The Good Die

                  When some men die, the news is interrupted, the flags fly at half mast, and there are parades of dignitaries making speeches. A man died today- a man you never heard of, who's name will not even be in bold print when it is listed in the obituaries. He died quietly and of his own choice (rather then be forever joined to a machine) with the four people he loved most around him. I wonder which of these men has had the richer life.
                  One was a man who's world was made of material goods, who knew very powerful and important people but had very few real friends, and who caused flags to lowered but conversations to turn to how to best take advantage his death.
                  The other a man who worked hard for the very little he had but loved his work. He never said "No" to anyone and did what he could to help those who came to him in need. He did not know a lot of people but those he did know he cherished. He was a simple man who lived a simple life and relished in its simpler pleasures. With his passing, a huge void has been left in the hearts of his friends and family.
                  So who was richer, the man who devoted himself to a life of numbers and possessions, or the man who devoted himself to life? Is it the man who's name will be recorded in history books and carved in granite, or the man who's name is etched in the hearts of loved ones and who's memory- the true memory of who he was- will live on for as long as those who knew him are alive?
                  When you die, your Jaguar won't be parked in the hospital room and those winters in Barbados will be nothing but a faded memory if you remember them at all. The only things that will matter to you will be the warm and caring hand holding yours and the sounds of weeping as the overture to your departure.

posted by The Pendragon at 8/26/2003 07:13:00 PM

A Job Well Done

Perhaps you recall the old cartoons where the Coyote is chasing the Roadrunner and is so intent on the chase and moving so fast that, when he runs off the end of a cliff, he keeps traveling for several feet. Seeing what has happened, he hangs in midair for moment as the realization hits him, then he plummets toward the canyon floor.
Parenting is a 24 hour a day, 7 days a week job most of which is unappreciated and unnoticed. Taking that tiny, squalling, purple thing that appears in the hospital one day and growing and molding it into a fully functional and happy adult human being takes a tremendous amount of energy- physical, emotional, and mental. It is trying, draining, and thankless. For eighteen years and then some every thought, every decision, every act centers around the child as they must be the first and foremost consideration. When you work, you work to care for them. When you play, you play to spend time with them. As they get older they require less physical effort but vastly more mental effort. Things go into overdrive as college grows near as you help them choose a school, fill out applications, prepare for standardized tests, and figure out how the Hell you are going to pay for it all.
Then, all of a sudden, it's over. In the space of a day, an hour, just a fleeting minute you give them that final bit of parental wisdom and hug and they are gone into a life that does not involve you on a daily basis. No more picking up their socks from the living room floor, no more throbbing music shaking the fillings out of your teeth, no more constant jangling of the phone and a house filled with assorted teenagers. You don't have to feed them, wash their clothes, or deal with the fallout of whatever is impacting their emotions at a given moment. They don't need you any longer. You have run off the cliff.
When the child starts college, there are welcome weeks and orientations and all sorts of programs and events designed to help them ease into their new lives. Who is there to orient the parent and to ease them into their new life? As come to the realization that we have run out of cliff, who is there to tell us where to hit and what to do when we get there?
I realize this does not seem to be a problem. Suddenly being able to live one's life for one's self instead of someone else would appear to be the ultimate freedom. I can go , do, be whatever I want with no one to tell me different. But I am a dad. It's what I do, what I have done for the past 18 years half of those with no one else's help. It is my craft, my work, my avocation- and, now, the job is done. My tools are useless, the things I have learned are meaningless, and all of the experience I have gained is not good for anything.
My role has changed. I am like Vito Corleone handing the reigns of the family over to Michael and moving into the background as consigliore. No longer in command, all he could do was give the benefit of his experience and hope his son made the right decisions. I am now in that same role. I no longer command I simply offer my wisdom and hope for the best.
So, as my son starts his new life I move on to mine. For now, the future is a blank slate. I will write upon it what I will. The first thing I am going to do is get a puppy. Not exactly a replacement for a boy, but something I can care for.
If you are a parent, allow me to give you a word of advice. I don't care of your kid is a senior in high school or was born yesterday- savor every moment and do the best you can for him or her because, before you know it and long before you are ready for it, he or she will be out the door and all you will have to cushion the impact on the canyon floor is the satisfaction of a job well done.



