To My Father: On Mining and Baseball, Texas Style

12 October 2010. Mark this day. Two miracles transpired, both of major importance to West Texans. Seeemingly most important, the Texas Rangers clinched the American League semifinal games, sending them to the AL Championship against those arch rival New York Yankees. It is a match made in heaven, or in my childhood living room, where I sat dutifully in my little rocking chair next to my dad, rooting for the Yankees (before there were any Rangers) and where I formed those visions of baseball victories that later led to a real Texas Rangers team that my dad and I would favor. I'll never forget the time we all went to Arlington together, probably in the early 1990s, to watch those Rangers. I think they lost that night, but the glory and glamour of finally being in a big league stadium with my dad -- who can forget such an experience? And then, throughout his "retirement" years, I remember many, many nights sitting in that Desdemona home listening to Ranger baseball with my dad, and always, always, hoping against hope, and ultimately seeing them come close to championship an playoff worlds, but never close enough.

My dad died 12 year ago, but he would be proud of the Rangers tonight. They made it to the ALS championship, and to make it even better, it's against those Yankees. I'm wishing Mickie and Roger could see how their influence on my life continues, even if as the new rivals attempt to take over for the great old models of father and son and baseball.

But my dad was never quite focused on baseball, or anything really, except providing for his family. O.C. Patty was a roughneck, a not-so-distant cousin of a miner, one of those long-suffering and hard-working men who never came home without an ache and never complained at all. My dad, I always take pride in saying, worked on the then deepest oil well ever drilled, some 2-and-a-half miles deep, some time in the early 1970s. A lot of folks will say that Texas Oil is what made former president George W. Bush so famous; I say it was my dad, and his fellow-very-hard-workers.

Anyway, oil field roughnecks and miners are of the same breed -- very, very tough and hard-working family men who care little about their own needs and much about their wives' anc childrens' needs. They come home daily sore and hurting, but sure that they have done well. They cherish the moments outside of the rig, or the mine, but they go back each day, knowing the dangers. And, they occasionally get to see a moment or two of real, pure value, when the whole world stops to honor one, or 33, or their number.

So, as the miners literally arise, I say "Thank You" to each of them, and to my dad, and I wish them all a wonderful family reunion. And some time to recover.

While they watch the Texas Rangers whip the New York Yankees and move on to the World Series.

slp

The Hubris of Internet Postings (Including this One)

So I was frustrated at responses to my recent Facebook posting. They were self-centered and over-confident, or at least they drew more attention to their authors than to the subject at hand, or any rational critique of it. I thought, "Why do these people think they can so quickly take over my brilliant posting, making it their own opportunity to shine, to show how clearly they understand properly what I only thought was a noble enterprise." (In this case, it was reading a classic book.)

But then I realized that their own attempts merely mirrored mine, which was in itself a kind of cute attempt to bragg about my skillful choice of provocative reading material on a national holiday weekend. Alas, I too wanted to mark my space, make my claim, place my flag of power and worth before the amorphous and explosive world of the internet. (And now I am doing it again.)

The internet is a remarkable and troubling medium. It allows complete strangers, distant acquaintances, and close family or friends to post things -- pictures, writings, links, games -- that "connect" and "communicate" and, often, "confuse." The internet allows for "community" and convenient contact.

Or does it? I'm beginning to think that for all its benefits, the internet provides a kind of false comfort that we are actually flourishing as a human community, that we are growing intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually as we post our lines and poke our friends. We come to believe that we are happier and perhaps more entertained or more enriched through it all. Perhaps we deceive ourselves. Maybe we are only using the protection of the screen as a way to pump up our own self-centeredness, our own pride, our own sense of worth. Maybe not.

Christians are compelled to take seriously the central teaching of the faith: God became flesh and dwelt among us. The Lord of the universe took on human identity to model what being human means. God did not send a text message, a Facebook post, or a blogger essay. God essentially said "It's not enough to talk at each other, or about each other. If we want to maintain humanity, it's crucial that we actually touch and see, smell and hear each other." For when we don't, we make easier the move to hubris and power, rather than humility and love.

Yes, it's full of inconsistencies, including the use of this blog to speak against blogging.

Hmmm.

Surprises Along the Highway

So I start out at 8:00 a.m. to travel the 4 and 1/2 hours to my mother's home, hoping to surprise her on her Easter Sunday 82nd birthday. An hour into the trip, my right rear tire blows, and I find myself trying to put one of those really small temporary spare tires on the axle, on Easter Sunday morning. But the spare is flat.

