Story

—I don’t want no characters. I’m not going to have any. 

—What do you mean? You’ve got to have characters. 

—No I don’t. I don’t want any. I want to be alone. 

—What are you going to do then? You can’t just sit there. 

—Yes I can. Why can’t I? 

—You’ve got to have a plot. You need action. 

—No. Who’s writing this thing anyway? 

—What about a title? 

—What about it? 

—Nothing. Forget it. 

—Exactly. I’m not going to have a setting either. And no diction and no conflict and no theme. 

—What about an audience? You’re not going to have an audience either. 

—Yes. Yes I will. 

—No, no you’re not. You know, with no plot you never could call this, this whatever it is, a story. And now if you say there’s no theme, then you can’t really call it anything. 

—I don’t want to call it anything. You’re the one trying to call it something. 

—Okay, never mind. But the point is, who’s going to care? Who’s going to give a shit? If it won’t have any substance why should anyone bother. 

—I don’t want substance. I especially don’t want the shit. 

—Right. But you want an audience. You just said that you even expect one. 

—That’s right. But let me tell you something. Maybe this will make you see. Last Tuesday I was taking a walk through the park. It was noon and I saw this old bum curled up on the edge of the sidewalk, eyes closed, not doing anything. And I stared at him for a little while. He didn’t move. Flies landed on him and he didn’t brush them away. He might have been dead. 

—Maybe he was. 

—I don’t know. But I stood there and stared at him for I don’t know how long and he never did move. He was positioned in such a way that I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. I think he was alive though. I’m pretty sure he had some sort of soul. 

—But what’s the point? 

—Maybe there is none. 

—So what are you trying to say? 

—I’m not trying to say anything. I’m just saying it, there was a bum in the park and I happened to notice him and I think he had a soul. 

—And for that you think you’ll have an audience. 

—Hey look. Someone will notice this some day and maybe even several people will stop and stare and eventually someone will tell somebody else, like I just told you. They’ll even come up with the standard speculations: he looks dead, but I think he’s alive. He’s just a bum, but what was he yesterday and what will he be tomorrow? Who knows? Who cares? Maybe it’s a mental illness, or maybe it’s a statement of choice ...or maybe he really is dead. He’s motionless, but he’s got a soul. People will wonder, I promise. Wait and see. 

—Is that your story? Kind of depressing. And you can’t just end it like that. 

—Settle down. That’s not my ending. It’s not even my story. 

—Whatever. 

—Right. 

—So will you bring your readers to any conclusion? 

—No. No one ever does, really. 

—Now that’s arguable. Platitudinous even. 

—Of course it is. Everything is.

          ...

—So that’s your story. 

—I told you, call it what you will. 

—But it is a story you know. Whether you pretend it’s something else or not. 

—That’s your conclusion. But it sounds like you changed your position. 

—Sure. You’ve got everything in it that you said you wouldn’t have. 

—What are you saying? 

—There’s theme, there’s conflict of characters, style, even a plot of sorts... 

—All incidental, I tell you. 

—...and you’ve got lots of thought. 

—All incidental. 

—What do you mean, incidental? It’s there, isn’t it? And you said it wouldn’t be. 

—But there’s no one here. 

—Sure there is. Me and you. And an audience, maybe. 

—No, there’s no audience. Not now. The audience hasn’t come by yet. They will, later, but not now. 

—And I suppose we’re two bum characters on the edge of the sidewalk. 

—No. There are no characters. 

—What are we? 

—We’re the writer of course. 

—But we’re fighting. There’s conflict, so we must be characters. 

—No, we’re just the writer. We’re just words.

The Name Game (or More-on Lyceum)

This, dear mother and other brother and sister (and sister in law too!), is what I've always enjoyed about Dan's letters. Even as I am reading through them (never reading fast, usually chuckling in the wrong places), I am forming a mental list of the tangents I want to address. I don't usually write them down (and no this is not more agenda), but here, in no particular order:

1. I need to Google Plato and gadfly.
2. I've got an adjusted motto that reflects philology!
3. More on the name game (pun intended?)
4. The corporate structure?!
5. The etymology - or is it phraseology - of Carry it forward.
6. A story about stories.
7. A story about doodling.
8. Are we now inviting Chad Hummell into this circle? And this is not ironic?
9. Thoughts on mediocrity and self-effacement.
10. Are the Fed papers all Madison?
11. Anne, any comments on the turtles names Grinch and Brian?

Thanks Dan. My response:

1. I will Google this later. It is Sunday, after all.
2. "I love words and say odd things." But we should still somehow include the word mealstock.
3. How about we just call this the Name Game and dwell on this endlessly ---who needs production?
4. Name for name, Game for corporate structure. Or More-on Lyceum, if you insist.
5. "Carry it forward" (completely tangential now) was a slogan from the civil rights movement.
6. I vote no. Then again, my lasting memory of Chad Hummell was when he stole my teddy bear with a diaper on it and ran around the Knudsens house, completely shaming me. Oddly, I don't remember ever meeting Chad after that.
7. Attached. This is from my 1990 files. I think I was studying existentialism at the time.
8. Attached. Also 1990. But your diagrams do rise above doodles, Dan. Very good.
9. Really, Dan, enough of thinking your position is unfulfilling. We all let our minds wander to the after hours, and we all wonder what more we can be in life, but that doesn't make our present settlement mediocre. Even when the day grinds, appreciate where you are at, not just where you will be at 6pm. Everything is part of God's daily gift. Or maybe I'm just being platitudinous.
10. I always think more of Hamilton.
11. Anne, your thoughts on this?

Love, Jon

Philology

PHILOLOGY

TRIANGLE OF TEXT

"I do like [aesthetic objects] and say odd things"

Happy Sabbath,

So, our name is agenda item #1, perhaps, now that our mottoes are coalescing nicely: I hadn't thought "between the greater us, enter the notes that / more-than-not define our mealstock ways" was motto material, exactly (and Katerina reasonably challenged what 'mealstock' means, and truth be told I was thinking about the meal worms the luckier captive turtles eat--our own Grinch and Brian make due with dry substitutes...); now we have "I do like [aesthetic objects] and say odd things"--we can play on the objective/subjective dichotomy in this motto, and to that dialectic allow me to add my philological philosophy, attached.