posted by The Pendragon at 8/23/2003 01:05:00 PM

I Read A Book

I know it has become almost a knee-jerk reaction among more experienced Pagans to discount, if not outright laugh at, those whose sole knowledge comes from reading books. Some wag has even coined the term "IRAB" (I Read A Book) to describe these individuals who think that browsing through Cunningham or perusing Buckland is all one needs to become the end all and be all of Paganism.
The thought is that merely reading a book is not enough. It assumes real time interaction with a human teacher and a few years of experience are the only way to gain real knowledge. The idea is that there is no power in books.
Those who hold this point of view might do well to reconsider. The Christian church rode roughshod over and ended up running most of the Western world empowered by nothing more than what was written in a book. Thousands of Americans died on 09/11/2001 because of what someone had written in a book. You would be hard pressed to find any religion from Mithraism to Scientology that is not based on what is written in a "mere book." Even the neo Pagan movement came as a result of books.
What set me off on these literary musings is what I have been reading about a recent and very powerful book. Part of a set of books, really, this book has been at the top of the news, the center of riots, the source of endless controversy, and, as some would describe, the source of great evil that is subverting our children and guaranteeing them a life of pain and suffering. I am, of course, talking about the latest book in the Harry Potter series.
It started months before the book even came out. The news media began a countdown of the book's release reminiscent of countdowns to other great events such as the man landing on the moon or Y2K. Every night, the newscasters advised us with breathless anticipation of how much closer we were to the Great Day that we would find out what Harry's latest adventure would be. Rumors about the books were flying around like poop at a baboon convention. Someone whispered that an important character was going to die. Someone else heard that Rowling was reneging and would not write anymore books. We heard about how many books were being printed, how many would sell, and how much money would be made by all concerned.
One hapless reviewer dared to publish his comments about the book before it was officially released and is being thoroughly bludgeoned with the club of litigation. That one unfortunate incident aside, the wonderful day finally arrived. As the hour grew near, we got constant news feed about how many people were lining up with sleeping bags and camp stoves to get the great "honor" of spending their money one the book the instant it became available. We saw video of long lines on the sidewalk outside bookstores looking like Depression Era soup lines and heard interviews with Potter enthusiasts about how the book was going to change their lives.
Finally, the Cosmos aligned in the proper position and it was time for the book to be sold. Those waiting in line fell upon copies like starving men falling upon a turkey dinner. Some bought both the English and American versions, apparently unaware that the only differences were the size of the type and the margins. Of course, the media was there to show as the thrilled children grasping copies in their arms and falling to the bookstore floor unable to put off reading even as long as it took to get to the parking lot.
We also saw the ugly side when near riots broke out as stores ran out of their strictly rationed copies. It was then the criminal element moved in and pirates made free copies widely available on the Internet.
Of course, a certain portion of our society, the church, was not shocked at all to see this happen. To their way of thinking, this did not even scratch the surface of the insidious evil lurking between the covers of that dastardly tome.
This book and the ones before it have been accused of teaching children Satanism and Witchcraft (like these are bad things), diluting the work ethic by giving the impression that things can be obtained without working for them, and even promoting promiscuity by depicting young men and women fraternizing without proper supervision. I should expect to hear any day now about the hidden Satanic messages one can decipher by reading the books backward.
Hellfire and brimstone has been called down upon Harry and the gang as these thought Nazis demand the books be banned from libraries and removed from schools. After all, they are to blame for the "alarming" increase in the number of people turning to Paganism and the declining numbers of people in pews (and dollars in church coffers).
The furor is nowhere near dying down as, just today, I read an article making a very feasible case for Harry's story being an allegory for what a young gay man goes through- right down to the point his family forces him to live in a closet. He is, the piece claimed, the latest gay icon.
I am shocked that those who protected us from the hidden filth of the Teletubbies did not pick up on such a blatant sign of Satan in action but, now that it has been brought to their attention, I am sure there will be a renewed cry for the purging of this evil in print from the hearts, minds, and bookshelves of humanity.
For the gods' sake, this is a kids' story! It is a fanciful tale, a flight of the imagination, a daydream in print. It is not even a new story. It is "Oliver Twist" with a magic wand. It's Dorothy and Toto in England. It is "The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of the Really Spooky Castle." It is just a book that has shaken our society as thoroughly as the other events it has shared the front page with these past few months.
Just a book; something of no power or consequence? Tell it to Saul of Tarsis who wrote a book which became the foundation of a repressive moral code which, after more than 2000 years, left societal scars we are still endeavoring to heal. Tell it to the men who framed the Constitution of the United States and set the course for the greatest nation in the history of mankind. Tell it to Charles Darwin who took pen in hand and transcribed the creation of the Universe.
Tell it to the once homeless J K Rowling.

