Babel

Genesis 10:1 – 11:26, I Chronicles 1:5-27

Most of this passage is devoted to naming the descendants of Noah who populated the earth after the flood.  In the midst of the genealogies is the familiar story of the Tower of Babel.  Initially, the whole world had one language and a common speech.  As men moved eastward they found a plain called Shinar and decided to build a great city there  “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches into the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over the face of the whole earth.” 

The Lord took note of the City and said “If as one people speaking the same language they have begun to do this, then nothing they plan to do will be impossible for them.  Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other.”  And so, their language is confused, they lose their ability to coordinate on this massive project, and the people disburse over the face of the earth.

The text isn’t clear as to why this city and its great tower were offensive to God, so we’re left to speculate.  The conventional interpretation, which I think is probably right, is that man had again forgotten God and sought to make himself great and independent of his creator.  These men had also disobeyed their mandate to “fill the earth”, instead congregating in a single place where they ceased to honor God.

At some point in college I learned that the single most important element in establishing a stable society is a common language.  Not religion, not economic theory, not a type of government – but language.  The sole example of a stable polity where more than one major language is spoken is Switzerland.  My professor mentioned that during his undergraduate days they used to include Lebanon on the list, but that country ceased to be stable forty years ago. 

Most of us have had the frustrating experience of trying to communicate with a speaker of another language.  Despite what we know, it’s hard not to perceive the other speaker as a bit stupid.  We talk louder, and gesture emphatically, but it’s generally pointless until we find a common word.  We have to be able to communicate or we have no relationship, and with no relationship there is no community, and with no community there is no society.

Prior to this event, there are no recorded wars in the Bible (unless I’m missing one).  But the list of Noah’s offspring who divided after the Tower of Babel provides a partial list of the various peoples that we’ll observe fighting over land, resources and power for the balance of the Old Testament.  Oh, the many wounds and fractures that man has inflicted on this earth because he disobeyed God.

 

On Turning 40

I turned 40 on Sunday.  To be honest,  I was kind of mad about it.  My anger was irrational, because the alternative to reaching my 40th birthday wasn’t a particularly good one.  And I’m pretty pleased with my life – married to a beautiful woman, father to four healthy and wonderful kids and experiencing an arguably successful career.  Still, I’ve never been able to reason away my emotions, so the anger stuck.   

Knowing that I planned to take Friday off, my co-workers arrived early Thursday to decorate my office with black balloons, a gravestone, streamers and all the typical decorations for a benchmark birthday.  My associate gave me a package of Depends and some Centrium vitamins.   It’s nice to be thought of on my birthday, even in a mocking sort of way.

The next day my wife and I left for Tennessee where we’d rented a cabin for the weekend, just the two of us.  We off-loaded the kids to my in-laws.  I love long drives with my wife.  There’s lots of time for uninterrupted conversation, music and the sort of connection we often miss during regular life.  Other than the abysmal traffic in Pigeon Forge, it was a great drive. 

As we sat on the deck of the cabin enjoying the spectacular view, my wife handed me a gift.  The box wasn’t heavy, but I soon learned that it carried great weight. 

Inside the box Toria had carefully packaged 21 letters from friends and family written for me to read on the occasion of my 40th birthday.  The letters represented relationships from childhood, high school, college, single days, and married life.  Some were filled with memorable stories, others with words of encouragement, and all with a great deal of affection.  The words sang off the pages like the Who’s of Whoville while my  once angry heart grew three sizes too large.   The fact that my wife had been so thoughtful in the midst of her insanely busy life was tremendously touching in itself. 

The balance of the weekend was full of other good and enjoyable things.  On Friday night we ate a wonderful dinner at the Dancing Bear Lodge in Townsend, Tennessee (on “the quiet side of the Smokies”), and the following morning rode our bikes through Cades Cove in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  We rode in the early hours while the road was shrouded in fog.  Tens of deer grazed in the meadows, and we passed within a few feet of a mother bear and her cub.  It was a spectacular ride (but I didn’t take my camera with me beyond the car).

Following that adventure we went back to the cabin, showered, and drove into Knoxville for the Tennessee/UCLA game.  I’ve been a Tennessee fan for years, and my uncle is a UCLA booster, so he was in town with my aunt, my parents and some friends.  The game day vibe was great as Tennessee had won big in its first game and shown some signs of emerging from its recent slump. 

Despite the enthusiasm, Tennessee hasn’t fixed its issues on offense and suffered an inauspicious loss after some unfortunate quarterback play.  But it was a great experience to watch a game in one of the largest venues in the country.   Most importantly, it was great to spend some time with family.

The next day, on the day of my actual birthday, Toria and I made our way home where we were greeted by the rest of my family.  The kids had all made posters, and my in-laws cooked a marvelous birthday meal.  Sparing no expense, my mother-in-law prepared a cake with 40 candles.

They topped it off by giving me “Guitar Hero” for the Wii, which was completely and delightfully unexpected. It was a rare moment of excitement for me.

It was a great birthday weekend, and I couldn’t have asked for better.

Great wife, great kids, great friends, great life.  So why was I angry going into the day?  I was mad because it’s all going by so quickly and there’s nothing I can do to slow it down. 

My children are still young, but won’t be for long.  I’m still fit and healthy, but it won’t last forever.  Muscle tone is harder to maintain now.  My joints ache more often.  I take longer to heal.  None of that is going to improve in the next 40 years.