I love the reminder of your historical perspective, Jon--somehow I don't remember it being so streamlined, as the four rather vertical parts read efficiently. When I came to the end of the second canto, I read "gladly" and thought "gadfly", in the fullness of Plato's method. The "it" that travels through this poem is not the same habit I warn my students against in their essays: they neglect to clarify the pronoun due to a casual and sometimes care-less approach to their 'argument'; here we more consciously consider the stream of phenomenal consciousness: from Jefferson (and may I propose Madison's "Federalist Papers") to Lincoln to 20th and 21st-century voices. "Carry it" and "carry on" now stretches into a fourth century--America is no longer a 'young' democracy, even as 'coming of age' and 'coming to terms' should remain generational challenges/opportunities.

Agenda item #2: the corporate designation or design. 'Productions' connote a line of ware, a label that can be eventually retailed; 'Institute' has a more academic tradition, a la the 'Goethe Institute'; 'Lyceum' is, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, "a hall in which public lectures, concerts, and similar programs are presented". The 'lecture' notion doesn't resonate to modern sensitivities, but I quite like the inclusion of the wider arts. I love the term 'philology' because it is so intrinsically easy ('phil' = love, 'logy' = word) and at the same time ineffably deep in the respect of language nuances, history, application, evolution and foundation for the more abstruse science of 'aesthetics'. Since I'm in a famili(ar) context, I do not mean to sound aloof in such extensions: we use words for infinite reasons, and as Christians we come to the exquisite deference to aesthetic mystery: "the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express" (Romans 8:26, NIV).

In keeping with my mediocre role as English department chair (which often meets Wednesday afternoons, when my mind is 40% on the basketball games I'll play a couple hours later that day!), we can stop with two agenda items. Anyone out there have a third or fourth? And, as always, attachments for our accrual are always welcome! I like the idea that Greg Loftness has something in the ether-world that threads Ski-doo with the stuff we conscientiously will continue. All respect for Chad Hummel (really--I'm not being ironic here), I would wonder how a Harvard/U of C valedictorian would similarly regard such archival efforts, beyond our temporal and menial efforts to fulfill.

love,
Dan

Inauguration Day 2009

     I

Paine wrote it,
Washington read it,
Obama retold it
in the depth of winter:
“Let it be retold...”
and “Let it be said
by our children’s children...”
...that when we faced
our coldest cold,
our hardest hardship,
when it seemed nothing
but hope and virtue
could survive,
city and country
came forth to meet
their common danger
together, braved
the icy currents
and coming storms
and safely delivered
that great gift
of hope and virtue
to their future
generations.
And now we mark
the day again
and remember when
we carried forth
God’s grace upon us
and wouldn’t let
our journey end.

     II

Seward proposed it,
Lincoln pronounced it,
Obama proclaimed it
with the resonance
of fighting words:
...stretching out
from battlefields
and patriot graves,
the mystic chords
of memory played
from Concord to
Gettysburg
and Normandy
to now: This time,
our time, has come
to choose our
better history,
to summon the
better angels
of our nature,
to remember
who we are, how
far we’ve come.
This is our moment.
This is our time
to be renewed
and reconciled.
This is our
day to take
responsibility
and seize our duties
gladly.

     III

John Locke asserted it,
Jefferson declared it,
Obama offered it
as old and true:
“We hold these truths...:
and carry them forward;
Paul said this too:
we set aside
the things of youth
and see at last
what must abide:
our faith, our hope,
our charity,
and equally,
intrinsically,
our rights to life
and liberty
and free pursuit
of happiness:
These things are old.
These things are true.
And now we return
and rejoice in the truth,
that precious gift,
that noble idea,
the God-given promise
that all are equal
all are free, and
all deserve a
chance to pursue
the fullest measure.

     IV

Carry it forward,
Thomas, George,
that we may bear
the winter winds
and see the spring.
Carry it forward,
William, Abe,
that we may hear
and learn to sing
the battle hymns
that came before us.
Carry it forward,
Thomas, John,
the glorious burden,
price and promise
of our birthright.
Carry on,
that we may know
the greater purpose
of our present
season. Carry
on, that we
may take
responsibility
with what we’re given,
the old and true,
the truth renewed.
You said it, Barack,
now carry it
and call on us
to serve with you.

Idiot Production Company? Please, No

Dear family —

I too enjoy seeing you guys in my in-box. In fact it was an amusing resistance to see 1, 2, 3, 4 emails pop up in the middle of a busy morning, knowing I had to set my priorities but wanting to set time aside. Finally, at 12:30, I printed them all out just before getting into my car for a Naperville closing, intent on reading them as I drove. But first, on the way, I called Josh, who I saw had not contributed yet. “You must be busy too,” I said. He was —and he kindly discouraged me from reading while driving. Good call, bro. I did eventually find a stationary moment to read, but by the end of the day I was beat and fell asleep in front of a replaying of “Yojimbo”.

But I enjoy the inspiring dialogue —or should it be quintalogue? Dan, we have had quite a few two or three month rounds of these talks in the past, and you are especially good at throwing out four or five topics at once, making it easy to respond to at least 1 or 2 of the most stirring. Mom, you have been great at bringing us back to devotions, and I mean that sincerely; where I am often amused by Dan’s far-reaching allegories, I think we need a bible verse or a personal testimony as often or even more. Josh, you are a constant testimony and example of healing, just in the way you sign out Peace and Immanuel and convey how much you mean it —even when you attached Andy Summers songs! And Anne, you are our more practical side, a bit of a product of Mom in that regard but you bring your own brand. Funny, Dan, you should raise Ruskin, because this is, in a sense, what we are: Soldier, Pastor, Physician, Merchant, Lawyer.

(I was about to proceed with a revisionist memory about Ruskin, substituting Poet for Lawyer. Alas, even here I am more lawyer than poet, but I was looking for an excuse to share this in yesterday’s paper from Michael Phillips’s 4-star review of “Poetry,” a Korean Cannes entrant last year: the main character attends a poetry class with explanation more than apology: “I do like flowers and say odd things.”)

Also funny, Ruskin, because it reminds me of the spark of Dan’s and my conversation years ago. I had a particularly memorable law school professor, Prof. Abrams, who taught contract law by turning at length to the parable of the steward, “Unto this last...” John Ruskin wrote an essay with the same name, but Prof. Abrams, very Jewish by the way, liked to turn directly to Jesus’s words to illustrate how the steward honored each contract even though they weren’t particularly “fair” in comparison to one another. Which brings me right to your positure, Mom. Where in the bible does it talk about rights? Well, in that parable for one, and it probably does elsewhere too in some way or another, but I think it is just as notable that it was Jesus who most markedly separated church and state. Rights and laws and courts are all important, but we pharisees need to look beyond.

