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Crustless Three-Cheese Tomato-Basil Quiche
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Saturday, November 29, 2008
Going Live
In an attempt to increase traffic and networking, I've created a Facebook profile. If you are a regular reader, please add me. Search for Carter Wayne Jones. This will allow me to inform you about updates and be another medium for feedback. Thanks!
Friday, November 28, 2008
Giving Thanks: Lil' Sis
The turkey has been put away, the mashed potatoes enjoyed and the plans for Christmas decorations drawn; yes, another Thanksgiving has come to a close.
My family and I arose before dawn, served our soup and thanked God for all that he has given us. After our good deeds, we braced ourselves for another chapter of amateur athletic competition. It has become a Jones family Thanksgiving tradition that we compete prior to our yearly feast. Around 2 o’clock, our guests and the four of us head out to the local field and line up with a pigskin in between us, and every year, we fight my Dad and try to convince him to call the game off. The women don’t want to play, my cousins produce notes from their dive coach (they’re on a Big Ten school’s team) and my sister and I just roll our eyes. But every year my father prevails, and every year we head home an hour later hungry and happy from the friendly game.
Yesterday, however, we did not go home happy, and our hunger was a bit dampened by the first injury in the long history of our Turkey Bowl. Lil’ Sis was defending on a long ball, got tangled with one of my cousins as they both leaped for the pass, and ended up spraining her ankle. I stood there watching her writhe in pain, and my heart went out to her. I have suffered more ankle injuries than I can count, and the first one was the worst; the pain is unbearable, plus you are embarrassed that a simple leap in the air has left you a blithering lump on the cold, damp ground and you fear what the trip to the doctor will bear. A big brother never likes to see his baby sister cry, never likes to see her hurt, and never wants to know a situation in which he cannot help her.
She spent the day in doctors’ offices, awaiting X-rays and a prognosis. It ended up being merely a sprain, but she’ll be on crutches for a few days while the swelling subsides. I spent the day with the women, namely my aunt, grandmother and mother. Mostly they talked, and I listened. My mother and aunt did what they always do; talk about their kids and families and reminisce about the past. They were talking about friends they’d lost because of their jobs, marriages and children, and all the people that have come in and out of their life. But despite all the changes, my aunt mentioned that she still had her sisters, something I found incredibly poetic. I am always thankful for my family and our home, but this year in particular, I truly appreciated coming home for the holidays because I do not know what the future holds for me. I may not spend the holidays with my family next year, and I may not always be so near to come calling whenever I wish.
The conversation got me thinking about my sister and what she means to me. The years have fallen away, and they have taken our childish sibling rivalry along with them. I have told her before about my appreciation for her valuable advice on girls and dating, but my affection for her is due to more than that. I have grown to admire her, and it hurt to see her reduced to pain yesterday. She has told me countless times that she looks up to me, but she has grown and matured and earned the same respect from me. She really isn’t my baby sister anymore; she is a strong, smart, gifted woman. I always longed for a younger brother to toss a ball around with, but I am eternally grateful that the good Lord gave my parents a daughter to tell me how to dress. My sister will always hold a special place in my heart, like my aunts do in my mother’s, but to a greater degree, because she is all I have in the way of siblings. She understands me like no one else can, because she knows where I come from and by whom I was raised. She can make me smile as easily as she can make me scream in frustration, a special gift all little sisters possess. And while our time as neighbors has long passed, it will always be imprinted on my soul, along with her, no matter the distance the wind, or some boy, takes her from me.
My family and I arose before dawn, served our soup and thanked God for all that he has given us. After our good deeds, we braced ourselves for another chapter of amateur athletic competition. It has become a Jones family Thanksgiving tradition that we compete prior to our yearly feast. Around 2 o’clock, our guests and the four of us head out to the local field and line up with a pigskin in between us, and every year, we fight my Dad and try to convince him to call the game off. The women don’t want to play, my cousins produce notes from their dive coach (they’re on a Big Ten school’s team) and my sister and I just roll our eyes. But every year my father prevails, and every year we head home an hour later hungry and happy from the friendly game.
Yesterday, however, we did not go home happy, and our hunger was a bit dampened by the first injury in the long history of our Turkey Bowl. Lil’ Sis was defending on a long ball, got tangled with one of my cousins as they both leaped for the pass, and ended up spraining her ankle. I stood there watching her writhe in pain, and my heart went out to her. I have suffered more ankle injuries than I can count, and the first one was the worst; the pain is unbearable, plus you are embarrassed that a simple leap in the air has left you a blithering lump on the cold, damp ground and you fear what the trip to the doctor will bear. A big brother never likes to see his baby sister cry, never likes to see her hurt, and never wants to know a situation in which he cannot help her.
She spent the day in doctors’ offices, awaiting X-rays and a prognosis. It ended up being merely a sprain, but she’ll be on crutches for a few days while the swelling subsides. I spent the day with the women, namely my aunt, grandmother and mother. Mostly they talked, and I listened. My mother and aunt did what they always do; talk about their kids and families and reminisce about the past. They were talking about friends they’d lost because of their jobs, marriages and children, and all the people that have come in and out of their life. But despite all the changes, my aunt mentioned that she still had her sisters, something I found incredibly poetic. I am always thankful for my family and our home, but this year in particular, I truly appreciated coming home for the holidays because I do not know what the future holds for me. I may not spend the holidays with my family next year, and I may not always be so near to come calling whenever I wish.