Sure, the grocery store magazines insist that “Life Starts at 40!”, but I know it’s not true.  My life on this earth started 40 years ago, and it’s likely to end about 40 years from now.  It’s halftime, and each coming year will seem to pass more quickly than the one before it. 

The morbid theme of my office decorations, though humorous, are a reminder of an inescapable truth.  I’m going to die.   Talk all you want about living life to the fullest, but if death were the ultimate and final end, then a birthday would truly be something to mourn.  But death is not the end.

This is the promise which He Himself made to us:  eternal life.  I John 2:25

What awaits me is not mere consciousness. I look forward to an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for me.  (I Peter 1:4).    As for the days on earth that I have left, I intend to spend them storing up the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that I may take hold of that which is life indeed.  (2 Tim. 6:19).   How does such a life look?  It is characterized with humility, gentleness, patience, tolerance and love.  (Ephesians 4:3).  Something I note about that list – humility, gentleness, patience, tolerance and love – is that I cannot experience any of those things outside of the context of relationships.  In reading the letters that I received for my birthday, I was reminded that the richness of my life is in my relationships.  We both experience and serve our creator in the context of community.   

The quality of my life is defined by the quality of my relationships, and the primary relationship in my life is (or should be) with my creator.  So, for the second half of my life I resolve simply this – to love Him by loving others so that my joy will be complete.  (John 15:10-12).

Bless the Lord, O my soul

and all that is within me bless His holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul

And forget none of His benefits;

Who pardons all your iniquities,

Who heals all your diseases;

Who redeems your life from the pit,

Who crowns you with lovingkindess and compassion;

Who satisfies your years with good things,

So that your youth is renewed like the eagle.

Psalm 103:1-5 (NASB)

 

The Petersons (Rocky Mountain Adventure, Part II)

In the summer of 1936 my grandfather got a raise.  He’d been making $2.50 a night working 12-hour shifts at a chicken hatchery in Cedar Falls, Iowa.  He was the last man standing after several grueling weeks and he asked his boss to bump his nightly wage up to $3.00.  He got the raise, which he deemed sufficient to allow him to marry my grandmother, which he did almost exactly 73 years ago today.  The next summer they had their first of six children, the third of whom was my father.  By my count, my grandparents now have 62 direct lineal descendants.  When you throw in spouses and babies on the way we have – well, a whole bunch of us.   Though my grandparents are no longer with us, their legacy runs strong as evidenced by the large gathering of  Petersons at the YMCA of the Rockies in June.

My father and his siblings grew up on a farm in Minnesota, but in the typical diaspora of the 20th century American family, they all left the farm and spread out around the country.  About a third of the family moved back to Minnesota eventually, and the rest of us live in places as varied as Southern California, Ohio, Texas and Georgia.  We try to get together every few years, and some of my greatest memories are from those reunions.

In simpler times our reunions were full of games, intra-generational athletic competitions, and lots of conversation.  Though things have changed a lot with our wired generation, we still spend our time with games, intra-generational athletic competitions, and lots of conversation.  For whatever reason, my family is particularly fond of Yahtzee.  I’ve got to admit that it’s still a thrill to roll five 6’s.

This year’s twist is that we were enjoying each other’s company in the midst of the Rocky Mountains.  The YMCA gave us use of the “Texas Room”, which was an old cabin with a nice front porch that served as family headquarters.   Hundreds of games were won and lost, old stories re-told, and new memories created.   One of my favorite memories was standing with my cousins and uncles in front of the Texas Room watching a massive thunderstorm roll in.  After the sun set, the lightning continued on the other side of a ridge of mountains surrounding the camp.  It looked like a horrifically wonderful artillery barrage between warring armies, and it went on for hours.  I’d never seen anything like it.

 

Things do change.  My parents, aunts and uncles have moved into the patriarchal and matriarchal roles of their own clans. My cousins and I constantly watched, corrected and entertained our kids just as our parents had done for us 30 years ago.  We have a family web site now and stay in touch daily, so there was little news to share.  But what remained unchanged was the tremendous sense of love we have for each other.  It’s not a small thing to drive or fly a big family across the country, and it meant a lot to all of us that so many were willing to make the sacrifice.

I love my family.  There is no Prescott Bush, Joe Kennedy or Pierre DuPont in our lineage, but there is a nobility that transcends wealth.   My grandfather and grandmother were imperfect people, but unquestionably people of faith and prayer.  I see the fruit of their faithfulness in my parents, aunts and uncles, cousins, my cousins children, and in my own kids.  I aspire to leave that kind of legacy, and pray that one day my children’s children and their children will choose to lay aside worldly concerns, sacrifice a bit of their earthly treasure, and gather with a similar spirit of affection for one another.

In 1981 my grandfather wrote a brief history of his early life for my sister and me.  He concluded with these words:

The years have been hard at times but they have also been rewarding.   Grandma and I have enjoyed each other for forty five
years now.   We are happy to have six children, all Christians and married to Christians and to have eighteen grandchildren whom we love so dearly and are happy for everyone of them, and now our first grandchild is married so we have another granddaughter to love.   We pray for each of you every day and ask the Lord to bless and keep you in His tender care, always.