I am attaching a poem I wrote after Obama’s inaugural — and you do not have to be Democrat to appreciate the endurance of our heritage, if not my poem. It was John Locke who spoke in the 16th century, 75 years before Rousseau, of inalienable rights, and I do believe they are inalienable, not because they are printed on a bill but because they are given to us by the steward. These are not the rights of governments but the rights that allow individuals to rise up above their Gaddafis and Mubareks and King Georges. Which is why I support the movement in Madison. And it is not about unions, but about individuals afraid of the tide of government —or the “tea-bag” support of corporate interests —turning us to a time when there will be less worker’s benefits —less chance of even having effective worker’s compensation laws, for instance, or reasonable vacation or sick time, or health care benefits. These are all products of union efforts that have spread beyond membership, but take away the last hold of unions, their right to collectively bargain, and these may slowly slip away. And who are the unionists anyway? All squarely in the lower 90% of our economy (see Mother Jones latest issue: the average salary of 90% of American households is $31,000.) Better question: who are the tea party protestors but people at the beck and call, shills if you will, of the other 10%, or really the top 0.01% (see again, Mother Jones). This is not democracy, it’s lobbying gone bad. Someone from Michigan said on a radio call-in show yesterday that General Motors, American made, American built, used to be our number one employer. Now it’s Walmart. Are we to blame union greed for the rise of Walmart? Or profit-mongering and tax structuring that favors imported products and exported jobs and increasingly larger corporate control?

Okay, I’ll take a breath. I’m still debating whether to drive up to Madison today, but this is where I’m at. The rally is at noon, and I do have to be back for Andrew’s hunger strike at 5pm. We are all talk on these things, maybe, but there is something to standing on principal even a little at a time.

Now, the name of the production company. Yes, “Idiot” is amusing, but my vote is no. I read Dosty’s Idiot 20 years ago, and enjoyed it (especially liked the lapdog scene), but then a few years ago I started reading it again and it became one of those books I carried around for four months until I finally realized the impression I was giving. They should have printed the title a little smaller. And the longer it took me to get through that book, the dumber I looked. But I vote no not just for my own pride, though I do not always want to write something heartfelt and sign off as an Idiot —but for your sakes too. I can see myself starting a family missive Dear Woebegoners or Dear Lam-Vold-Jaegerovs, but Dear Idiots? No and no! I do like the Moose book remembrance, though. If this is what we produce, books for our attics but books we can feel proud to let future generations find, that is good. I would still like to aspire to more, though. I now have four complete books on my shelf that will someday be found in attics, and I do wish I could do more with these: they are (1) my 30 Birds collection, which has somewhat evolved beyond what is on Mom’s shelf; (2) Calendrums, a subsequent poetry collection; (3) Walled Gardens, a re-reflection of Sanai, a 10th century Sufi poet; and (4) “March to December,” which collects my 1990 writings. Yes, maybe I’m an Idiot for thinking I’ve had something to say with these. But I do like birds and say odd things.

Love always,
Jon

Practically Synchronous

Hey! I think we're practically 'synchronous' rather than 'a-' (that's cyber-communication lingo, Mom!). Great to hear from you, and--Jon, your take? Idiot Productions gets my vote, too! But seriously, folks... Jean-Jaques Rousseau is probably the Frenchman behind our founding fathers--more him than Voltaire. John Stuart Mill is too 19th C, rather involved (sometimes awkwardly) in the 'women question' and formidable in what I'll call the 'adolescence' of modern democracy--Ibsen more artistically demarcates this period. Begs questions where 'new and decidely non-western' democracies are at: pre-Ibsen infancy? The etch-a-sketch has fully been shaken...

Thanks for the clarification on Ski-doo, Mom. I had no idea the story was written in duress...

Dan

A No-Brainer

The production company should definitely be called Idiot Productions. That's a no-brainer. I am enjoying this philosphical discourse so much and I am not saying that in a bad way AT ALL. But "Idiot Productions" will humbly take any pomp out of our intellectualism. That's just my vote.

Secondly, and maybe more important than that point: did you know there's a Scrabble app? It's caleld Words With Friends and you can play Scrabble with buddies. I thought of my Scrabble-loving brothers right away. I don't know if it's a free app or not, but I thought you know it's out there, at least.

I love seeing you guys in my Inbox. Thank you for holding me and my family up in prayer. Eric and I had a good talk yesterday and I felt a lot of peace in the discussion we had and the perspectives we both had on some long-standing (and bothersome) marital junk. So thank you so, so much.

Love you all,

Annie

The Woebegone Idiot

The Tale of the Ski-doo was written and illustrated by Dad's brother, Alvin Elstad, when he was in the hospital recovering from horrible skin wounds gotten when he fell down the cellar steps carrying a large pail of scalding water for Thelma to wash clothes with. I don't know how many original copies he made. 

Reminds me - Greg Loftness has been doing a great deal of ancestry stuff and we have had a lot of communication - he's my second cousin once removed, I believe (and a single father raising 3 kids, we just learned this week). He asked for Elvina's books and I sent them along with your commencement speech, Dan, and our play for the 1972 Loftness reunion. They are now in Ancestry.com. Preserved. Maybe the Woebegon Idiot will appear there someday too. Or in some like archive.

My repeated question to all of you is, if our Declaration of Independence and Article of the Constitution with the Bill of Rights is based on Scripture, where is that written in the Bible that we should have any "rights"? I think it's all the 18th-century philosopher named --- upon whom much of educational systems is based. I do not have dementia, yet, but that name sure escapes me. Mills? 

 Love, Mom

Idiot Productions

Hello all,

Firstly, prayers for all families--thanks for candor and testimonies and, above all, faith. I always think of Elijah's cave in the preponderance of confusions and tumult. The 'still small voice' is more than our philosopher's stone.

Secondly (and rather distant, at that)--the events of the world remind us that ethics cannot be made on the fly. North Africa's revolutions are every bit as significant and complex as Eastern Europe's in 1989, and though events in Wisconsin or New Zealand may seem like nonsequiturs, I think there is good reason to pause and consider definitions and applications of 'civilization'. The polemic is mostly Ruskin's, not mine: Unto This Last challenges us to think about the sometimes arbitrary way any situation is governed, whether in catastrophe (as in Christchurch or Libya) or civil debate (as in Cairo or Madison). Jon and I have spoken about this quite a bit, Ruskin's five great intellectual professions: the Soldier to protect, the Pastor to teach, the Physician to cure, the Lawyer to enforce, the Merchant to provide--and all to the ultimate point of self-sacrifice, even if there's less predictability in the Merchant's loyalty to the collective. All hands need to be on board, hell or high water. And whatever the master pays, 'unto this last', is not a matter of priviledge but of grace.

