man with the red hair stepped back and looked out the rear window directly at me and raised his hand. I slowly raised my hand and he got smaller and smaller as the train pulled him inexorably away. They would be in Kansas tomorrow afternoon.

I walked back through the field, the little dirt road hard to see in the gathering darkness. The house sat like a bright jewel in the twilight. It was easy to hear the voices and the giggling children.

After I had turned off the lights and locked the door, I sat for a long time in my car. I thought about Buddy sitting faithfully in the dark, glaring at the door, about the wax banana with the child's teeth marks in the bowl by the table. And I thought about that old, red chair sitting in the bay window. I hadn't taken anything.

But as I drove away, I knew I had taken it all.

***********************

Six years later, we lost my father to lung cancer. He was 53.
michaelryerson, michael ryerson

Lots and Lots

Subject: Lots and Lots
From: Raindog
Date: Dec 10 2001 9:38 AM

My hard evidence that Bush is an idiot follows thusly:
Frequently shows an inability to answer question asked - (i.e. answering "How do I protect myself?" w/ "We must root out terror")

Shaky mastery of language - who doesn't know the word subliminal? Regular misuse of common vocab words which reflects 1) ignorance of actual meaning of word and 2) ignorance of own ignorance about word

Job Performance in Crisis - Why ask if our pilot's crew in China has access to exercise and bibles? Mulitple versions of 9/11 response (did he see it on tv, hear it from Condi in phone or have it whispered to him in his remedial class?)leave his "leadership" in question, as well as his role in his own administration.

Thin Resume - Comes from a wealthy family that provided every imaginable opportunity - has no youthful accomplishments to show for it. not an Eagle Scout, didn't complete reserve duty, dogged by rumors of drug use and has admitted alcohol problems, shaky degree, failed oil reign (lucky there was no SEC investigation on THAT one), parent's friend's money to buy into a ball team (and trade Sosa). FAilure after failure after failure makes a failure.

Strentgth of Judgement - Had no problems pulling the switch on a shitload of executions - kids, retards, women - all get the lever- to heck w/ 'em, optional environmental policies and a surplus ending budget in 2 incomplete terms as TX Guv.

Vision of Job - Bush spends all this energy telling all of us how we feel - full of quiet, unyeilding anger, believe in the righteousness of our task, support the war on terror - and what we should be doing - mailing dollars to him at the white house, ignoring terrorist threats, staying on high alert - while his VP goes duck hunting, he gives away the farm to Russia, Spain snubs our courts, Saudi's enjoy unrivaled friendship (screw Isreal, Saudi Arabia's the barn burner) and corporations receive bailouts instead of workers.

Level of Hypocricy - Says is a Methodist, but that church disagrees with his stance on abortion, death penalty, affirmative action, gay rights and welfare policy (OUCH! how does he do it??). Own girlfriend had abortion in 70's. The most important thing in life: daughters, so important that he sobered up just as they were turning 6, so he could be a good father.

And I can come up with more if you like. This is just the surface of Bush's many, many weaknesses

Found in the P-Fray Attic

Subject: To Loree
From: Jack Dallas
Date: Dec 9 2001 12:34 PM

To Loree:
Viet Nam was not a noble cause. it was an imperialistic war and Americans are not imperialists (Nation building is best left to the British). The Viet Nam war was fought for the Dow Jones Industrial Average. It's not that we were on the "wrong" side, it's just that there was no "right" side. After the French were defeated in 1954, Ho Chi Minh actually thought America would take his side because of his perception that the Vietnamese were simply expelling a European power from their soil just as we had expelled the British.
My feeling is that if we are going to assist a country in blowing itself up then we should start the rebuilding by forcing the new government to adopt the U.S Bill of Rights and ensure that their people are afforded those liberties.
Anyway, I'm drifting off into politics again and I didn't want to do that. I am sure that you are shocked that a right wing, Conservative (did I spell it right this time?) republican could write an anti-war poem.
Jack

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Subject: Less politics, please, folks...
From: "22"
Date: Dec 10 2001 1:52 PM

Hi Jack,

I see that you've read my other post to you in the "Freedom" thread btw'n you and Denny. "Bien."

Please observe from now ON, ok? Today's Papers or others are best for that stuff.