As related in the written history he left with us, my grandfather worked hard all of this life for modest monetary gain.  He was driving teams of horses in the field with his brother when he was only 9 years old.  He never finished high school, and probably never made more than a few thousand dollars a year.  He died at the age of 89.   My grandmother’s life was also hard.  She started a family during the Great Depression, lost her only sibling (a bona fide war hero) to a kamikaze pilot in WWII,  and she lived her last years afflicted with Alzheimer’s.  But despite those obstacles, they left a unified, functioning, loving and healthy family that I am persuaded will be a blessing for generations to come.

My grandparents left us virtually nothing monetarily.  But as I consider the things of my life that will remain, my grandparents’ legacy of faith stands out as something precious, enduring and imperishable.

 

On the Video Below

Work is busy, so blogging will probably be light this month.  Hopefully, this video recap of our year can tide you over for the time being.  I was disappointed in the video quality, because the original photos and footage are pretty stellar for the most part.  I was especially disappointed that the text is so difficult to read.  But, hopefully you can get the gist and join me in celebrating a great year.  With all the gloom and doom inundating us from all sides, it’s good to appreciate the simpler and significant things.

 

TIP: FOR A SUPERIOR VIEWING EXPERIENCE, CLICK THE LINK ABOVE RATHER THAN THE PLAYER BELOW, THEN SELECT “WATCH IN HIGH QUALITY” JUST BELOW THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE VIEWER.  IT’S MUCH SHARPER.

 

The End of Things

It is raining this morning.  As indicated in my last post, that’s a rare blessing for which I am grateful.  The gray clouds hanging over the city are no more palpable than the pall cast by the crashing markets that shape virtually all of my conversations these days.  Whatever this is, it is the end of something.

Now that I’ve been blogging for awhile, I see almost all of my experiences as potential subjects for blog posts.  While that perspective has the beneficial effect of prodding me toward a more interesting and intentional life, I often find myself trying to artificially link my various experiences together with a profound theme concluded with a clever closing phrase.  Sometimes life doesn’t quite lay out that way.  The past few days have been over-full with events ranging from the amusing to the tragic, and I don’t know if there’s a bow to tie them together.

On Thursday morning I left the office to participate in a “sporting clay” tournament.  I was grateful for the invitation, but given my complete lack of experience with the sport, I initially planned to decline.  But when I learned that some of my clients were attending the two day event, along with a lot of potential clients, I changed my mind.   Given current market conditions for real estate lawyers, it seemed like a good idea for me to go. 

I met two of my clients here in the city so that we could share a ride out to the Burge Plantation.  The Burge lies about an hour east of Atlanta in the town of Social Circle.  As we were driving away from Atlanta on I-20, one of my clients asked where I grew up.

“Here.”  I said.  “Right here, just off the Panola Road exit.”

“Where is here?” he asked.  It’s a fair question, because there’s not a lot of “there” there. 

“Lithonia”  I explained, which explained little.  But driving past the familiar freeway exits always prompts a flood of childhood memories for me, and I was lost in thought for a few miles.

One of my clients recommended that we eat lunch at the Blue Willow Inn in Social Circle.  I wasn’t familiar with the Inn, but I’ve come to learn that it has a significant national reputation for country dining.  The reputation is well deserved.  The restaurant is located in an old, stately home and features an “all you can eat” buffet.  None of that is terribly unusual, but the food itself was a cut above any other country dining establishment I’ve enjoyed during my many years in the south.  

 

The Blue Willow Inn

Back in the early 90’s the Blue Willow Inn’s renown was solidified when the late Lewis Grizzard wrote a nationally syndicated article in which he said of the Blue Willow that he’d finally found the country dining for which he’d been searching all his life.  Our waitress, upon learning that we were new to the restaurant, instructed us, “It’s real simple – eat all you can.”  We did, and it was phenomenally good, as my waistline proves.

My First Helping.  That’s a fried green tomato at 11:00.

After our ample lunch at the Blue Willow, we drove over to The Burge.  I wasn’t able to learn a great deal about the history of the place, other than that the main house was one of the few survivors of Sherman’s March to the Sea in the Civil War.  It’s a sprawling place with lots of cabins and random outbuildings.  At some point in the 1970’s the owners decided to convert the farm to a hunting and sporting clay club, and so it remains.

We were the first to arrive at the rustic “pro shop” where we admired expensive shotguns on display along with catalogues of ridiculously more expensive firearms.  Until last Thursday, I was unaware that a person could spend in excess of $300,000 on a shotgun.  I can’t imagine that many of those are selling these days.

When our host arrived, he said, “Gentlemen, this event is probably the only positive thing happening in any of our professional lives these days, so let’s enjoy it.”  We would have laughed if his comment weren’t so terribly true.

For those of you who, like me, know nothing about sporting clays, I’ll give a brief primer.  The clays themselves are small, Frisbee-like disks that fly through the air while people try to blast them out of the sky with a shotgun.  It’s much like what I remember as “trap” or “skeet” shooting.  Unlike skeet or trap shooting, sporting clays involves traveling from station to station where the mechanized “throwers” are tucked away in various locations and at different angles so that the clays fly from various angles, distances and speeds.  In our case, we drove golf carts, played in foursomes, and called the stations holes.  It’s basically golf with guns.  We played a 75 clay course with 17 stations.   The object is to hit as many clays as possible out of the 75. 