The conversation got me thinking about my sister and what she means to me. The years have fallen away, and they have taken our childish sibling rivalry along with them. I have told her before about my appreciation for her valuable advice on girls and dating, but my affection for her is due to more than that. I have grown to admire her, and it hurt to see her reduced to pain yesterday. She has told me countless times that she looks up to me, but she has grown and matured and earned the same respect from me. She really isn’t my baby sister anymore; she is a strong, smart, gifted woman. I always longed for a younger brother to toss a ball around with, but I am eternally grateful that the good Lord gave my parents a daughter to tell me how to dress. My sister will always hold a special place in my heart, like my aunts do in my mother’s, but to a greater degree, because she is all I have in the way of siblings. She understands me like no one else can, because she knows where I come from and by whom I was raised. She can make me smile as easily as she can make me scream in frustration, a special gift all little sisters possess. And while our time as neighbors has long passed, it will always be imprinted on my soul, along with her, no matter the distance the wind, or some boy, takes her from me.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Giving Thanks: My Ma
The car door slammed shut, a great thud that continues to reverberate through my head to this day. I peered back at the faces that had greeted me each day with a smile and a wink and took the first anxious step toward my future.
I will not soon forget the day I left home for the dorms, because my mother won’t let me. It was the day I gained independence from my parents’ watchful and all-knowing eyes, and I knew it as I trudged up the steps to my second floor room. I had longed for it, longed to be out of the reach of my (sometimes) overbearing and nosy mother, who never let an opportunity pass to remind me how I should behave, speak, act and even eat. But not till last week did I realize that mothering is all the woman knows, and when my sister and I handed her her pink slip, all she was left with was her duties to pay our rents.
Oh, she still showed up for work everyday I let her in the door, chiding me for living at school on summer and winter breaks as opposed to her domicile only 12 miles away. She took it personally when I stayed by myself in the crappy three bedroom I call home, braving the oppressive humidity of July in a building that knows no air conditioning. She cried as our relationship deteriorated, with her working harder to get us back to what we once knew, while I chafed under her relentless attempt to force her way into my life. Why couldn’t she let me go? Why didn’t she understand I was forging my own path, that I longed to be free of her “house rules” and obligations, that I wished to be on my own, with my own money, my own “house rules?”
What I didn’t realize was that I was killing the poor woman, robbing her of her daily duties and, in a small way, her dignity. Her children had left her, her nest was empty, and all she had left was to improve my Pop, but after 27 years of marriage, she has done all she can with him. After 20 years on the job, she was rudely shown the door, before she could collect her things or even secure a severance package.
So when I made my weekly sojourn home to do my laundry last week, and was greeted by a pair of eyes that could stop your heart, I couldn’t help but drop my bags to the floor with a start. I stood frozen as the owner of the eyes stared back at me, leaping at the barrier that separated us in an attempt to inspect this new visitor in her new habitat. There would be no return to school for my mother, because her resume had finally been accepted, and she had gotten her old job back.
Watching my mother with the adorable Teddie, a half poodle, half shitzu, calling herself “mommy” as the doting ball of
fur followed her every stride brought a grin to my face; it was as if I had seen her reborn. I couldn’t remember seeing her so happy, so full of energy and excitement. But as the joy of seeing my mother this way began to fade, I began to understand our relationship better. I’ve seen this woman mostly as an obstacle since that car door slammed shut, someone who was more concerned with holding on to what I once was, as opposed to helping me realize what I would become. I thought she wanted her little boy, that she was too scared to admit I had grown up and left her, but that was not it at all. She wanted to know she was still important, that I still valued her in my life, and when I made it apparent that I believed I know longer needed her, it broke her heart. She didn’t want to tell me what to do anymore, she only wanted to offer advice because she didn’t want to see me fall, she wanted to lend a hand so that I didn’t have to feel pain. I thought I had matured because I no longer relied on her, but what I realized was that I had one step left, and that was to learn how to still let her in on my life.
Our newest member of the family can’t speak, read or write, but somehow, it taught me a lesson about my relationship with my mother. My mother has bucked the employment trend, and I’ve taken one more step out of adolescence.
I will not soon forget the day I left home for the dorms, because my mother won’t let me. It was the day I gained independence from my parents’ watchful and all-knowing eyes, and I knew it as I trudged up the steps to my second floor room. I had longed for it, longed to be out of the reach of my (sometimes) overbearing and nosy mother, who never let an opportunity pass to remind me how I should behave, speak, act and even eat. But not till last week did I realize that mothering is all the woman knows, and when my sister and I handed her her pink slip, all she was left with was her duties to pay our rents.
Oh, she still showed up for work everyday I let her in the door, chiding me for living at school on summer and winter breaks as opposed to her domicile only 12 miles away. She took it personally when I stayed by myself in the crappy three bedroom I call home, braving the oppressive humidity of July in a building that knows no air conditioning. She cried as our relationship deteriorated, with her working harder to get us back to what we once knew, while I chafed under her relentless attempt to force her way into my life. Why couldn’t she let me go? Why didn’t she understand I was forging my own path, that I longed to be free of her “house rules” and obligations, that I wished to be on my own, with my own money, my own “house rules?”
What I didn’t realize was that I was killing the poor woman, robbing her of her daily duties and, in a small way, her dignity. Her children had left her, her nest was empty, and all she had left was to improve my Pop, but after 27 years of marriage, she has done all she can with him. After 20 years on the job, she was rudely shown the door, before she could collect her things or even secure a severance package.
So when I made my weekly sojourn home to do my laundry last week, and was greeted by a pair of eyes that could stop your heart, I couldn’t help but drop my bags to the floor with a start. I stood frozen as the owner of the eyes stared back at me, leaping at the barrier that separated us in an attempt to inspect this new visitor in her new habitat. There would be no return to school for my mother, because her resume had finally been accepted, and she had gotten her old job back.