But that's where the problem begins and ends: we (the pharisees) constantly want to be the master. We prorate which profession or product deserves prioritization and dig ourselves in, rather sanctimoniously. As Americans, we all adhere to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness"--probably in that order--then we divide on appropriations of the Bill of Rights, Supreme Court decisions and the melange of federal, state and municiple legislation. We come together when disaster strikes and pull apart when expenditures become public. The firefighter, symbolically and literally, is at the fulcrum of this dichotomy.

Czech doctors are paid a pittance. They threatened a massive strike, caused a 'stink', adhered to the Hippocratic oath and earned what most analysists would call an average cost of living wage increase. I would guess doctors in Hungary, less fiscally astute, would go through a similar process. What does that mean, though, in the lens of my dependence on that great profession after a near-fatal accident there in 2002? Why would I ever doubt the value of a doctor's, or nurse's, or teacher's, or soldier's, or lawyer's, or merchant's value in an ethical society? And here is where Ruskin becomes contemporary: the merchant doesn't have to die for the cause. He can go to greener pastures and claim independence from the other professions (if not his necessary consumers). There's no money to be made in cleaning up Christchurch, and Mubarek (the third richest man in the world) will not fund a new start for Egypt. One hopes in the beleaguering and rather petty debate on taxes and deficits that an eye for greater ethics will prevail. Or, at the risk of being sanctimonious, grace will remain grace.

Thirdly, I spoke with a friend last night about Karamazov/Woebegon (shouldn't we just settle on 'Idiot'--Dostoevsky's most enchanting novel?) Productions. As the 21st century compels us to cobble together professional ventures that are evolving month-by-month, we talked in Venn diagrams, the 'day job' stabilities, the contract opportunities, the passions that constitute themselves as investments (as least in terms of time). It wasn't hard to convey the first and second ring: in my case, teaching literature to students & consulting in the same to adults; but the third ring--writing poetry, jamming with a compositional sense, crafting narratives, homily, tips and anecdotes--was a hard sell. My friend is 50 and maybe beyond all that. Who would constitute an audience for you 'Idiot Productions'? Probably Garrison had the same question and misgivings. What I'll hope is that our children will be more than audience enough. I remember rummaging in the semi-attic at Lac La Belle and paging through the illustrated story of the moose with ski-feet, called "Ski-doo", if I'm not mistaken. Was it a Loftness or Elstad relative who wrote that, Mom? I remembered feeling that if no one else ever saw this beautiful muslin-page book, the value was infinite in my hands, as somehow I'd pass on that legacy. I.e., there never needs to be a more official codification of published success than that a younger generation gets the point and inspiration.

love, faith and hope,
Dan

From the Archivist

Dearly beloved 

This won't come out like I did it at first, last night, and for some reason did not fly the airwaves - I'm sorry for my speechlessness! 

I wanted to tell you how much we pray for each of you specifically and the unique needs for prayer in the four families, and for the sense of God holding you close, for the patience to wait on Him, and to forgive too. 

Last night's Christ in our Home devotional was on Proverbs 3 - humility was stressed, and the prayer concern was for those who are addicted. And the prayer: "Help me know that life is about you, Jesus, not me." 

Did I ever tell you about the time I met Jesus face to face? It was in 1955, at St. Olaf College, and I was at a leadership school. For some reason I volunteered to give a testimony at one evening's session. I had nothing to say. The night before, I went out walking on that beautiful campus, and there amidst some trees I saw the full form of Jesus in brilliant light. I can't remember if he said anything, but I knew it was him, as surely as Paul and Martin Luther and John Wesley did in their encounters with him. I went back to the dorm and a friend knew immediately something had happened - she said my face was shining. And the next night I had a testimony, and life has never been the same since. So that after praying prostrate on the closet floor yesterday after talking to you, Anne, I heard Jesus saying, "Okay, Marilyn, I've got you covered on this." And there is peace. I do believe God wants us to keep bombarding him with our prayers too, because he certainly speaks to that with the pesky persistent widow! 

Today we again biked to Hohokam, watched Cubs practice, and then took a long swing home stopping for lunch at Subway. By then I had picked up something so had a flat tire. Outside of Subway, after Dick had gone home to get the car, a mathe time I met Jesus face t facen was admiring the car and he also helped us find a bike repair shop. He said his daughter was engaged to one of the rookies Cubs pitchers, sixth round draft choice. Nice to get that personal touch! I'll send this now before it gets deleted! I love all your messages and am proud to be the archivist (now if I would only save mine too!) 

Love, Momba

Dosty-begone

Dear Dan, Josh, Anne -

Yes, I think we will not find it difficult to separate the beautiful concept of Immanuel (my preferred spelling, since Bejou) from Mayor Rahm. Although, why not remember the meaning at every turn?

I am writing a short piece for an assignment from my pastor, who is asking congregants to share 2-3 minute talks during Lenten services, one person per service, on something in our lives that God has helped us get through. I knew right away what I wanted to talk about — parenting! (to which Andrew commented, Duh, Dad, that’s what the pastor wanted you to talk about!) But I also thought quickly of Immanuel and how this assignment was really about how God is with us in all things, and we just need to see the constant reminders.

Dad constantly reminded Bejou that God was with us. He wanted our church to never forget the meaning of its name. And now, I go to Grace Lutheran Church, where our pastor constantly reminds us what our name means, and again it is a broad concept that almost defies anecdotes: everything we have is by the grace of God. And yet we do need to be reminded.

The bigger news here, and I’m as much on the sidelines for this as for Chicago’s politics, is the Wisconsin standoff, with Gov. Walker determined to bust the state employee union in a state that was the first to establish such unions. For eight days now the state dems have been holed up in Rockford in an effort to avoid a vote that would end collective bargaining. Repubs have a strong majority but are one short of a quorum. Remember, incidentally, that even back in Illinois, Lincoln once slipped out of a window to avoid a quorum. Meanwhile, back in Madison, protestors are swelling to over 60,000 daily, waiving their Solidarity signs and dressed in deer hunter orange. And now the same thing, over the same union issue, is happening in Ohio and Indiana. Say what you will about the messy process of democracy —and say that this is trivial compared to Egypt and Libya —but I find it thrilling. And say what you want about unions, but I find it intriguing how Solidarnosk took power away from Polish communists while in Wisconsin it is trying to oppose corporate “right to work” interests. There is left, there is right, and then there is democracy.