You can’t see it, but I hit both of the clays in this picture.

Thursday was a practice day, and a professional working for The Burge gave me some pointers.  After some time on the 5-stand range, we went out on the course.   The sport is surprisingly intoxicating and difficult.  All of my companions had shot before, and some were quite serious about it.  When dealing with guns, I find it best to be paired with serious people.  In my first go at the 75 clay course, I hit 38.  As it turns out, that’s apparently pretty good for a newbie.

That night we gathered near the main house for a phenomenal meal of quail wings and beef tenderloin.  

The House.  You know you’re someone in the south if you refer to your ancestral home as “The House.”

After dinner we adjourned to another building where we watched the V.P. debate.  Not surprisingly, commercial real estate professionals who like to shoot skew Republican.  After the debate was over, we ventured into the cool evening air near the bonfire and told stories about prior hunts and the current market.  I got into an interesting conversation with a Jewish lawyer about Jesus.

After a restless sleep made more restless by the bourbon-fueled conversations taking place outside my door, I awoke to a gorgeous morning.

I took this shot just outside of “Dolly’s Cabin” shortly after I woke on Friday morning.

After an ample breakfast, we gathered for the actual tournament.  We were organized into pairs designed to balance our disparate skill.  I moved from a 20 guage to a 12 and found more success than I had during the previous day’s practice round.  At one point during the round a somewhat less serious shooter’s gun failed to fire, then he started to turn toward the group.  As he was turning, his gun went off and flew out of his hands.  No one was hurt, but the potential consequences reminded me that the sport is very different from golf in some material respects.

I finished with 48 hits, and my partner hit 58.  Our combined score won the day, and after a brief awards ceremony my traveling partners and I loaded up and drove to the Blue Willow for our second massive lunch in as many days.  I gained 6 pounds over the weekend.

I went straight home after being dropped off at my car, and Toria and I gathered the kids from the school bus and headed out to our friends’ house for dinner.  Mark and Sherry have been our friends for many years, and our kids love each other, but we live on opposite sides of town and don’t see each other as often as we would like.  The conversation again turned to the bailout, the declining market and the potential implications for our families.  In times such as these it’s tempting to become insular, to think of shielding yourself and your family.  But in spending time with our friends I was reminded that Christ calls us to a very different pattern of living, of sharing, of generosity and breaking bread together even in the midst of adversity.  The evening again ended by the fire as the children made s’mores and played tag in the firelight. 

Early the next morning, Toria and I dropped off the kids at her parents house and we met two other couples for a trip up to the Len Foote Inn at Amicalola Falls State Park.  The Inn is unique in that it is accessible by the public only via a 5-mile trail.  It’s a beautiful, quiet spot that takes all of the hassle out of backpacking.  Shelter, beds, linens and food are provided, along with a phenomenal view of the surrounding mountains. 

It was great to be truly unplugged for 24 hours.  Because the guys were able to carry the essential gear, one of the wives carried a guitar on her back and we spent a few hours passing the guitar around as we sang and played.  We stayed up late playing Trivial Pursuit and talking about life in the sunrise room.

Click here for a video of the trip, courtesy of my friend Heather Rendle who put it together.  She’s the cute blonde in the pictures.  Well, she’s one of them anyway.

I woke in the morning to watch the sky gradually light up with varying shades of red and orange until the sun suddenly popped up from behind a distant ridge and began its daily journey across the sky.  

I’m awake for the sunrise almost every day, but I rarely see the sun crest the horizon, and certainly never as dramatically as this.

My trips into the woods serve to remind me that the best things aren’t things at all.  They are relationships, experiences, and moments in time that have very little to do with the financial worries so consuming our thoughts in recent months.

After enjoying the sun’s ascent, we packed up, ate a hearty breakfast and made a quick descent to the parking area where we headed home.  My mind was already on the somber journey that l’d be taking alone once we got back.

Early Friday morning, just before the sporting clay tournament, I had received an email from my friend Mark informing me that his father had died.  Mark’s dad had been sick with cancer for some time, but we all thought he had some time left, so the email was a bit of a surprise.  Mark emailed that the visitation and funeral were both in Covington, in the same general direction as The Burge Plantation.  So, once I got home from the Len Foote Inn trip, I showered, put on my suit, boarded the Pathfinder, and headed out I-20 east.

I passed the Panola Road exit again, and again experienced a flood of involuntary memories.  I hadn’t known Mark’s father terribly well, but he and his wife were my landlords during my first year of law school, and he had shown me the kindness that a student so appreciates in a friend’s parent, often involving picking up the check at a restaurant.  He was a kind and dignified man.

Mark’s wife, Amy, embraced me warmly when I walked into the funeral home and I was pleased to bring a smile to Mark’s face upon my entry.  I signed the register, looked at the pictures, expressed my condolences to Mark’s stepmother and tried to figure out where to stand.  I was one of the very few in a suit, so people kept mistaking me for a funeral home employee.  Plus, I wasn’t family, and I didn’t know what else to say or do.  Then there’s the fact that standing near a casket is a powerful reminder of my own mortality.  I now know why people make food when someone dies.  It gives them something to do.  After exhausting every protocol I knew to follow, I left, and I felt bad for leaving.  I love my friends very much, and I very much wanted to be with them, but I am never more inept than at a funeral.