Watching my mother with the adorable Teddie, a half poodle, half shitzu, calling herself “mommy” as the doting ball of
fur followed her every stride brought a grin to my face; it was as if I had seen her reborn. I couldn’t remember seeing her so happy, so full of energy and excitement. But as the joy of seeing my mother this way began to fade, I began to understand our relationship better. I’ve seen this woman mostly as an obstacle since that car door slammed shut, someone who was more concerned with holding on to what I once was, as opposed to helping me realize what I would become. I thought she wanted her little boy, that she was too scared to admit I had grown up and left her, but that was not it at all. She wanted to know she was still important, that I still valued her in my life, and when I made it apparent that I believed I know longer needed her, it broke her heart. She didn’t want to tell me what to do anymore, she only wanted to offer advice because she didn’t want to see me fall, she wanted to lend a hand so that I didn’t have to feel pain. I thought I had matured because I no longer relied on her, but what I realized was that I had one step left, and that was to learn how to still let her in on my life.Our newest member of the family can’t speak, read or write, but somehow, it taught me a lesson about my relationship with my mother. My mother has bucked the employment trend, and I’ve taken one more step out of adolescence.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Spreading Holiday Cheer
The holiday season is upon us, as signaled by the endless seasonal music that greats your ears every time to break the threshold of a merchant. In light of this, I will be debuting a series I have been working on for a few weeks about my family, beginning on Tuesday when Lil’ Sis returns from her long sojourn from school. She is an avid reader of Press On, and has been pestering me, as little sisters always do, to write more about her, because she feels it will improve traffic. How modest she is.
Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday of the year. I am an avid preparer and consumer of food, and I look forward to the feast each year. Like many American families, mine has a yearly tradition of a heated football contest prior to the meal, and, fortunately, it typically ends in smiles and laughs no matter the outcome. My immediate family of four will be joined this year by my grandmother, aunt and her three sons, all of whom I cannot wait to spend the weekend with.
I can only hope all of you are so fortunate. Thanksgiving break is a great time to take a step back from class, relax a little and refocus for finals, but it is also a great time to reflect on what is important in your own life. I encourage you all to embrace your mother, thank her for all she has given you and offer to help out with the day’s festivities any way you can. We travel far from the homes our parents have made for us for school, and often, returning there can be a boring chore. But this time, remember the love that cannot be replicated in your dorm, the closeness that you will not find in your local bar, and the memories from holidays past. I wish all my readers a safe and happy Thanksgiving, and I hope that you get to spend it with friends and family.
Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday of the year. I am an avid preparer and consumer of food, and I look forward to the feast each year. Like many American families, mine has a yearly tradition of a heated football contest prior to the meal, and, fortunately, it typically ends in smiles and laughs no matter the outcome. My immediate family of four will be joined this year by my grandmother, aunt and her three sons, all of whom I cannot wait to spend the weekend with.
I can only hope all of you are so fortunate. Thanksgiving break is a great time to take a step back from class, relax a little and refocus for finals, but it is also a great time to reflect on what is important in your own life. I encourage you all to embrace your mother, thank her for all she has given you and offer to help out with the day’s festivities any way you can. We travel far from the homes our parents have made for us for school, and often, returning there can be a boring chore. But this time, remember the love that cannot be replicated in your dorm, the closeness that you will not find in your local bar, and the memories from holidays past. I wish all my readers a safe and happy Thanksgiving, and I hope that you get to spend it with friends and family.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
If a senior falls but no one is around to hear it...
Oh Fall ’08, where have you gone? The autumn wind that brings fallen leaves to my window also scoops up the discarded pages of my calendar, and with them, the daily reminder that my time in college is one day closer to the end. This solemn fact has stalked me since last fall, and was a big motivator in the creation of this space to chronicle my last go around.
But the time has passed too rapidly to put anything in perspective; it is hard to believe that Thanksgiving is a mere 7 days away. Soon, it will be on to December, to final exams and then to what was supposed to be a victory lap in Spring ’09.
But the parade route is still being finalized, pending approval from the Fraternity Corps of Engineers. Senioritis has gripped the vigor I felt for the Fraternity all the years it has been part of my life, and has strangled it nearly to death. The Chapter House gets vandalized, and I barely bat an eye. Party with a sorority, yet I don’t feel like dressing for that theme. Another opportunity to clinch a sports championship, but I’m too consumed with my own stuff to attend and cheer the team to victory.
The Fraternity was my chance to meet friends, girls and people to fill the time between class and bed every day, but now having achieved a girl, friends and some people, what personal incentive is there to continue with it? It has given me fond memories, great parties and funny stories, but my senior year has been devoid of many of the people and things that had me banging on its door each day in my younger years. This does not appear to be my problem alone; on Tuesday night, the Fraternity had a pre-drink with Audrey’s sorority, and she was the only senior in attendance. Where, oh, where, have the seniors gone?
I relayed this to Lil’ Sis last night, the oddity of being the oldest guy in the room at parties. She just laughed and told me I’m making a big deal out of nothing, that I’m only two years older than “people her age” and should stop pretending that I’m too old for college. I agree that two years isn’t that great a gap, and that I’m certainly still ok with having too much to drink, but there isn’t the same fulfillment there once was.
It is impossible to deny the differences I as a senior have with sophomore girls at parties. I am concerned with finding a job and paying my bills, and they’re just too busy talking about their cute TA and complaining that we’re out of Rikaloff. I wondered aloud the other night if I had become uncool and too boring to meet and make friends as I once did. But Audrey said she had the same problem, so much so that she knew more of my friends than she did girls in her own sorority at the event two nights ago.
“It’s not fun anymore,” she said. “And other girls feel the same way. We used to go to things, look around the room and know everyone there, but they’ve all come and graduated, and now the room is dominated by the new girls. A lot of the older girls just say ‘Fuck it,’ because our friends aren’t out.”
I had always heard the senior classes of the past complain about the senior girls of Greek Life, huddled away at home with boyfriends, but I never grasped it till now. My time to party and act irresponsibly is coming to a close, and I fear I am failing to seize it. What once was fun seems dull, and what used to be important is now on the back burner. I got what I needed from the Fraternity, and now that she has little to give that I wish to take, I make little time for it. I just hope my last memory will not be as a bored, bitter senior.