I will copy this to Mom now too, since apparently she is being recruited as the Dosty-begone secretary now. So what do you think of your state? It’s funny, it was not long ago that Arizona’s political uprisings gave us pause about your annual trip south. Hope you are enjoying the relative peace.

And by the way, sibs, yes, I did send a birthday missive to Mom last week, just didn’t copy you all. We are still allowed to do that, right?

But do keep the open letters going. Dan, I like your poem —your ring-shaped poem is still the one that sticks with me better, but you may have just devised a motto for our production company: “between the greater us, enter the notes that more-than-not define our meal-stock ways.” Anne, I did take the time to read your Happy Hoppy blog - did I mention that? I am reminded again because I just bought a new strain of Guinness Stout called “Foreign Extra,” loaded with extra hops. An IPA Guiness? Sacrilege? And Josh, do not worry about clocking time in Mt Prospect. There are obvious priorities to heed, and you, more than any of us, have been the constant Immanuel reminder, for your family as well as for your church — keep to it!

Love to all, Jon

Entre Nous

Entre Nous



or, between the greater us, enter the notes that

more-than-not define our mealstock ways.

A terrapin crosses Steinbeck’s road,

then signals life in the demise

of Casanova’s wanderlust:

tales rife with fitful

sorrow, fit for

anyone if

not us.



No one

quite knows

the peripatetic

strength that is the

turtle’s shell: a devotee

of Walker Percy cries openly

at his adumbrated sense of carapace

the staunch within/without that shoulders

passing days, the primal drive that agonizes pain.



                                                                              And so

                                                                                    crawling

                                                                                   clumsily along, 

                                                                               & basking, or diving 

                                                                          in qua-submerged milieux

                                                                   we take whatever floats our way

                                                       and mouth it for a while, and call it grist

                                         for ever-present vows: the future of our kind,

                       the past-perfected nows & shells of time and space.



                    The first book I wrote, age 6—wistful beyond a why

             was ‘The Turtle Who Wanted to Hop”. A bunny

          who found him no evident threat thought

        that springs on its feet would do the

          trick. ‘The End’ gave notice to

             no turning back, no sigh

                  (between us) that

                        wiring fortune

                                won’t go

Karamazov/Woebegon Productions

Hello Nuclear family!

Attached is a poem I began last night, revisited this morning (always beware the less-than-24-hour-turnaround!), after YouTubing Neil Peart, 'best drummer in the world', for Ben to be inspired, which he was. I know the 'entre nous'/'entry notes' kind of clash, and the format is kind of arbitrary, but it's fun to dabble. The Casanova reference is to Fellini's remarkable film, when the aging lover is finally smitten by a 'gift' given him at the Salzburg court; Walker Percy brings in the concrete image of 'carapace' to further his abstract dichotomy 'immanence v. transcendence'. Steinbeck's tortoise in Grapes of Wrath is one of the reasons I became a literature teacher.

Whoever is collating Karamazov/Woebegon Productions (Mom), please throw this in the 'hmmm' bin! It's not artful, but it does describe in part my plodding journey...

I'm on 'break' now, but have just finished hosting a minor conference at school that had its peak (for me at least) in a tour of Old Town. Joey really wanted to lead it as he knows more about Jan Hus, Golems, Charles Bridge et al than I do, and I benefited from his notes; he's skiing this whole week with his scout group, so it must feel nice to need/want to be in two places at once. Alas, he's growing up and busy...

The other thing I'm doing this break is presiding over my first online workshop, which has 21 participants and some onlookers from IB on high. Things are going well, and while I prefer face2face workshops, this contract helps toward the work-from-home directions I hope are more fully realized in years to come. Not that I'll become a troglodyte, I trust..

love to

you all, safe travels, watch some Bulls games for me,

Dan



...Obsessing, sorry-- when I sent this poem to Katerina (upstairs--the travesty of two computers) the format didn't transfer, so, reluctant to set it in stone, I'm sending the pdf. Again, the format is rather arbitrary, but I didn't want such a choatic page--ie, a turtle's meandering, not an ee cummings' grasshopper.

I'd sign off in the way Josh does (and I always appreciate), though I wouldn't want Emanuel to be my endorsement of Rahm, who brings a weird swagger into Daley's erstwhile office...

Dan

Dosty Productions

Dear Dan, Josh, Anne,

 

And here I was more distracted by the unlit section of the V! (BEP’s ½ time superbowl stage, spelling LO\  E).

 

I have to react first, though, Dan (even before looking up “souciance”) to the continually evolving design and name of Dosty Productions.  Not that I don’t like evolution, but...  I wonder, why not strive primarily (or primally?) to make something big of fledgling stories and songs?  Kind of like Keillor’s Woebegone dialogue — it is in the accumulation of his anecdotes that the community of Lake Woebegone is produced.   Or D’s Onion, for instance, surely once a fledging story, and one that itself connects to the author’s understanding.  Even if you never get a BK-sized tome out, the stories within the story are themselves more than plenty.  I guess what I’m saying is, yes, aim high, but I’ll be happy if, and as, each of us produces and develops the fledgling stories and songs within us. 

 

I am, of course, ultimately grateful that you are getting us to aim at all.  Indeed, I am a little lost as to what the next step should be, never mind the big picture you are encouraging us to take.  Anne, you are taking the next step, and I do sincerely believe something bigger can come out of your blog postings.  Keep them going!  And yes, Dan, this too connects to appreciating all that God gives us.  I don’t know about latching on to souiciance, though.  That means worrying, right?  Please explain.

 

I did also want to respond to that dumbshit education anecdote, and maybe attach another fledgling anecdote of my own, and I do want to elaborate with Josh about expanding on a story idea he had started recently, but for now I need to get out the door.  Next time.

 

Love to you all,

 

Jon

Karamazov Productions

Dear siblings,

The Black Eyed Peas tell us--at half-time or otherwise--that "tonight's gonna be a good night." Nothing theological there, but I wept (as Josh knows I can weep) when I reviewed on YouTube the half-time show of the Superbowl with Ben and Em (Joe away at his Czech grandma's apartment--his 'ski break' no longer corresponding with ours).

Why weep?

Because the Packers would deservedly buffet the odds and industrially win for all the underlings of the world; because Will.i.am believed enough of the 'yes we can' to turn the corner beyond the banalities of Fox & Friends proof; because Slash emerged to play one of the last songs I heard with Joe Vold (at a gas station round-about we picked up a hitchhiker en route to Charleston, which cost us a half-a-night after we dropped off Josh, questioning him and his fluegelhorn how they'd spend the night on the U of I quad); because Emma was seeking inspiration in the lady P's act while Ben was seeking his own lyrics which he'd play on his drumset thereafter: 'People of the world--cheer up, cheer up, cheer up!"