I hadn’t planned to attend the funeral services on Monday, mostly because I anticipated a busy day following my time away from the office for the sporting clay tournament.  But the economy and real estate market being what they are, there was nothing on my desk that couldn’t wait a day.  After lunch I drove again out I-20 east, passing near my childhood home.  I can go years without driving out that way, but found myself doing it for the third time in four days. 

As I walked in the door of the funeral home, Mark asked if I could serve as a pallbearer.  I eagerly agreed, pleased to have a role and a place, and someone to tell me where to stand.  Mark delivered an eloquent eulogy, demonstrating a dignity and composure that he no doubt learned from his father.  This was my third stint as a pallbearer.  I have been a groomsman eight times.  I am aware that those numbers are likely to draw even in the coming years, and it’s a sobering thought. 

It was a beautiful, warm and sunny day.  As I drove in the funeral procession, I noted that cars passing in the other direction respectfully stopped, pulled to the side of the road and turned on their lights – a tradition almost completely forgotten inside metropolitan Atlanta.  At the graveside the pastor said a few more words, and the pallbearers extended condolences to the family members on the front row. 

I had resolved to stay this time, awkward or not.  I congratulated Mark on the wonderfully delivered eulogy, and asked Amy if they needed help with any out of town guests.  They didn’t.  Before long, the family piled into the funeral home limo and it was time for me to go.

As I drove back toward Lithonia, I decided to pull off of the interstate and drive down familiar roads to my old house.  While some things have changed in Lithonia, a great deal is the same.  Some of the once ramshackle houses are 30 years more decrepit, but still occupied.  In contrast, a couple of subdivisions of massive, expensive homes have replaced the woods that I used to roam after school.  A few minutes after leaving the interstate, I pulled up to our old house.

I remember being proud of that house.  I once thought that it was big, but I can’t imagine raising my family in it now.  I remember my parents and our neighbors working hard to manicure their yards, building a playground and making a beautiful, kid friendly neighborhood.  You can’t really tell from his camera phone picture, but the house crumbles now, embarrassingly neglected and a shadow of the home of my memory. 

 Citizens of the western world are gripped with the fear that they’re on the cusp of losing it all.  I worry too, but I have to remind myself that I’m worried about losing things that I can never truly possess in the first place.  I enjoy nice things – whether they be shotguns, trips, meals, or cars, but all of these things will pass away.  Among the many things said of Mark’s father, no one mentioned the amount of stuff he left behind.  He has experienced the end of things, as in earthly, tangible things.  That end awaits us all, and the fact that the enduring things of life do not consist of earthly things should inform the way we live, and the way we treat each other.  In all of the moments that I have described in this email, I cherish most those shared with friends engaged in conversation, acts of kindness, and simple activities. 

It is evening now, and it’s still raining.  I’m comforted that the same God who provides this desperately needed rain has also promised to meet all of our earthly needs if we’ll only seek first his kingdom and his righteousness.  I am gratified to know that the fruit of my seeking his kingdom will endure forever.

Now we see but a poor reflection in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.  And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.  (I Corinthians 13:12, 13)

 

The End of a Gilded Age

I remember a scene from the movie “Sea Biscuit” where Jeff Bridges’ character, Charles S. Howard,  entertains extravagantly attired guests in an elegant mountain home.  Their revelry is interrupted by a radio announcer describing the great stock market crash of 1929.  That moment signifies the end of a prosperous era for the nation, and the beginning of the Great Depression.  I feel like I lived that moment this weekend, though I was somewhat more casually attired.

Toria and I joined two other couples in Blowing Rock, North Carolina where we rented a spectacular house with a view of Grandfather Mountain.  With towering, wood-paneled walls and ceilings, the house had as many cubic feet as a small grocery store.  Griff and I played golf on Friday afternoon, and were paired with a couple who would have been of voting age when Seabiscuit beat War Admiral.  Another of my friends, Mark, was unable to join us for golf because he works in private wealth management and spent the day counseling concerned clients.  He joined us after golf, and though I’m sure that he was eager to be free of the topic, our conversation often turned to the current economic crisis.

Friday evening we enjoyed fine scotch followed by a meal of pasta and excellent wine in the cavernous dining room.  After dinner, we descended a couple flights of stairs to the recreation area where Griff established his dominance in ping pong.  At least once an hour someone would comment, “Man, this place is huge!”

In the morning we dined on omelets.  Afterward, the men ascended to the loft where we sipped coffee prepared with coffee house beans and watched the Davis Cup while discussing economic Armageddon.  We drove to the nearby Blue Ridge Parkway where we found a trail that wrapped around a lake.  As we walked, we debated man’s capacity to change himself.  Later, the girls watched movies, and the guys continued the ping pong wars while watching football.  I watched my Volunteers lay another egg against Florida unti I was mercifully pulled away by our dinner reservations at the Gamekeeper Restaurant.  The Gamekeeper features exotic game and local seasonal vegetables.  The wine flowed as we ate alligator, ostrich, and bison in the shabby elegance of the mountain lodge. 

That evening Amy pulled out her new bass, Mark his new electric, and me my acoustic guitar.  We played and sang for a couple of hours while entertaining late night, wine infused fantasies of a career in music.  Toria half listened to us while she watched her Bulldogs even the SEC’s score against the Pac-10.