posted by The Pendragon at 8/17/2003 07:57:00 PM

Dry

I don't know how long it has been since we have seen real rain. Oh we had a couple of days where the sky clouded over, thunder rumbled, and a few drops of rain made forays to the Earth, but the storms never came. It was as if any rain that did fall evaporated in mid air. I drive through an area of road construction on my daily commute and I note that the ground is so hard and packed that they have to bring in huge water trucks to soak it so the bulldozers can move the earth. The grass is dead and brown, the crops are look more like they should in late September than in early August, and the brush and trees are so dry it they seem as if the whole world could burst into flame at any moment under the heat of the summer sun.

The rain gods have forsaken us. They have taken their liquid treasure and hoarded it in the stock rooms of the sky rather than sharing it with we mortals who depend so completely on it. Not just we mortal people but the mortal animals as well. I have seen cattle set to graze in the harsh, beige fields of Johnson grass because the pastures are depleted. Rabbits have migrated to the populated areas where the lawns and flower beds are watered. They scatter like grasshoppers when one walks outside. In the early, lush, green days of summer activity at the feeder dropped off drastically from what it was during the winter. Now we are back to the feathered battle royals and I am having to refill it almost every other day- which tells me the pickings are slim even if one eats. . . like a bird.

I was driving in rural Kansas last week and there, amidst the parched corn fields and the plumes of dust hanging in the air from the gravel roads, was a church with a sign in front which read "Our prayer list: rain, troops, mercy, and you." I found that to be quite an eloquent statement about the current condition of the world.