But really for the narratives that are timeless and invaluable. I was at 520 when Don expired, and the squeeze of his hand into mine is still ineffable. Your memory, Josh, is exquisite and puts many elements into perspective. If we've been thinking about Karamazov Productions, it's not to contrive a means to make something bigger of fledgling stories and songs, but to connect with Dostoevsky's understanding: God gives us more than plenty, and we can latch on to plenty of that souciance.

I'm coming out of a meeting today where my principal (Kathlyn GRAY, surname barely relaying her personality) is largely ushering the abdication of literature in our English department, so I simultaneously feel like fighting or all-the-more declaring my gradual independence from ISP. Kids aren't reading Shakespeare, so why should we teach it? Gosh, where the *#@!? does one start with that premise? Kids aren't thinking of their dads dying, or... maybe they are... maybe our surveys aren't so accurate or apropos or... maybe we don't know what we're responding to... or principaling... or...

Dumbshit education. Full stop.

That's no way to end a letter to my dear siblings, but you hear my point better than anyone. Let's keep in touch as often as we can. And I promise at least a few weeks this summer, come whatever pragmatics what may,

Dan

The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing

Hey Annie, Jon, Dan,...

Finally, have a few moments to sit down and respond to this excellent dialogue!  Busy week, capped off with Tilo performing beautifully at the annual Solo & Ensemble event at school!

Annie, thanks for your initial message.  It's always a great exercise to assess our priorities--like the quote Ron Lott often used from Steven Covey--'the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing'!  Sharing our appreciation for each other is absolutely part of that main thing in our lives, and though we may not do this enough, I hope you all know how much I appreciate each of you and the inspiration you provide in my life.

And let's extend this to each of our families as well...  I thoroughly enjoy the role as Uncle, in part because it doesn't require the parental responsibilities--I've got even more chances to goof around with them than I have with my own!   

Your message, Annie, was poignant in a couple of ways in particular.  First of all, I was much more conscientious this morning of the physics of snowshoveling as I cleared out a path on our sidewalk (which, in some places, topped 4 feet after the B'11izzard!!)--all of it, very packed snow.  Paid attention to muscles and bones and joints and breathing and presence of mind--it was actually quite a spiritual exercise,...incredibly fulfilling!  And I took a number of Gatorade breaks to regroup my senses and assess progress.  And this was a heckuva blizzard--kept the kids home for 2 days--reminiscent of (but still not as outtacontrol as) the Blizzard of '79!

But what struck me even more--and in line with the subsequent responses from you guys, Jon and Dan--was reliving the last experiences with Joe and Don.  It haunts me to this day that I had not spoken with Joe for seven months prior to his death.  And this was by no means out of malice or discord--it just hadn't worked out, even over Christmas.  I did send him a letter in February '89, but hadn't gotten a response. 

The last experience I had with Joe was when we (including you, Dan) had driven down to Champaign for Band Camp mid-August '88.  I was dropped off at the Illini Union building with just an army tote bag with some clothes and a shaving kit, a Walkman and some tape cassettes (wow does that make me feel old), my loaner flugelhorn, and the music I was supposed to have practiced during the summer.  Dan, you and Dad continued south to Charleston for a reason I know we talked about since, but cannot now remember--I'm not sure I even mentioned that my dorm wasn't going to be open 'til the following morning.  I wound up spending the night on a third floor fire escape landing of one of the buildings on the quad...  It was a strangely calm sleep before I was awoken by an ROTC group out jogging through the quad.

Also memorable about that time is that we had just come from dinner with you, Jon, and Parul--Dad's first and only meeting with her.  And prior to that, we had gone to see the very controversial 'The Last Temptation of Christ' at the Biograph, which was such a surreal experience apart from the movie.  There is much packed into that last time spent with Dad--perhaps that was how it was meant to be.  But I still beat myself up for not having made more effort to call him since that time.

Then, in full contrast, is the experience with Don.  The relationship that he and I had improved dramatically after high school, due to several major factors, which I won't go into here.  But up to his death, what drew us so closely together was the shared experience with cancer.  When I was diagnosed first, I saw him in such a different light--incredibly giving in so many ways.  A very vivid, albeit unpleasant memory, was shortly after my first radiation treatment.  I got home from the hospital drained, tried to drink a cool beverage, and it wouldn't stay down.  It was Dad who knelt down and cleaned up--and we all remember that he didn't move around so well to easily be able to do that. 

Once Dad was diagnosed, it felt like we were both part of this brotherhood, (which, as a survivor, you almost always feel with others who have traveled or are traveling that path).  And although I wasn't able to be around all of the time due to school, I'm thankful to have had some of that Summer of '91 with him.  And of course, I'll never forget that day he died.  Annie, you and I were at Janelle Bickers' house when we got the call.  Dad had already been at home under Hospice care for a short time prior.  It was a tear-filled drive home from Arlington Heights.  We got home and saw him in the bed, his headrest propped up and his mouth agape.  It was apparently late enough that we couldn't do anything with his body that night.  But the most remarkable thing was the next morning, seeing that Dad's mouth had partially closed into a clear smile--and you knew all was well with him!  And I think this was definitely how it was meant to be!

Anyway, again, Annie, thanks for sparking those memories.  I don't believe I'd ever really sat down and contemplated both experiences combined like this.  Somewhere in there, there's a story to be written--perhaps several; but I'm thinking specifically about the calls notifying me about the deaths...dramatically different, one from the other, but indicative of both the contexts and the relationships.

And thanks also for the Hoppy Makes Happy blog; and Jon, for your journal entries; and Dan, we too are filled with anticipation for once again seeing you & yours this summer!

Thanks everybody.  Love from all of us here in Lombard!

Peace...  Emmanuel!!!

P.S.-Jon, Andrea and I will see you tomorrow.  Go Packers! (or really, NFC North!)

Josh

Birthday Club

September 29, 2010 by handmadebyannepotter

My husband and I, along with another dear couple (Brock and Liz, you know who you are), accidentally started a Birthday Club.  It all began when we we were celebrating my birthday this year.  My birthday is at the end of April, when Illinois has awoken from its Rip Van Winter and we can finally stroll outside without the winterware we started wearing the October before. And my birthday happens to coincide with a grand art exhibit and Ebert’s film festival, so we wander like cultural hipsters from event to eatery to event. For a night, it’s delicious. That night (Anne’s Birthday, 2010), we started talking about our long-abandoned plans to make a day trip of tubing a lazy river we know.  The more we asked “Why don’t we do it?!” the more excited we got. So, like a second grader’s pinky-swear: we toasted to it. 