In the morning we drove into charming Blowing Rock where we enjoyed another full breakfast.  We returned to the house, and it was time for Toria and me to go.  We reluctantly gathered our bags, loaded the car and said our goodbyes.

My only complaint about the house was the TVs.  It wasn’t the number – there were 6.  But they were all small.  I think the biggest was 24 inches.  They seemed absurdly out of scale in the grand house. 

I wrote about these same friends in an earlier post.  Other than Toria, all of us went to college together.  Old friends offer perspective, encouragement and keep you humble.  There’s no need to fake it with people who knew you when.  During our dinner at the Gamekeeper we asked questions like “If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?”, or “If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”  Griff suggested the question “If you could change one thing about your spouse, what would it be?”, but we nixed that one before it turned the evening sour.

I can remember a time, 20 years ago, when we managed to enjoy life while joined in collegiate poverty.  That’s where we were when the stock market crashed in October of 1987.  We noted it then, but it was a quickly forgotten abstraction for a college student.  Today’s crisis seems far more palpable.

The Gilded Age actually didn’t end with the stock market crash.  The “Gilded Age” (a term coined by Mark Twain) was a time of economic growth and conspicuous consumption that lasted from about 1877-1893.  Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, and J.P. Morgan were some of the notables of the era, their great wealth and influence evidenced by the fact that their names still carry weight some 120 years later.  The Gilded Age ended with the Panic of 1893, which brought on a depression lasting until 1897.  More prosperity followed that (though not uninterrupted), ending abruptly again with the crash of 1929 and the ensuing Great Depression.   

Many have described the 20 years leading up to 2008 as a new Gilded Age.  Consumption has never been more conspicuous, or more democratic.  Unlike the concentrated wealth of the robber barons of the late 19th century,  even the common man of recent years has had access to houses, cars and HDTV’s (apparently excepting the one who owns the house we rented this weeked).  It appears that we may be coming to yet another abrupt interruption of prosperity, the end of an era perhaps, but not the end of prosperity.   Humans have demonstrated nothing if not an ability to survive, endure and even proper amidst hardship.

I thoroughly enjoyed the setting of our weekend in the mountains, and would gladly do it again.  But I recognize that the joy of getting together with these friends is that we somehow manage to recapture the magic of being 19 and debating the great questions of life while eating pizza in the dorm.  The trappings of big rental houses, fine wine and exotic meals may disappear, but the enduring frienships will remain

I’m not made of stone, and I am concerned about these times and what they may mean for my family.  But I also know, and this weekend reinforced my knowledge, that a man who is rich in friends is rich indeed.  With friends and faith, most anything can be endured.  Without them, even material prosperity is intolerable.

As I continue to reflect on my half-assembled thoughts from the weekend, I think I’ll retire to my own very humble family room where I can contemplatively enjoy a show on my 1080 dpi HDTV.  Because in the end, it really is the simple things that matter 😉

 

My L.A. Story

I just went four days without wearing socks, a new record.  I was in L.A. over the Labor Day weekend, and socks seemed out of place in a city where “formal” wear is a collared shirt and “casual” is no shirt at all.   Some folks in L.A. might be offended at that statement, but if the sandal fits…

I’ve had family in California for most of my life, and I made a number of trips out west as a kid, but it had been nearly 20 years since my last visit.  By fortunate coincidence, my uncle is a UCLA booster, and I am a fan of the Tennessee Volunteers.  For the first time this decade, those teams met up in Pasadena for their season opener.  My uncle invited my wife and I out for the game, and we took the opportunity to visit the area from which I’d long been absent and where my wife had never traveled.

My Uncle Larry and Aunt Kitty are unfailingly gracious and generous.  From the moment they picked us up at LAX until they dropped us off, we were treated to a high-paced itinerary full of wonderful meals and diverse attractions.  Their plans sounded great, but the one unplannable item on my agenda was to spot someone famous.  Atlanta is not without its celebrities and attractions, but whenever I go to L.A., New York, or D.C. I have the sense that I’m headed to where the action is, to where decisions are made and important things happen in the worlds of entertainment, business and politics.  There’s a glamour factor to Southern California that’s impossible to beat, and unnecessary to explain.   L.A. is the object of our nation’s collective loathing and lust, representing the things those of us in the flyover states both criticize and crave. Even NYC and DC kowtow to the cultural agenda that L.A. sets for the rest of the world.  For a few days, I was eager to bask in the other-worldliness of it all. 

Saturday morning, after reading the newspaper and enjoying breakfast in my aunt and uncle’s perfectly manicured back yard, we boarded the Lexus for the beginning of our three-day tour.  Day One included Newport and Laguna Beach where we enjoyed a great meal at a sort of Mexican/Mediterranean merge restaurant with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.  Beautiful sites and girls abounded, though none more beautiful than the one I brought with me.

(Please forgive the poor photo quality.  I forgot our regular camera and used my camera phone for this leg of the journey)

The topography of Southern California is radically different than anything in the East.  Virtually every house in L.A. is built on a dry, brown, creosote-covered hill.  Surprisingly tall mountains tower above nearby ridges in almost every direction.  The coastline can be disorienting, because in most instances the beach is located to the south, when logic tells you it should be west.   Only the irrigated lawns are lush and green, and the rest of the parched landscape produces sparse, drought-hearty plants.