But the time has passed too rapidly to put anything in perspective; it is hard to believe that Thanksgiving is a mere 7 days away. Soon, it will be on to December, to final exams and then to what was supposed to be a victory lap in Spring ’09.
But the parade route is still being finalized, pending approval from the Fraternity Corps of Engineers. Senioritis has gripped the vigor I felt for the Fraternity all the years it has been part of my life, and has strangled it nearly to death. The Chapter House gets vandalized, and I barely bat an eye. Party with a sorority, yet I don’t feel like dressing for that theme. Another opportunity to clinch a sports championship, but I’m too consumed with my own stuff to attend and cheer the team to victory.
The Fraternity was my chance to meet friends, girls and people to fill the time between class and bed every day, but now having achieved a girl, friends and some people, what personal incentive is there to continue with it? It has given me fond memories, great parties and funny stories, but my senior year has been devoid of many of the people and things that had me banging on its door each day in my younger years. This does not appear to be my problem alone; on Tuesday night, the Fraternity had a pre-drink with Audrey’s sorority, and she was the only senior in attendance. Where, oh, where, have the seniors gone?
I relayed this to Lil’ Sis last night, the oddity of being the oldest guy in the room at parties. She just laughed and told me I’m making a big deal out of nothing, that I’m only two years older than “people her age” and should stop pretending that I’m too old for college. I agree that two years isn’t that great a gap, and that I’m certainly still ok with having too much to drink, but there isn’t the same fulfillment there once was.
It is impossible to deny the differences I as a senior have with sophomore girls at parties. I am concerned with finding a job and paying my bills, and they’re just too busy talking about their cute TA and complaining that we’re out of Rikaloff. I wondered aloud the other night if I had become uncool and too boring to meet and make friends as I once did. But Audrey said she had the same problem, so much so that she knew more of my friends than she did girls in her own sorority at the event two nights ago.
“It’s not fun anymore,” she said. “And other girls feel the same way. We used to go to things, look around the room and know everyone there, but they’ve all come and graduated, and now the room is dominated by the new girls. A lot of the older girls just say ‘Fuck it,’ because our friends aren’t out.”
I had always heard the senior classes of the past complain about the senior girls of Greek Life, huddled away at home with boyfriends, but I never grasped it till now. My time to party and act irresponsibly is coming to a close, and I fear I am failing to seize it. What once was fun seems dull, and what used to be important is now on the back burner. I got what I needed from the Fraternity, and now that she has little to give that I wish to take, I make little time for it. I just hope my last memory will not be as a bored, bitter senior.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Class Wear
The changing of the guard is nearly complete, and Snow Miser has taken the position he will hold until early April when his brother Heat Miser takes it back. And while this means I get to dust off my favorite old Christmas movies, it also means summer has come and gone, and the impending winter chill has sent the skirts, sundresses and halter tops that make my treks to class so pleasant into the back of girls’ closets.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moon light?
The sun-soaked afternoons quickly turn into brisk, moon-lit nights as winter sneaks up from behind on State College Town. I donned my parka and headed out to the library the other night, and as I approached the edge of campus, I noticed a middle-aged man leaning over the railing that prevented traffic from entering campus as the lights flashed from his van that rested ten feet away.
“How are you tonight?” I called out to him as I approached. Our campus locks down after 10 p.m. to divert traffic through the main entrance so the cars entering can be recorded by security.
“Fine, and how about yourself?” he replied friendly.
“Not too bad,” I retuned, shivering through the brisk wind that blew through the layers that become my companions when the mercury falls. I reached into my wallet and produced my student ID in order to proceed beyond his post. “I’m headed to the library to study, I suppose you will need documentation?”
He chuckled softy and shook his head. “No, they pay me just to make sure the bus comes through on time, but I appreciate you recognizing me as something more important.”
“Oh, very good then. Stay warm, and have a good night,” I offered as I passed him by.
I went on my way to cram for the next day’s exam in an effort to raise my GPA beyond its present level of mediocrity, but the encounter stayed with me. At first, I cursed the university for forcing such a pleasant fellow to brave the wintry weather we have been experiencing for such a menial task. I wondered aloud why it was necessary to allocate additional resources merely as a check on the unmotivated college students who captain the buses that transport drunk freshman from their dorms to the bars, but my momentary annoyance passed as I crossed the threshold into the warmth of our library.
But as I finished and began the walk back to my apartment, my mind returned to the genteel man I had encountered before. How remarkable of him to keep such high spirits despite his placement in our class system. There is not a day that goes by in which I fail to complain about my financial situation and the dread I have over facing a declining job market that awaits me following graduation. He works a forgotten position nightly, likely for a pittance, but he does it with a warm smile and a kind word. How many times was I ungrateful for his service as I huddled with strangers and waited for the bus three years ago? How quickly my frustration would have boiled over if I waited impatiently as my lips turned blue because of a tardy chariot.
The world is full of men and women like him, who man thankless posts, taking care of tasks I do not even consider or deem worthy of employment. It is truly remarkable considering my whole life has been a quest to earn an esteemed position in our society, and should I fail, the scorn and disappointment that would fall down upon me from family, friends and peers would be swift and unmerciful. And why are some positions more honored than others? Doctors save lives, lawyers keep the law and teachers educate the population, but where would we be without the people that lord over our conveniences? How, when and who deemed some employment more important than others, and why is there so much shame associated with the less esteemed ones? Are those that don hardhats and carry shovels less skilled, less important than the doctor or lawyer? Could the doctor or lawyer have achieved their titles without the bus checker ensuring they returned to their homes promptly in order to receive a good night’s rest? Why do we build up those men only to tear the others down for their “shortcomings?”