Just as we planned, we celebrated Brock’s birthday in June with a day trip to Indiana to lazily tube down a river. We stocked a floating cooler with beer, wine and gargantuan sandwiches and had an impromptu picnic on a sand bar. As we floated, wondering why we don’t do this more ofter, the guys started talking about sailing and how their happiness hung on the freedom of yachting someday. The idea started to grow until it was decided: for Eric’s birthday, we would sail on Lake Michigan.

We did indeed sail out of Chicago’s harbor for Eric’s birthday, lovingly admiring the world’s best skyline set boldly against a golden sunset.  But, being a land person, I got more excited about the afternoon spent in Chicago’s Near North Side. 

We tripped around all afternoon, directed only by “Yeah, that looks good!”  Of all the cool places we hit (hookah lounge? ha-yeah!), I must recommend the Goose Island Brewery to one and all.  With its charming  atmosphere and excellent pub fare, this place easily takes lunch to the 5 o’clock whistle.  And the beer was great.

Having four beer drinkers in our party, we were able to justify lots of different pints (to share!).  Brock and Liz and I each loved different flavorful brews from their IPA (India Pale Ale) and Hoppy lists.  (I’m pretty sure that I’m a hops fan.  I haven’t had a beer yet that was “too hoppy.”)  Their “Sophie” brew was bright and nicely spiced.  And their “Green Line” got lots of “Boy, that is good!”  (and another sip) from three of us.  But the more sticks-and-berry-licious that the beers got, the more my husband said grumpy things like, “I like their “’312′” *  (But that’s why I married him: two of me is one too many.)  It was a delightful afternoon spent with good friends and great beer. 

Because this was technically our lunch stop, we did order food.  And the food was good.  It really would have been a shame to serve marginal food with such inventive beer.  But the menu nicely complemented the beer selection with quality, innovative food that completed this brewery-pub experience.  I had a Stilton cheeseburger which was awesome.  But this is what rocked my world: the hand-cut french fries came with Curry Ketchup, and it was incredible.  (I’m sure there are foodies swooning over the fact that I’ve never experienced this before, but I haven’t, I’m sorry: in my lame existance, ketchup has been a don’t-mess-good-ol-boy condiment.  Mustard, I knew, got cool, but ketchup?  This was new.)

    

So I scampered home and concocted a curry ketchup of my own.  I may experiment with the ketchup base in the future, but this Curry Ketchup will do wonderfully when you’re grilling for the one-millionth time next summer.  I serve it with a kettle-cooked potato chip like Krunchers.  (I like Krunchers because the bag says that it has “30 % less fat than regular potato chips,” and you know what that means: you can eat 30% more.) 

     Curry Ketchup

     1 c. ketchup

     1 T. curry**

     1 t. apple cider vinegar

     Stir together.

** season to taste.  I’m sure a more potent Indian curry would go further than the curry I used.

* “312″ is Goose Islands’ standard grocery store beer.  Nice, but not mind-blowing.  Mild.

Posted in Great Finds, Recipes

Next: total global domination!

Jon,


These devotions are beautiful.  There's an honesty to them that shows faith and discipleship as the struggle it is, and the result is a refreshing reflection.  Keep it up - these are worthy of an audience!  They really bring me back to June 1991, too!  What an intense time for all of us.  (Josh, so glad you're alive, btw :)  I had a funny little exchange a while ago: the Potter family has all of their family home movie on videos organized by years.  Louise gave us a set (which we'll never watch, I'm sure) but she was missing 1991.  She said, "I don't know how I lost 1991!" and I dryly replied, "You can have mine."


I'm planning on publishing, too, so if you have room in your fraternity, I'd be honored to join.  My book will be very different from all yours, though.  I first plan on writing a book of needlepoint patterns (and later: knitting patterns, crochet patterns, quilt patterns, etc.)  but this way our family publishing empire can cover the art world, too (and next: total global domination!).  You can read a bit of my writing on my website's blog: www.handmadebyannepotter.com.  It's full of short posts about my creative life.  My latest post is not very wordy but I think you'll all enjoy this Goose Island post: http://handmadebyannepotter.com/2010/09/29/birthday-club/. 

Thanks for writing back, Jon!  This is a fun dialog and it should tide me over til Easter: my place?


Love you all,
Annie

Every Thought Is a Prayer

June 1 - June 5, 1990

June 1

     God, when the job at hand is more than I can handle,

     God, when the pressure weighs heavy upon me,

     God, when things are out of my hands,

          when I am helpless, lost and looking for answers,

     God, when I’ve buried my head in the sand,

          sulked in my sorrows and wondered aloud

          in a roomful of sufferers, selfishly cried “Why me?”

     God, when I don’t know the answers,

     God, when I think I need to know

          as a matter of survival, life and death,

     God, the power and the glory

          and the answer, God, is yours.

June 2

     Parul is not happy with her mother today.  They don’t want her going to India —because of money, because of safety, some other time maybe —and she’s disappointed.  She threw some shoes at her mother and walked out of the house, eleven miles to 520 Stewart.  

     She got rained on several times along the way.  

     She’s never been anywhere, she says, and now, forget it, she doesn’t want to go to India.  “One day we’ll go together,” I said, and she said, “No, I don’t want to go.”  

    I brought her to her uncle’s house.  She’s not sure what will happen next.  She’s even having second thoughts about medical school.  

     “This too...” I said, but she wasn’t ready to believe me.  

     Tomorrow, God, I pray for Parul.

⇋

     “I talk to God a lot.  In the shower, in the car.  Some people might call it prayer, but I like to think of it as a kind of thought process, a figuring out.”

     “Does he hear you?”

     “God?  Sure.  God hears us whether we’re talking to him or not.”

     “Hey, Joe, come on, what makes you think God would take the time to listen to you?

     “I don’t know, Jim.  I don’t know why.  I just know he does.”

     “How do you know?”

     “He answers.”

June 3

     Faith: such that I long for, a faith of such power to give me the strength to recognize my weakness, to repulse all illusions of my own credits, to relinquish my whole self —faith to say no more me, just God.  Faith, trust, that I could walk within every shadow of darkness, that I could believe that light awaits me, that darkness will be defeated.  