The evening of Day One, we drove into Anaheim to visit Disneyland.  At 38, I’m still not over the thrill of visiting the Disney parks, even when my kids aren’t with me.  We met a friend of my aunt and uncle’s who has perhaps the most wonderful job in the world.  She hands out prizes at the park – ranging from mouse ears to overnight stays in the castle suite originally designed for Walt Disney.  She provided us with passes to the Fantasmic show, which we enjoyed after a wonderful meal and a few rides.  My relatives were probably a little surprised at my childlike enthusiasm for the rides, which wasn’t significantly dulled from my first visit to the park with my aunt and uncle back in 1976.

 

After Raiders of the Lost Ark, Space Mountain and a stroll down Main Street, U.S.A., we retired to the house, our east coast bodies telling us it was much later than the time showing on the wall clock.

On Day Two we visited the Getty Center, a wonderful example of the power of generosity, even when it comes from evil oil men.  J.P. Getty’s bequest upon his death in 1976 led to the construction of the museum, completed about 11 ago.  A quiet tram carried us above the cacophonous freeway to the grand, breezy structure overlooking the surrounding valleys.  Some of Bernini’s paintings and sculptures were on special exhibit, and we marveled at the detail in his busts of popes, nobles and jesters.  The Getty itself is a work of architectural art, providing seemingly infinite angles and perspectives to view the art and the surrounding countryside. 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a study of stark contrasts, we drove from the Getty to Venice Beach, which is where photographers capture stock footage of hippies, rollerbladers and other West Coast bohemians in all their glory.  The street scene looked like I imagine a post-Castro Cuba, complete with poverty, rebellious debauchery, reckless abandon and socialist inclinations.

  

  

I couldn’t wear my preppy golf shirt in that environment.  It screamed “Right Wing Republican” as loudly as if I’d been wearing a Bush/Cheney t-shirt.  So, just as the Apostle Paul was all things to all people, I chose to conform to my surroundings.  No one else joined me.

My elegant aunt was a little mortified by the whole scene, but she consented to pose with me for this memorable picture.

 

 

I kept expecting to see Fletch walk out onto the beach in a Lakers jersey, but neither he nor anyone else I recognized was to be found.  My search for celebrity came up empty again.  Not finding any suitable gifts for the kids, we moved on to the remarkably incongruous Rodeo Drive.  Other than the dearth of shoppers (it was a Sunday afternoon), it was all that I expected it to be.  We looked in a few shops, but mostly marveled at the extravagant inaccessibility of it all.  Paris and Nicole were nowhere to be found.

 

  

From there, we drove through Beverly Hills, Westwood, and Hollywood where we saw recognizable sites and opulent, tree-lined streets.  But alas, I saw no famous faces.  That evening we ate at a wonderful bistro near my Aunt and Uncle’s home where we sat and continued our running conversation about the extended family.   My father is one of six, and my uncle Larry is his youngest brother (one of twins).  By my count, there are 18 cousins and now more offspring of cousins than I can count (What are they, my second cousins?  Second cousins once removed?) , so we had lots to discuss.  Uncles and aunts are great sources of family history that your parents may have intentionally forgotten to tell you.  Things like the story about Larry and Kitty rekindling their long-dormant relationship while on a double date with my father – who was on that date with Kitty.  These are interesting things to know.

The next morning we visited the Nixon Presidential Library. I didn’t recognize anyone I’d seen at Venice Beach among the museum visitors or docents.  It was an impressive library, built next to the President’s birthplace and childhood home.  The small house is still in its original location, just a few yards from his grave.  I found it odd, but not terribly surprising, that I saw not one mention of Watergate or resignation in the library.  I imagine that he had a hand in the library’s design, and hoped that deleting such mentions would somehow dull the incident’s resonance in history. 

From there, we began preparations for the long awaited event – Tennessee versus UCLA at the Rose Bowl.  Tennessee was a heavy favorite, due in part to the fact that UCLA was starting a 3rd string quarterback and had suffered injuries and other depletions at key positions.  Tennessee was coming off of a strong year with a lot of returning veterans.  The table was set for an opening game win, and I was excited to be a witness.

My uncle and aunt do things well, including game day.  We parked near a large tent full of UCLA fans where we enjoyed good pre-game food and an open bar.  It was there, finally, that I enjoyed my first celebrity sighting.  Perhaps to those under 30, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is not a celebrity, but for those of us who remember him as a Laker in the 80’s, or as a UCLA Bruin before that, not many celebrities are bigger – certainly none taller.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him.  I was at the Salt Palace in 1988 to watch a playoff game between the Lakers and Jazz.  John Stockton, the young Karl Malone and towering Mark Eaton were giving the defending champion Lakers fits in the playoffs.  Leading 2 games to 1 in the series, the Jazz had electrified Salt Lake City, and the Lakers were on the ropes.  Those were the days of Magic Johnson, James Worthy, and the elegant veteran, Abdul-Jabbar.  The Lakers were down at halftime, but Abdul-Jabbar used his sky hook to lead the Lakers back and ultimately win the game 113-100. They took the series in 7.  My father and I were two of the very few Lakers fans in the stands that day, and it was one the most gratifying sports experiences of my life.  I still remember Abdul-Jabbar’s unstoppable play.