A job is just that; it is a way to collect a paycheck so you can provide for yourself and those that depend upon you. But often, a job title carries with it a significance, or an insignificance, that raises its profile and labels the individual that carries it. Dedication is necessary to carry out a task sufficiently, and pride is a prime motivator in ensuring success. But a person’s office number should not define their personality, and it should not help form your opinion of a person. An honest day’s work is often more important than sitting at a machine and plugging in numbers, and we should all remember that before we cast a disapproving eye at an undervalued member of the workforce.
“How are you tonight?” I called out to him as I approached. Our campus locks down after 10 p.m. to divert traffic through the main entrance so the cars entering can be recorded by security.
“Fine, and how about yourself?” he replied friendly.
“Not too bad,” I retuned, shivering through the brisk wind that blew through the layers that become my companions when the mercury falls. I reached into my wallet and produced my student ID in order to proceed beyond his post. “I’m headed to the library to study, I suppose you will need documentation?”
He chuckled softy and shook his head. “No, they pay me just to make sure the bus comes through on time, but I appreciate you recognizing me as something more important.”
“Oh, very good then. Stay warm, and have a good night,” I offered as I passed him by.
I went on my way to cram for the next day’s exam in an effort to raise my GPA beyond its present level of mediocrity, but the encounter stayed with me. At first, I cursed the university for forcing such a pleasant fellow to brave the wintry weather we have been experiencing for such a menial task. I wondered aloud why it was necessary to allocate additional resources merely as a check on the unmotivated college students who captain the buses that transport drunk freshman from their dorms to the bars, but my momentary annoyance passed as I crossed the threshold into the warmth of our library.
But as I finished and began the walk back to my apartment, my mind returned to the genteel man I had encountered before. How remarkable of him to keep such high spirits despite his placement in our class system. There is not a day that goes by in which I fail to complain about my financial situation and the dread I have over facing a declining job market that awaits me following graduation. He works a forgotten position nightly, likely for a pittance, but he does it with a warm smile and a kind word. How many times was I ungrateful for his service as I huddled with strangers and waited for the bus three years ago? How quickly my frustration would have boiled over if I waited impatiently as my lips turned blue because of a tardy chariot.
The world is full of men and women like him, who man thankless posts, taking care of tasks I do not even consider or deem worthy of employment. It is truly remarkable considering my whole life has been a quest to earn an esteemed position in our society, and should I fail, the scorn and disappointment that would fall down upon me from family, friends and peers would be swift and unmerciful. And why are some positions more honored than others? Doctors save lives, lawyers keep the law and teachers educate the population, but where would we be without the people that lord over our conveniences? How, when and who deemed some employment more important than others, and why is there so much shame associated with the less esteemed ones? Are those that don hardhats and carry shovels less skilled, less important than the doctor or lawyer? Could the doctor or lawyer have achieved their titles without the bus checker ensuring they returned to their homes promptly in order to receive a good night’s rest? Why do we build up those men only to tear the others down for their “shortcomings?”
A job is just that; it is a way to collect a paycheck so you can provide for yourself and those that depend upon you. But often, a job title carries with it a significance, or an insignificance, that raises its profile and labels the individual that carries it. Dedication is necessary to carry out a task sufficiently, and pride is a prime motivator in ensuring success. But a person’s office number should not define their personality, and it should not help form your opinion of a person. An honest day’s work is often more important than sitting at a machine and plugging in numbers, and we should all remember that before we cast a disapproving eye at an undervalued member of the workforce.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
An Historic Senior Year
Quite often when you are on the precipice of history, you are too caught up in the moment to realize it.
Last week, a parade went through a city that had to wake the dead to learn the route. Beers were spilled, Kleenex’s stock skyrocketed and the FCC cringed. And so the city of Philadelphia rocked and rolled, but before the ink dried on the “c” of historic, Barack Obama’s name was announced over the PA system and he strode to the plate as the 44th President of the United States.
The first thing that left my lips as Brad Lidge returned to Earth and fell to his knees was “I never thought I’d see this day,” and I was not alone. For any Philadelphia fan born after June 1983, a world championship was a foreign concept. So when Eric Hinske swung through strike three on Oct. 29, it marked a cosmic shift in the psyche of pouting Philly fans. No longer are we losers, no longer will we expect heartache and forever will we remember that day (This does not apply to you, wearers of midnight green. Please do not think you are off the hook. This Phillies’ championship only makes the fact that you are without a Lombardi trophy beyond pathetic.).
How fitting then, in a fall of firsts, that U.S. voters took the last (public) step to bury the long, ugly past of discrimination against blacks in this country. As I watched our next president give a stirring acceptance speech just before the calendar read 5, I recalled my childhood growing up in a county where I was the minority. I remember 5th grade, and learning of the horrible history of race relations, stunned by the words I read in Roll of Thunder, Here My Cry. I had sat next to my black peers all my life, but my adolescent naiveté was shaken upon learning that was not always the case.
From there, the crusade was on; I devoured the rest of Mildred D. Taylor’s books, I pressed my parents for more information and I opened my eyes to see if this was still a problem around me. I did everything a 10-year old could to learn about racism and be sure that I was never a part of it.
However, it never occurred to me that racism went both ways. I never thought of the mistrust and the scars that remained with much of the black population. But when I reached high school, one of my basketball teammates went out of his way to express his misgivings of the fair-skinned fellows. He had been raised with an admirable level of pride for his race, but along with it, an utter lack of courtesy or interest in his white classmates.
This was stunning to me. For so long, I had been concerned with racism going one way, but never had thought of it coming back at me. I had never been disliked because of my skin color, or at least not to my knowledge. Despite this, he and I would eventually become friends after he was injured and forced to share the bench with me for the season. I would eventually learn of his fears and feelings, some understandable, some uninformed. I only hope I helped him grow as much as he did for me.