Off the Caprock (if you don't know Texas, you need to look it up), in the middle of nowhere, I dutifully change the tire -- flat for flat -- and decide to crawl back to the nearest town, Post. There I find out what is not surprising at all -- no tires stores open on Sunday ever. So I air up the tire, and proceed back home, at 45 mph, because I don't really trust a spare tire on which I just rode for 15 miles.

All is well, so as I climb up the Caprock (really a spectacular sight), I decide to pull in at the lookout picnic area that I've passed a million times before. (The day is shot, and who's in a hurry?) It's called "The Chimney Rocks," according to the sign. Apparently, back in the early 1900s, C.W. Post fired dynamite off the rise, into the lower range below, hoping to feed the atmosphere with necessary air changes that would produce rain. (Really; look it up). Yes, the Post of the cereal fortune. It's a beautiful sight, especially for those of us on the High Plains who long for topographical change; the vista is lovely and large and produces a longing for all.

So I walk around the park, and there it is: A bumper sticker poster on the garbage can, proclaiming "Honor your Father and Mother." Oh, no. What have I done? Is this a sign too turn back, trust the temporary spare, go on valiantly?

But I ignore it. I walk to the fenced edge, looking over prickly pear and mesquite, hugging the edge of the cliff as it falls down onto the city of Post. And there it is, the second sign: a tire. Oh, no. Oh, no. Should I panic? What in the world am I supposed to see/hear? I squint, and look for the size -- 205 55 r 16 -- that would be a stunner. But, alas, it is a 14 inch tire. I am safe.

No message from God. or the Easter Bunny.

Just a lost travel to my Mother's home, and

A day to live and wonder.

slp

A Tribute to an Executive

I do not know Mr. Rob Katz. A Wharton Business School graduate and former Wall Street player, the 42-year old now serves as the chief executive officer for Vail Resorts. While congressional politics were finding ways to bail out major financial and business institutions in late 2008, Mr. Katz was exercising bold creativity himself. He announced that his own 2009 salary would be cut to zero, and in successive years reduced from its previous rate by 15 percent. The company's executives and top directors would see a 20 percent pay cut, office workers a 10 percent pay cut, and all other workers a 2.5 percent pay cut.

When asked in an interview about these moves, Katz said "We have chosen to address this situation by making the preservation of jobs and protecting the guest experience our highest priorities. By asking everyone to take less, starting at the top, we can continue to focus on our mission of extraordinary resorts, exceptional experiences."

Preserving jobs and protecting the product for customers. What a novel idea. Starting at the top. What a virtuous ideal.

Would that other corporations, businesses, and schools would follow suit.

Musings on the Liberal Arts: Rest in Peace?

I've been grieving lately, and only now realize the process. For a good while there has been a trend in higher education away from the pursuit of wisdom and toward the fast-track to jobs. No one would doubt the importance of college for success in careers, and certainly those with vested interests -- taxpayers, donors, and parents, as a start -- deserve to see "results." But the myopic fascination with speed and precision, technical perfection and immediate relevance, costs and benefits, distorts the central importance of the life of learning itself. Despite the common knowledge that a broad-based education in the arts and sciences best prepares one for the world of work and living, today's colleges and universities are racing toward a glorious goal of streamlined trade schools. There is no room, we are told, for the luxuries of "irrelevant" courses in history, philosophy, astronomy, or art. These courses merely slow down the productive process, and their professors simply cost us too much.

C. S. Lewis once discussed, in an essay on "Learning in Times of War," the importance of the pursuit of knowledge and beauty for their own sake and for God's sake. Speaking to students at Oxford just after the start of World War II, he urged them to focus on their current vocation, their present "calling," and to diligently oppose the enemies of learning -- excitement, frustration, and fear. Too often, he says, students and faculty alike are drawn away from study by the distractions of urgent events, job preparations, insecurities, and the allure of the novel. How much more so today with immediate diversions at every finger. And how very strange, and sad, that those whose central mission is to advance learning and wisdom are among the most prolific models of their own failures.

Finally, Time to Garden

Okay, I'm going to risk it: no more freezes, so time to plant the tomatoes. Every year I move too early, but certainly we are done by now....certainly!

What would Spring be without the ritual of garden preparations? Turning the dirt with a simple shovel, digging hands into the clumps and breaking them up, separating nasty grass roots from precious composting worms, raking the ground smooth, marking the rows, and placing the tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, and broccoli? Never mind that there is not enough space. Never mind that there is not enough time. Never mind that the planting won't be finished for weeks.

Ah, but anticipate that first juice tomato, those shiny eggplants, more peppers than any salsa needs.

I can't wait.