We've had SO MUCH STRIFE over here recently & are all now *just beginning to heal,* that the LAST thing we need here is ....

any more content that could work up nasty disagreements... (esp'y when they are NOT about the poems or contents thereof...)

Thanks for understanding, as I know you do :-)

Cordially,

"C."

All for Diane.

What is wrong with the Fray, you ask, marylb?

Subject: What is wrong with the Fray, you ask, marylb?
From: Bluto
Date: Nov 29 2001 4:42 PM

Your thread was just too crowded for this repost (I was really, really hoping someone would give me an excuse):

The Two-Tier Fray! Why it fails...

...in its stated purpose as a guide for readers

Most regular Fraysters know the rationale behind the creation of the two-tier system of posting on the Fray, that it serves as a guide to the best posts and thus saves time for Slate readers looking for intellectual stimulation in the Fray byleading them to the most worthy posts available.

An outdated analog

One core problem with the current system of stars and checkmarks is that it is based on a static "Letters to the Editor" paradigm and ignores the dynamic new-media nature of Fray exchanges which cannot be captured by checking one post in a thread. Indeed, exchanges often rage on into subsequent threads, carrying over points won and points conceded from previous posts. Thus, the present two-tier system presents the casual reader with a landscape photograph of the Fray and misses the action/adventure motion picture going on beneath its placid surface.

Daunting newbies

Most regulars like to see new people with fresh points of view. How many remember their first post to the Fray? It takes a certain measure of courage to push the submit button for the first time. While lurking, it starts to look like everybody else knows each other; what will they think of your post? The two-tiered Fray adds a new level of anxiety for the would-be tyro poster - the risk of your post being weighed and found wanting (most new posters don't realize that not every post is read).

We alla same like-like here, pellah

The stars and checks discourage diversity and creativity. Posts that do not match the norm established by the Fray Editor will not be recognized. That means that all of the preferred posts match the taste of one person (even though I think Moira has excellent taste, I may not always share it). This has led to, among other things, the near absence of entertainingly whimsical posts, yet humor and whimsy are common on the Fray.

Diversity, creativity, and humor will draw readers to the Fray. A system which shuns them is not serving the purpose of drawing new readers, nor is it acting as an accurate guide for them.

The promotion of the mundane, and the dangers of smugness

Once a poster has satisfactorily petitioned and been granted a star, every subsequent post that person makes is considered an exemplary post. This has undesirable consequences. Outstanding posts can be (and very often are) completely overlooked while a star poster's offhand comment to a friend is preserved and promoted as a worthwhile post. This is certainly unjust, and counterproductive to the stated purpose of the two-tiered system; guiding readers to interesting posts.

The star poster is also subject to the chilling effect of having every post under increased scrutiny (and the concomitant danger of becoming smug). How many stars have had the learning experience of blandly rejecting a non-star's point, secure in the charisma of the star, only to find out that the nebbish they just dismissed is a first-rate intellect who figuratively pins their ears back in reply?

We fought a revolution over this, folks

The two-tier Fray has created a caste system, ruled by an admittedly benevolent despot, that is as alien to mainstream American thought as is the institution of The House of Lords. If our posts are the thought-children we send out with hope and pride, the star posts are the scions of the hereditary aristocracy, judged on lineage rather than merit.

As in any caste system, the peons' prosperity is tied to the performance of their Lord and Master. In the Ballot Box column, for months the articles posted were one- or two-liner "Bushisms". Now I'm not going to address the wisdom of paying somebody good money to phone in his "column" and promote his potboiler book based upon it here, but consider how the chances of the Ballot Box regulars to be recognized for superior posts were stunted by these "articles". A criterion for checkmarks is to post on-topic. How many on-topic posts can regulars make about a two-line quote (often as not, misquote)?

So, Bluto, you pompous, self-important jackass, what should we do?

I see three alternatives.

First, go back to the old Fray and abandon the system of checks and stars. I think this would be throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Second, retain the checkmarks and make full use of the Best of the Fray column to highlight interesting posts. The checks are a good idea, if imperfectly applied. They give posters something to strive for, if they are so inclined, without the false indicators that star-poster status inculcates.