posted by The Pendragon at 8/09/2003 12:24:00 PM

Gaea

Many of you who are reading this are or will be attending the Heartland Pagan Festival. The festival is big and there are a lot of things going on. You should have no problem occupying your weekend with workshops, rituals, concerts, drumming, dancing, lectures, catching up with old friends and making new ones.
Along with enjoying the activities and the people, I would urge you to take the time to get to know the place on which it is held- Camp Gaea. Maybe you are not from the area, are new to the community, or are one of the folks who only gets out to Camp once a year for the fest. Please allow me to take a moment to tell you about it.
Camp Gaea is not just a campground HSA rents out each year. Gaea is a retreat center that is available and utilized year round. She is open to the public and, for a very reasonable fees are welcome. Traditionally a sanctuary for practitioners of various forms of alternative lifestyles and/or spirituality, Gaea is not just for Pagans.
Camp has actually been around since the 1920's and has gone through various incarnations as a church camp, a nudist area, and its present incarnation. Take a moment to feel the energy and you will know, as I do, that this place has been a site of spirituality and community since the times of the Ancients.
Camp Gaea is managed by a corporation called Earth Rising. This is, in fact, what makes Camp unique among this sort of retreat center. All others are privately owned and affiliated with a certain group while Camp is corporately owned and managed by group representing a cross-section of the groups it serves.
A single caretaker lives on site but there are no paid employees. All of the endless, backbreaking, and, many times, thankless work it takes to run and maintain Camp Gaea is done by a very small group of volunteers. It is awe inspiring when you think of all it takes just to keep the buildings sound, the roads drivable, and the ditches cleaned, let alone handling disasters like the pavilion collapse a few years ago and making improvements like the bath house and the new (and much safer) stairs. This handful of people does it all while somehow meeting all of the financial obligations Camp faces. It may not be flashes and puffs of smoke but there is no arguing that it is magick.
Why they do it is no secret- it is for the love of the land. Those of us who are privileged enough to call Gaea our spiritual home understand this all too well. In your short visit with all the frenetic activity going on around you, there may be no time for you to get to know her the way we do and I wish there were some way to convey it to you.
You see, many people who come to the fest don't understand that Gaea is sacred land. They don't know that she is as sacrosanct as our homes. They don't realize that her wooded glens are our church and her stones our altars. They don't comprehend that, when they disrespect the Land they are disrespecting our Mother.
I know the folks at HSA handed you a whole sheaf of rules. They are obligated to do so. However, the rules of Camp Gaea are simple: Respect the land, respect others, and respect yourself. Not bad rules to follow no matter where you are.
Have a blast at the fest. Throw off the shackles of the mundane world and just enjoy being a Pagan- whatever that means to you. Be sure to bid generously at the Silent Auction and to throw something in the Wishing Well down by the Dining Hall.
I would urge you, also, to come back when things are quieter. Take some time to walk the trails, swim in the lake, and enjoy the energy of the sacred places. Get to know the real Camp Gaea and the healing, rest, and inspiration she can give you.

- The Pendragon

posted by The Pendragon at 8/08/2003 06:54:00 PM

Pomp and Circumspect

It's over. The speeches have been given, the awards announced, the names
called as each graduate crossed the stage and the threshold between being a
child and being an adult. Among them was my own son. It was the proudest moments
of my life to see him festooned in cap, gown, and cords, taking his medals and
diploma, and moving his tassel to the other side of his mortarboard.

To be sure, the day was all about him. The accomplishment and the honor were
all his and he deserved his moment in the sun. It has been a harder struggle for
him, perhaps, than most of the others in his class. It is hard enough being a
boy growing up in a cold and heartless world but he had the added burden of
doing so without a mother in his life. 

For the past nine years it has been just him and me- the only child and the
single parent. It has been rough trying to be both mom and dad and to
single-handedly provide discipline, material needs, and nurturing. Like any
parent, I saw failure looming around every corner and spent many a night laying
awake and worrying about what would become of my child. There are so many
pitfalls, so many dangers, so many chances for disaster- everything from drugs
to getting some young woman pregnant, how could even a team of parents keep a
child safe and secure, let alone one man also trying to have a career and a
life? You stumble, you fall, but you keep trying while you hold your breath and
hope for the best.

That's all over for me now. Sure, I will be his father for the rest of his
life. That will never change. I will always hold that sacred and daunting
office, even when his own son or daughter is keeping him awake at night.
However, I have completed the job of  parenting. He is an adult now. He is
not only able to but also responsible for making his own decisions. All I can do
is grit my teeth when I see him making a bad one and be there to do what I can
to repair the damage. But I no longer have to be there day in and day out,
watching over him and guiding him every step of the way. That job is done.

If I do say so myself, it was a damn fine job at that. Not only has he completed
High School, he has also been accepted to the same university I attended and
will be receiving a couple of scholarships. He was planning to petition to
enroll in a professional school, normally done during the Junior year. At
that  time, his grades and other factors would be examined and, if he was
good enough, he would be granted admittance. That's not going to happen now.
Last night, he was notified that he will be one of the first freshmen ever
to be accepted into that professional school.   