     God, you lay it all out for us.  You give us a one word direction and it ought to be easy.  But I... the self gets in the way, and yet you have given us the self, too, God; you leave us all sorts of mysteries and then you give us this mind, that wants so much to know.

    Thank you God, for the promises you have given Josh today and for the strength you have given to Don; for the smile you have given to Parul today and for the grace you have given her family.  Thank you God for everyone close to me —Annie, Mom, Dan —and thank you too for everyday people, most of whose names I do not know, but thank you God for their patience —your patience —and acceptance of a man with measly faith.  I am afraid to be weak, God, and I am afraid of relinquishing myself, even to my maker, but thank you God for your ears and your hand and your presence.   Thank you for your strength and your smile and your grace, your light and your direction. 

     P.S., just one thing more:  God bless my studies and my tests this week.  I need you.

June 4

     The thought occurred to me that things will never be the same.  

     This wasn’t a pessimistic thought, either.  Josh has realistic hope of a lasting remission.  Don went to work today; he’s feeling much stronger and it makes me consider that with the extent of last week’s pain for him followed by this week’s recovery, the chemo might really be doing what we want it to do.  

    So I thought: what if Don’s tumor disappeared and Josh’s remission were complete?  Things wouldn’t be the same; they would be better for the ways we would —and will! —be stronger: in spirits, in confidence, in faith.  There is, of course, a “best case” scenario, to believe that Josh and Don will live forever.  And why not?  By faith, God promises that they will!  

      For now, however, I must continue to pray.

June 5

      How about this:

     Every thought is a prayer to God, and every prayer has an answer within it.  God is with us all the time, and when we remember this and believe this, his spirit responds in us and directs us.   God directs us as long as we acknowledge his presence (Proverbs 3:6), but when we forget this, where are our thoughts, our prayers?  Even then, God is still with us, waiting for us to call on him again.

     Every thought is a prayer, how about that?  But every day —isn’t it a shame? —we spend so much time being thoughtless.  And still God is with us, waiting for us to come to our senses, to think, to pray.

     God is more than an abstract thought, however.  The proof is not, and cannot be, my own, but it is this: our thoughts do not sustain themselves.  One private thought cannot sustain another, yet there is an answer, always, like the voice that came to Moses and said “I am.”  God is an answer.  Yahweh is the answer to our prayers.  God is not a thought; God is “I am,” the answer.

     But what about the so-called great thinkers of the world, those who say they do not pray because “there is no God”?  God is still the answer, waiting for the question to be asked, the prayer to be prayed, the thought to occur (There are thoughts that have not yet occurred, even to the greatest thinkers).  Every thought is a prayer, I said. 

     So what about the thought that God does not exist (and who has never cried, “Where are you, God?”)?  Isn’t this simply thinking without direction, aimlessly pondering, oblivious meditation?  Thoughtlessness, really.  And still God waits with an answer.  Is there a God?  Yes, Yahweh say, I am.

 ⇋

          God, with apologies*

                    God

                    adj.

          I AM:    considered apart

                    from concrete

                    existence

                    or

          (AM I)   a specification

                    thereof.

          I AM:    theoretical;

                    not applied

                    or

          (AM I)   capable of being

                    put into effect.

          I AM:    thought of

                    or

          (AM I)   stated without 

                    reference

                    to a specific

                    instance.

          I AM:    Fine Arts. with

                    nonobjective

                    design, form

                    or

          (AM I)   content.

          * with apologies to Concise American Heritage Dictionary, 1980.

The Siblings Lamkendlov

Hey girl!

You are my favorite sister, you know.  And it goes both ways, the thought that we take those closest to us to much for granted.  We should talk more.  And be inspired to hug our kids more often.  As they grow older and more teenagish and tweenagish, I even find that it works easier to say, "this is from you aunt and uncles!"

Sorry to hear about your friend’s brother, and yes, I did think a little about my own mortality yesterday.  Not so much the heart but the back, but I am okay after all.  In fact, not only did I shovel my whole driveway — a shorter driveway than the Griffith one, but a good thirty five feet anyway, and of course 21" deep —but I also pulled a night shift into Thursday morning at our locals PADS facility that had me moving things and cleaning up.  I could not have done this a year ago.

I am copying Dan and Josh on this.  Dan recently had a challenge to Josh and me to publish something before we turned 50.  He’s called it Karamazov/Woebegone Productions, I suppose with allusions to both our fraternity and our Minnesotaness, but hey, Dan, we can be more Illinoisan and less sexist and agist about this, can’t we?  How about the Siblings Lamkendlov?  And instead of 50, which some of us are still quite far away from (although, sadly, not so far from 39) why not just call it a 5 year plan?  Mom noted that you, Anne, have entered the blogosphere — give us the link!

Dan’s idea is to encourage each other to share our inspirations.  He has been writing short stories and songs, but he also supposes we could, at some level, publish movie reviews and exegeses and Scrabble tips and literature theories.  And why not?  We haven’t really talked about this much more than Dan throwing the idea out there, but maybe we should.

For my own part, I have had a number of projects over the last few years (not just bird poems) that have never gone beyond my own bookshelf.  I also rediscovered some stuff recently — diaries, school papers, stories, poems — that I had written 20 years ago, some of which is, I think, worth sharing more broadly.  I am attaching an excerpt from my journal that year, a few days’ worth of thoughts about prayer.  This may be too personal for non-siblings to care about, but then there are phrases in here that seem to stick with me lately, and maybe it is time for them to do more than just rattle around in my boxcar of a brain.  Tell me, brothers and sister, what you think.

Meanwhile, I have set aside movie reviewing, although I just watched Das Weisse Band, a 2009 German film that I whole-heartedly recommend (all at once it is a whodunnit that never solves itself, a film where the kids all have names and the parents do not, a consideration of what led up to World War I and the Nazi generation and a cause to reflect on what kind of different generation we may now be spawning.  Go out and find this one!).

 

And hug your kids from me, too.  I love you too Anne.  And Hurrah for all the Lamkendlovs!

Jon

 

Me Too!

Hey boys!

My friend's 39-year-old brother died Tuesday night while shoveling the snow - it looks like he had a heart attack.  She was so upset, of course, and said that she wishes she had talked to him more.  And I thought: me too!  So I just wanted to send you a note to tell you that I think you're the best brothers I could ever ask for.  You've always been so good to me and I know I take you for granted.  I miss you all.

I hope you're having a great winter's day :)  Give your families big hugs from me. 


I love you.


Annie 


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