He still towers over everyone else, but he walks slowly and with effort.  He looked thin and in pain.  Not unhealthy, but not powerful.  He wasn’t a celebrity, just a man.  He seemed weary to me, my flashing camera adding to the constant invasions of his space.

 

After enjoying the shade and refreshments for a few hours, we moved to the Rose Bowl.  I can’t hope to recall how many games I’ve watched in that stadium from my living room couch, but this was the first time live.  UCLA fans were universally friendly and certain that they were about to lose.  Being accustomed to SEC regular season games and the few SEC Championship and Peach Bowl games I’ve attended, I expected a packed house, but was surprised to see large sections of empty seats.  School hasn’t started yet, so the student section was mostly empty.  Everything about the scene bolstered my confidence in a Tennessee win.

As the game started, Tennessee looked flat.  They have a new offensive coordinator and new starting quarterback.  Their lines still seemed to dominate, and had an effective running game, but the team was generally mis-firing.  I was comforted by the fact that UCLA’s quarterback was doing worse.  He threw 4 interceptions in the first half.  Teams don’t win with those kind of turnovers.  But despite its opportunities, Tennessee just couldn’t score.  The large Tennessee contingent grew restless, and the UCLA crowd grew optimistic as the game wore on without the expected Tennessee breakout.  I didn’t like the direction we were headed.  The last UCLA interception resulted in a touchdown just before the half, giving Tennessee the lead.  UCLA’s only points had come off a botched Tennessee punt.  I watched the fatigued UCLA defender’s with their hands on their hips and figured the game would effectively end early in the third quarter, once Tennessee pounded the ball through the tackles a few more times.

Early in the third quarter, my predictions seemed to be coming true.  UT’s quarterback connected on his one long completion of the game, and the Vols seemed destined for the end zone.  Their senior tailback had been running downhill all day and outmatched the Bruin defenders in speed and size.  Larry mentioned how strong he looked and how many yards he was gaining.  I responded that he almost always did, and then managed to fumble at exactly the wrong time.  No sooner had I said that than he fumbled on UCLA’s 6 yard line.  The game had just changed again.

A game that lacked offensive excitement for 55 minutes more than made up for it in the last five minutes of the game.  With about 5 minutes remaining, UCLA had scored a touchdown, pulling ahead by 4.  Tennessee eventually drove down the field and Montario Hardesty (if I get any of this wrong, it’s because I’m doing it from memory) sprinted into the end zone with 1:44 left on the clock.  I was elated, Larry was dejected.  The game was certainly over.

But no.  UCLA’s 3rd string quarterback had found a soft spot in the middle of the field.  He kept going to his tight end, and Tennessee had no answer.  Why hadn’t they seen it?  Why couldn’t they adjust?  Seconds ticked off the clock, but the Bruins kept connecting on passes.  Finally, with some 35 seconds on the clock, the Bruins had driven to the UT 6.  Then their third stringer connected on a final short pass into the end zone, with only 24 seconds remaining.  Once again, the game seemed over.

But no.  UCLA pooched their kick and Tennessee returned it to mid field with two timeouts left.  A couple of plays later they were within field goal range with 5 seconds left, and they needed 3 to tie.  Daniel Lincoln, Tennessee’s kicker, had missed twice from beyond 50 yards, but this one was a 47-yarder.  He nailed it, the orange nation was euphoric.  We were headed for overtime.

Tennessee won the toss, elected to defend, and held UCLA to a field goal.  Again, I thought Tennessee held all the cards.  It would be an ugly win, but still a “w”.  All they had to do was run it through UCLA’s weakened defensive line.  But they couldn’t, or at least they didn’t.  Lincoln lined up for another kick, shorter this time.  Well within his range.  The snap was good, the hold solid, and kick was up…wide left.  The UCLA faithful erupted, and I sat dejected, unbelieving, the hopes for a good season crushed in the very first game. 

My Aunt Kitty felt like a bad hostess.  She wouldn’t trade high-five’s with Larry and couldn’t even meet my eyes.  You can see her in this picture, looking away.  My uncle, male that he is, insisted on taking the shot – wanting to capture my pain in real time.  I did my best to be charitable, but you’ll have to ask my car mates how well I pulled it off.

After a leisurely breakfast Tuesday morning, it was time to go.  We left the land of glitz and glamour and headed home for our regular lives among the non-movers and non-shakers.  I thought of Abdul-Jabbar and his limping, weary entrance into the booster tent.  I thought of Daniel Lincoln’s long flight home.  I thought of Nixon’s failed efforts to throw his scandal down the memory hole.  They are, or were, just people.  At the airport, I looked over my wife’s shoulder at People magazine and read about Jessica Simpson finding love again, knowing full well that within weeks I’ll be reading about her losing it once more.  People magazine reads like a tragic novel for people with ADD, most every article consisting of five sentences telling the tale of a breakup or putting spin on some other personal disaster disguised as triumph.  The characters in the grand play -actors, athletes, and other celebrities, are just people, walking with whatever limps life has pressed on them or they’ve taken on themselves. 

After we landed, it was time to reclaim our own baggage and go home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll never forget our wonderful weekend, or the generosity of our hosts.  But it was good to go home where I slipped into my children’s rooms and gave them each a kiss as their grandmother had promised, grateful for my flyover life in a second-tier city, living a rich and wonderful life that will never make the pages of a magazine.