The orchestra has played, the caps thrown, and the ceremony has ended. It was
all for him and he earned it. But I earned some honors of my own. I graduated
from being responsible for someone else's life. My diploma is a healthy, happy
son going out into a very bright future that portends nothing but good for him.
I have moved my tassel from  "full time, single parent" to 
just standing by in case he needs me (and supplementing those scholarships with
some checks of my own). There will be no speeches made for me and no formal
recognition of what I have done but, inside my head the orchestra of life is
playing "Pomp and Circumstance"

posted by The Pendragon at 5/22/2003 04:46:00 PM

Baptism of Wind

...Then he was told: Remember what you have seen,
because everything forgotten returns to the circling winds...
--Lines from a Navajo wind chant

[Note: this map may be of some help] 

It was a wonderful Beltane weekend out at Camp Gaea. The energy was high and
the festivities were what one expects at this particular Sabbat. We got to spend
our first night in the cabin we are adopting. As always, old friends were there
and new friends were made. Sunday afternoon, that sad time when everyone packs
up and readies themselves to plunge back into the mundane world, came all too
soon.

We had just finished most of our own packing and loading and my wife had gone
with a friend of ours to scope out a camping spot for Heartland, when it began
to rain. I was doing some last minute clean up in the cabin and I paused to
enjoy the sight and sound of the downpour. The rain picked up and became what
people in Kansas refer to as a "gulley washer." Then I heard the
unmistakable sound of hail hitting the roof. I looked out to see marble sized
pieces of ice falling, bouncing, and dancing on the Earth. I hear a squeal and
some laughter from out in the storm and get to the door just in time to see my
wife and our friend running up to the cabin. They were soaked to the bone and
anxious to get out of the stinging hail.

As the two women toweled off and put on dry clothes, the hail stopped and the
rain tapered off. The, as suddenly as the storm had come it was gone. We chalked
it up to Gaea Weather (Gaea is known for having weather which is not
experienced by the surrounding area) until we heard the sound of sirens wailing
followed by the urgent clanging of Camp's bell. The tornado shelter for Camp
is the basement of the Main Hall. As we had no radio or TV- not even cell phone
coverage- at Camp, we had no idea that the storm was this bad.

The torrential rain of moments before had turned Camp into a bas relief
fountain. The hillside was a convocation of runnels, streams, and water falls
all rushing to worship at Lake Onessa or Hoot Owl Creek. The trails had turned
to freshets and brooks as the land was too slow to absorb all the water that had
been poured upon it. As we got the main hall, the caretaker told us a tornado
had just gone through Jarbalo (a few miles southeast of Camp). Having lived in
this area all my life, I know the weather patterns and, since the storm was east
of Camp, I knew we were out of danger. As we stood and watched the roiling wall
cloud heading toward the city, I was not concerned. People who live here are as
ambivalent about tornadoes as people in California are about earthquakes and
people in Florida are about hurricanes. There wasn't a tornado. So I did not
give it another thought.

We finished packing up and saying good-bye. I knew we would run into weather
on the way home but hey, I have driven through tropical storms, so I was not
overly concerned. So we began our journey home.

The journey across the farmland of Leavenworth County was inconsequential. We
ran into a few patches of rain but it was otherwise just a nice spring day
behind the storms. We ran into the storm proper about the time we got to 7
highway and headed south. The storm must have just recently arrived there itself
as people were still streaming out of the little league fields at the junction
of K-7 and County 8.

The deluge on K-7 highway was so bad that many of the less courageous drivers
had pulled to the side to wait the rain out. Even I was going safely below the
speed limit. I had forgotten about the hail. Out here on the open highway
without the canopy of trees to slow it down, the hail was a different animal.
These were not happy little marbles dancing around; these were ball bearings
being hurled out of the sky by an angry pitching deity. It hit the roof of the
car with a loud bang. Several stones hit the windows hard enough to make us
shrink back. There was no cover there so I decided to keep going and get on the
other side of the hail.