This story, and ones like it, became history on Tuesday night. 2008 was not a presidential election; it was a sea-change. As a white man, I cannot begin to understand the pain, the humiliation and the frustrations that black men and women have felt over the course of their lives, but the elation I saw on their faces Tuesday night helped explain it. Barack Obama has energized a generation, educated a population and made good on the promise that in America, anything is possible. Fortunately and unfortunately, this election had everything to do with race, but now that Barack has achieved the highest position in the land, hopefully it will be the last time that that is ever the case.
Rosa sat so Martin could walk, Martin walked so Barack could run, and Barack ran so our children could fly. Wise words from a source smarter than me.
Last week, a parade went through a city that had to wake the dead to learn the route. Beers were spilled, Kleenex’s stock skyrocketed and the FCC cringed. And so the city of Philadelphia rocked and rolled, but before the ink dried on the “c” of historic, Barack Obama’s name was announced over the PA system and he strode to the plate as the 44th President of the United States.
The first thing that left my lips as Brad Lidge returned to Earth and fell to his knees was “I never thought I’d see this day,” and I was not alone. For any Philadelphia fan born after June 1983, a world championship was a foreign concept. So when Eric Hinske swung through strike three on Oct. 29, it marked a cosmic shift in the psyche of pouting Philly fans. No longer are we losers, no longer will we expect heartache and forever will we remember that day (This does not apply to you, wearers of midnight green. Please do not think you are off the hook. This Phillies’ championship only makes the fact that you are without a Lombardi trophy beyond pathetic.).
How fitting then, in a fall of firsts, that U.S. voters took the last (public) step to bury the long, ugly past of discrimination against blacks in this country. As I watched our next president give a stirring acceptance speech just before the calendar read 5, I recalled my childhood growing up in a county where I was the minority. I remember 5th grade, and learning of the horrible history of race relations, stunned by the words I read in Roll of Thunder, Here My Cry. I had sat next to my black peers all my life, but my adolescent naiveté was shaken upon learning that was not always the case.
From there, the crusade was on; I devoured the rest of Mildred D. Taylor’s books, I pressed my parents for more information and I opened my eyes to see if this was still a problem around me. I did everything a 10-year old could to learn about racism and be sure that I was never a part of it.
However, it never occurred to me that racism went both ways. I never thought of the mistrust and the scars that remained with much of the black population. But when I reached high school, one of my basketball teammates went out of his way to express his misgivings of the fair-skinned fellows. He had been raised with an admirable level of pride for his race, but along with it, an utter lack of courtesy or interest in his white classmates.
This was stunning to me. For so long, I had been concerned with racism going one way, but never had thought of it coming back at me. I had never been disliked because of my skin color, or at least not to my knowledge. Despite this, he and I would eventually become friends after he was injured and forced to share the bench with me for the season. I would eventually learn of his fears and feelings, some understandable, some uninformed. I only hope I helped him grow as much as he did for me.
This story, and ones like it, became history on Tuesday night. 2008 was not a presidential election; it was a sea-change. As a white man, I cannot begin to understand the pain, the humiliation and the frustrations that black men and women have felt over the course of their lives, but the elation I saw on their faces Tuesday night helped explain it. Barack Obama has energized a generation, educated a population and made good on the promise that in America, anything is possible. Fortunately and unfortunately, this election had everything to do with race, but now that Barack has achieved the highest position in the land, hopefully it will be the last time that that is ever the case.
Rosa sat so Martin could walk, Martin walked so Barack could run, and Barack ran so our children could fly. Wise words from a source smarter than me.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Flordia/Georgia Weekend
I decided to get out of State College Town this past weekend to head down to the yearly shit show in Jacksonville, commonly referred to as “Florida/Georgia” Weekend.
The city of Jacksonville and Alltell Stadium host the yearly matchup between the bitter SEC rivals, and because of Jacksonville’s proximity to both Gainesville, Fla., and Athens, Ga., the fans travel extremely well. Many head down to start the festivities as early as the Wednesday before the game, populating “RV City,” as it is known by the locals. It is little more than an asphalt expanse that becomes home to the rowdy out-of-towners and their rolling tailgate machines.
With an off day for State University’s squad and the “World’s Largest Cocktail Party” beckoning, I set off on the trip with four brothers, a graduate brother and a friend of his from home down I-95. We met up with another graduate brother who makes his home there, and joined in on the madness.
The game is no longer known by that appropriate aforementioned moniker, because the powers at be did not feel it a good representation of their schools or conference, but a rose by any other name is still a rose. It was like nothing I had seen before; someone had described it to me as Mardi Gras, but the Crescent City’s most well-known bash is not fueled by SEC football fervor as Jacksonville’s party is.
While we were all impressed with the all-out rage that went from morning till the next day’s dawn, what struck me most was the southern culture that dripped from every participant in Duval County. As we headed home Sunday in an intoxicated haze through Georgia, one of the passengers in the car pointed out the fleet of decked out RVs that rumbled down the highway across from us. I lifted my head and peered across to see about 15 luxury vehicles that double as condos gliding down the highway. The sight joggled my beer and bourbon flooded brain and I couldn’t help but smile at the time honored tradition of tailgating that these people take so seriously and do so well.
This weekend transcends tailgates or football contests for its fans. The jersey clad supporters who flock to this southern metropolis are not merely co-eds and frat daddies; no, it brings with it the young, the old and the infirm. College students shotgunned beers along with their grandfathers. Middle-school aged children viewed with awe as their fathers tossed ping pong balls across stained fold-up tables. Women crowed at televisions when a call went against the squad they supported.
I love football, and I really love tailgating, but these people put me to shame. College football, drinking and grilling double as vacations and family reunions down south, and you don’t have to look any further than the grand domiciles on wheels they boast to prove it. Those fans were not huddling around 10’’ black and whites adorned with rabbit ears; rather, on display were 35’’ HDTVs hooked up to satellite dishes, some equipped with surround sound so the whole “block” could listen in. The grills and the steaks were industrial sized.