Last, hire some personnel to make sure every post gets at least a cursory once over, and convene a Fray panel made up of the other editors to determine star-posters. This has the advantage of retaining those parts of the two-tier system which serve their intended purpose, and also opening up star status consideration to different points of view.

And now, flame on, O stars! This unworthy worm has braced himself for the onslaught.

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Subject: Bluto, You Damnable Jacobin
From: The Scarlet Urquhart
Date: Dec 2 2001 4:32 PM

Oh, the historical inaccuracy! If you think that we fought a revolution in order to have a classless society, then you can have two more guesses. Well, maybe Tom Paine did, but he was a certifiable loon, who was later basically exiled from the country.

And the House of Lords isn't really all that inimical to our ideals. We just call it the Supreme Court. It provides a useful check to rampant democracy. (Insert commentary on last year's election here.)

Rampant democracy is a dangerous thing, if you consider all of the implications. The proposal above to award checks by online voting could, for example, result in the posts of "The Africoon Killer" some months ago being awarded a check, because of the sudden influx of posters from the depths of Newsmax in response to a BT debate on reparations. Hardly the sort of outcome that Slate would like to promote.

And the star system is hardly an hereditary aristocracy. (At least I don't know of any stars that have died and passed on the title, though I suppose if they passed on their computer, it could happen.) It's more or less a meritocracy, though admittedly dependent on the grace and favour of the sovereign, and I can't think of any stars who are a waste of time to read. However, I agree with your point about some mundane star-scribblings being unworthy of special attention; I'd suggest an on-off toggle for the star, though I've no notion as to technical feasibility.

The opposite failing (that some worthy posters do not have stars) isn't much of a problem for those who follow the Fray. Outstanding posters who, due to frequency (Fully Brusque Man) or content (Amber), do not have stars are always actively sought out by those in the know. They have a built-in and appreciative audience, though their posts may be missed by the great unwashed. Your idea of ensuring that all posts are read to promote an aggressive check-marking policy might lead to these posters gaining greater prominence, but do you seriously believe it's in the budget?

Finally, there is one great benefit to Britain of knighthoods and peerages: incentive. Britain gets all kinds of services absolutely free from people who want some initials after their names. I would submit that the ego-boosting prospect of a star impels many posters to more ambitious and well-crafted posts.

Laughing Down From Lazy Eyelids While Brushing a Speck of Dust From the Irreproachable Mechlin Lace at my Cuffs,

The Rt. Hon. Francis Urquhart

Partisan Discord on the Fray

Subject: There is a simple sociological explanation
From: Publius
Date: Nov 29 2001 2:38 PM

Right-wingers who participate in the Fray tend to have less formal education, since the more educated conservatives are much too busy buying and selling oil, trading securities, defending big corporations in decades-long litigation over incomprehensible commercial and contract disputes, leveraging various corporate assets for various purposes to build greater value for shareholders, playing golf with Congressmen, attending RNC $25,000-a-table fundraisers, and, of course, meeting with their tax attorneys on ways to avoid inheritance taxes.

Moreover, those old neanderthals with time to scout the Fray, on account of their advanced age, have more palsied fingers and blurred vision, and on account of their heavily rural culture and late introduction to PCs, have no idea that there is a spell check function.

By contrast, those on the left tend to be younger, better educated at elite colleges and have time on their hands between episodes of Friends and Seinfeld reruns to scroll through the Fray. Given their ages, they have better eyesight and good hand-eye coordination, took "keyboard" classes in high school (where they may still be) and can take their PCs apart to fix the spell checker if necessary.

Moreover, on the specific matter of loser and looser, this is one of the ten most often used words in their vocabularies, as in:

"Like, Bluto, is this totally random guy, and he's, like, really, really not cool, and I'm, like, Bluto, you are totally, totally a loser, and, like, this RonK, who is totally not a loser, goes, "Bluto, you're a loser," and I'm, like, yea...really."

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Subject: Well done, Publius! A sapid dessert ...
From: RonK, Seattle
Date: Nov 29 2001 4:50 PM

... at the end of a predominantly insipid buffet.

BOTF material for sure! Who says the Fray is getting too, er, whatever it is they say the Fray's getting to be too of?

Now away, before a bunch of loosers start in on how I said something indefensible about a stupid desert.

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