The whole scene was fascinating. At first, I chuckled at the simplicity of these “hicks” who spend all of their disposable income on getting drunk and watching 20-year olds crash into one another. But, after seeing the proud fleet rolling down 95, I began to sing a different tune. Sure, my parents and their friends would be aghast at people their age drinking and behaving as though they were my age, and perhaps that isn’t the healthiest of behavior in front of offspring, but the sense of community and pride these people displayed was refreshing. We Yanks fret about our savings and 401ks so we can jet off to the Caribbean or sport a new Beemer every few months, mostly to one up our neighbors, friends and relatives. But that’s not what I witnessed in Jacksonville.
Instead, I saw friends, family and neighbors taking part in a holiday, and the expenses they put into it were not for show but for celebration. They happily swapped hamburgers for beers, chairs for cornhole sets and made room for everyone to gather around their tvs. We northerners poke fun at the Confederacy and the simpletons that call it home, mainly because they buy into the country singer stereotype. And even though I can now confirm those stereotypes are accurate, they are rooted in the southern culture of hospitality. The community feel is intoxicating, and even though it might not win any of them prize money on Jeopardy!, it is a sweet and happy way to go through life.
The city of Jacksonville and Alltell Stadium host the yearly matchup between the bitter SEC rivals, and because of Jacksonville’s proximity to both Gainesville, Fla., and Athens, Ga., the fans travel extremely well. Many head down to start the festivities as early as the Wednesday before the game, populating “RV City,” as it is known by the locals. It is little more than an asphalt expanse that becomes home to the rowdy out-of-towners and their rolling tailgate machines.
With an off day for State University’s squad and the “World’s Largest Cocktail Party” beckoning, I set off on the trip with four brothers, a graduate brother and a friend of his from home down I-95. We met up with another graduate brother who makes his home there, and joined in on the madness.
The game is no longer known by that appropriate aforementioned moniker, because the powers at be did not feel it a good representation of their schools or conference, but a rose by any other name is still a rose. It was like nothing I had seen before; someone had described it to me as Mardi Gras, but the Crescent City’s most well-known bash is not fueled by SEC football fervor as Jacksonville’s party is.
While we were all impressed with the all-out rage that went from morning till the next day’s dawn, what struck me most was the southern culture that dripped from every participant in Duval County. As we headed home Sunday in an intoxicated haze through Georgia, one of the passengers in the car pointed out the fleet of decked out RVs that rumbled down the highway across from us. I lifted my head and peered across to see about 15 luxury vehicles that double as condos gliding down the highway. The sight joggled my beer and bourbon flooded brain and I couldn’t help but smile at the time honored tradition of tailgating that these people take so seriously and do so well.
This weekend transcends tailgates or football contests for its fans. The jersey clad supporters who flock to this southern metropolis are not merely co-eds and frat daddies; no, it brings with it the young, the old and the infirm. College students shotgunned beers along with their grandfathers. Middle-school aged children viewed with awe as their fathers tossed ping pong balls across stained fold-up tables. Women crowed at televisions when a call went against the squad they supported.
I love football, and I really love tailgating, but these people put me to shame. College football, drinking and grilling double as vacations and family reunions down south, and you don’t have to look any further than the grand domiciles on wheels they boast to prove it. Those fans were not huddling around 10’’ black and whites adorned with rabbit ears; rather, on display were 35’’ HDTVs hooked up to satellite dishes, some equipped with surround sound so the whole “block” could listen in. The grills and the steaks were industrial sized.
The whole scene was fascinating. At first, I chuckled at the simplicity of these “hicks” who spend all of their disposable income on getting drunk and watching 20-year olds crash into one another. But, after seeing the proud fleet rolling down 95, I began to sing a different tune. Sure, my parents and their friends would be aghast at people their age drinking and behaving as though they were my age, and perhaps that isn’t the healthiest of behavior in front of offspring, but the sense of community and pride these people displayed was refreshing. We Yanks fret about our savings and 401ks so we can jet off to the Caribbean or sport a new Beemer every few months, mostly to one up our neighbors, friends and relatives. But that’s not what I witnessed in Jacksonville.
Instead, I saw friends, family and neighbors taking part in a holiday, and the expenses they put into it were not for show but for celebration. They happily swapped hamburgers for beers, chairs for cornhole sets and made room for everyone to gather around their tvs. We northerners poke fun at the Confederacy and the simpletons that call it home, mainly because they buy into the country singer stereotype. And even though I can now confirm those stereotypes are accurate, they are rooted in the southern culture of hospitality. The community feel is intoxicating, and even though it might not win any of them prize money on Jeopardy!, it is a sweet and happy way to go through life.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Day Late and a Dollar Short...
Although the 2008 election has come to a close, I couldn't help but wonder if the outcome would have been different if Sen. McCain had tried a different public image. I give you, McCain the jock.
Success in politics is rooted in strategy and execution, knowledge of the opponent and his weaknesses along with a fervent backing from supporters. Sports are much the same, and it is not a new practice to use sports analogies along the campaign trail.
With that in mind and an historic election set to commence in less than 24 hours, Sen. John McCain tried to rally the troops with an inspirational and lasting memory for voters who would see his name on the ballot the following day. What was the message, you ask?
“HE...COULD...GO...ALL...THE...WAY...TO THE WHITE HOUSE!” he bellowed on Monday Night Football on ESPN as anchor Chris Berman smiled, dipped his head, and shook it in suspended disbelief.
McCain wasn’t done. He went on to reference his deficit in the polls that many pundits have deemed insurmountable, and uttered one more tired cliche in response.
“That’s why they play the game,” McCain beamed, as Berman did his best bobble head impression.
Americans love an underdog, but they hate George Bush, and McCain has been trying to run from those comparisons for months now. Perhaps he should have dropped the tired war veteran, bible thumping, baby kissing routine months ago, and instead of resorting to cheap gimmicks and tired puns, he could have appeared on ESPN like his adversary, Sen. Barack Obama did, with a self-assured grin and an air of unmistakable confidence.
Instead, he blew a golden opportunity to forge an identity that would have reverberated beyond party lines. Every week, millions of Americans stuff themselves into athletic cathedrals and hug, high-five and celebrate no matter what their political party affiliation. John, if you are such a maverick, how did you miss this boat? Dump the executive experience mumbo jumbo, and start talking up your All-American boy image. How can Obama compete with a guy who lettered in three macho sports, football, boxing and wrestling (they give out letters for the jayvee, right?).
While Obama was off scrimmaging with those losers from Chapel Hill, you should have been in the breadbasket working on your fallaway with Mario Chalmers. John, as a military boxer and a survivor of a POW camp, how could you not have at least challenged that nancy boy from Hawaii to an arm-wrestling match?
What’s that John? You said you can’t raise your arms above your shoulders anymore? And I should be well aware of that fact because you flail around like a turtle on its back whenever in front of a camera?
That’s ok, John, I understand you are getting on in years, but that’s why you nabbed Gov. Sarah Palin as your running mate. I’ll bet the two of you would make a fine one-two punch on skates against your Democratic opponents.
You can’t get ahold of Mrs. Palin, John? She’s on the phone with France, you say? She’d probably be tied up putting lipstick on her bulldog, anyway.
You’re running out of options fast here, John. Basketball is out, arm wrestling isn’t an option and Palin’s in Quebec getting directions to the ice rink. That only leaves you with a couple of options. You said yourself you weren’t very good at football, so I can’t imagine that’s a good option for you, but neither was siding with Bush back in ’03, so you could gamble here, too. Obama might try to get you on a surf board, but I wouldn’t recommend a man of your, uh, physique, to be shirtless in public.
No, I’ve got the perfect competition for you, one people of your generation dominate every time they step on the court, and one you can surely crush Obama in.
Shuffleboard. Years of grizzled competition at the Del Boca Vista-esque condos that dot your great state have prepared you for your moment of glory. It’s here, John, take it.
It’s a great idea, right? Oh jeez, you are right, I never thought of that. Obama will have a tough time finding identification to get him into the 65-and over clubs in order to compete.
Well, it’s not looking too good for you in the sports department, John. But if you do pick up an Obama fumble tomorrow, don’t use Leon Lett as your inspiration on the way to the White House.
Success in politics is rooted in strategy and execution, knowledge of the opponent and his weaknesses along with a fervent backing from supporters. Sports are much the same, and it is not a new practice to use sports analogies along the campaign trail.
With that in mind and an historic election set to commence in less than 24 hours, Sen. John McCain tried to rally the troops with an inspirational and lasting memory for voters who would see his name on the ballot the following day. What was the message, you ask?
“HE...COULD...GO...ALL...THE...WAY...TO THE WHITE HOUSE!” he bellowed on Monday Night Football on ESPN as anchor Chris Berman smiled, dipped his head, and shook it in suspended disbelief.
McCain wasn’t done. He went on to reference his deficit in the polls that many pundits have deemed insurmountable, and uttered one more tired cliche in response.
“That’s why they play the game,” McCain beamed, as Berman did his best bobble head impression.
Americans love an underdog, but they hate George Bush, and McCain has been trying to run from those comparisons for months now. Perhaps he should have dropped the tired war veteran, bible thumping, baby kissing routine months ago, and instead of resorting to cheap gimmicks and tired puns, he could have appeared on ESPN like his adversary, Sen. Barack Obama did, with a self-assured grin and an air of unmistakable confidence.
Instead, he blew a golden opportunity to forge an identity that would have reverberated beyond party lines. Every week, millions of Americans stuff themselves into athletic cathedrals and hug, high-five and celebrate no matter what their political party affiliation. John, if you are such a maverick, how did you miss this boat? Dump the executive experience mumbo jumbo, and start talking up your All-American boy image. How can Obama compete with a guy who lettered in three macho sports, football, boxing and wrestling (they give out letters for the jayvee, right?).
While Obama was off scrimmaging with those losers from Chapel Hill, you should have been in the breadbasket working on your fallaway with Mario Chalmers. John, as a military boxer and a survivor of a POW camp, how could you not have at least challenged that nancy boy from Hawaii to an arm-wrestling match?
What’s that John? You said you can’t raise your arms above your shoulders anymore? And I should be well aware of that fact because you flail around like a turtle on its back whenever in front of a camera?
That’s ok, John, I understand you are getting on in years, but that’s why you nabbed Gov. Sarah Palin as your running mate. I’ll bet the two of you would make a fine one-two punch on skates against your Democratic opponents.
You can’t get ahold of Mrs. Palin, John? She’s on the phone with France, you say? She’d probably be tied up putting lipstick on her bulldog, anyway.
You’re running out of options fast here, John. Basketball is out, arm wrestling isn’t an option and Palin’s in Quebec getting directions to the ice rink. That only leaves you with a couple of options. You said yourself you weren’t very good at football, so I can’t imagine that’s a good option for you, but neither was siding with Bush back in ’03, so you could gamble here, too. Obama might try to get you on a surf board, but I wouldn’t recommend a man of your, uh, physique, to be shirtless in public.
No, I’ve got the perfect competition for you, one people of your generation dominate every time they step on the court, and one you can surely crush Obama in.
Shuffleboard. Years of grizzled competition at the Del Boca Vista-esque condos that dot your great state have prepared you for your moment of glory. It’s here, John, take it.
It’s a great idea, right? Oh jeez, you are right, I never thought of that. Obama will have a tough time finding identification to get him into the 65-and over clubs in order to compete.
Well, it’s not looking too good for you in the sports department, John. But if you do pick up an Obama fumble tomorrow, don’t use Leon Lett as your inspiration on the way to the White House.
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