I have a choice of three routes off of K-7 by which I can go home.
Leavenworth Road is shortest but slowest, Parallel is a happy medium, and I-70
is fastest and longest.  Leavenworth
is too slow and narrow and I really did not want to deal with the pandemonium on
the freeway caused by the weather, so I took Parallel. This small, quickly made
decision saved my life.

Soon after we turned, we were out of the hail and the rain slowed to little
more than a drizzle. As we drove, I explained all of the arcane knowledge of
thunderstorms and their results that one gains when one lives in Tornado Alley.
Most people who are not from the area are terrified when the sky turns black and
the sirens sound, but my Norwegian sweetie was nonplussed and full of questions.
As we spoke about dry lines and I tried to explain what a wall cloud was, I
began to notice cars on the other side of the road that had pulled over and were
just sitting there. I could not see out the back window because it was streaked
with water from the light rain so I had no idea why they were doing so.

Then we topped a small hill and there were two men, one with a video camera,
standing by a pick up truck and videotaping madly. I dawned on me what was going
on and I blurted out, "I think there is a tornado behind us." I craned my
neck to get a view behind me via the outside mirror.

About twenty feet behind the car and about five feet up in the air, a ring of
dark black cloud fragments was spinning. It capered back and forth as it
followed us, first to one side of the road and then the other. It passed right
over- I mean their heads were inside it- the guys at the 
pickup. I watched in the mirror as they tracked its passage and saw the
wonder on their faces as they followed it and my car with the camera. This was a
tornado being born; its first wispy tendrils reaching down to the Earth.

I doubt many people have been that close to a tornado and lived to write
about it. I was fascinated by it as I watched it following me down the highway.
I regret not having a video camera with me but that image will be in my mind for
the rest of my life.

Having never been privy to the birth of a tornado first hand, I had no idea
if this one was going to suddenly and without warning going to burst into a
full-blown tornado. I did know that the freeway ramp I had to take would
actually make me go back west for a distance so I needed to get away from it
fast enough to still be clear when I got on the freeway. "What is that?" my
wife asked.

"It's not really a tornado," I lied, "It is more like a whirlwind or
dust devil." Yeah, right. A dust devil after a deluge.  I accelerated as much as I could on the slick roads. It was
also about this time that I got the brilliant idea of turning on the car radio
to check the weather. It was then I found out the extent of the disaster
befalling the city.

I made it to the freeway, up the ramp, and got onto to northbound I-435.
Looking in the mirror I saw a black vortex of spinning cloud pieces going along
the shoulder and, now, it was big enough to be sucking up a small cloud of
debris. Whether it was the same one or a different one did not matter, I was
getting the hell away from it.

I was driving focused intently on the rear view mirror with just an
occasional glance at the road ahead. I had four lanes of open freeway with very
little traffic and I was taking advantage of it. We had gone maybe half a mile
when my wife pointed out my window and asked, "Honey, is that a real tornado?"

There, to my left and slightly ahead of me, coiling down from the sky like a
deadly serpent ready to strike was a very
real tornado. Looking at it to look upon something of incredible power and
awesome beauty- and seeing your death in it. I have lived here all my life. I
have studied meteorology. I watch many related shows on Discovery and The
Learning Channel. I know the history of some of our worst storms. I can draw you
a diagram explaining how a tornado is formed. And, until that moment, I never
really understood what a tornado was. I am sure my namesake must have felt the
same when he looked up and saw the Angel of Death standing over his city, sword
held high and ready to strike.

I also understood that it was extending down toward the ground and directly
at me. The tornado was coming down Leavenworth Road (had I chosen that shorter
route, the tornado and we would have been in the same place at the same time;
there is no question as to the result of that encounter). We were not clear yet.
I was stuck on open freeway and I had no choice- I had to cross its path. Had I
been in my sports car, I might have let fascination overtake fear for a moment
and taken time to observe the tornado, but we were in my wife's more family
oriented car and I did not want to take a chance. I gunned it and made it past
where, just minutes later, the tornado touched down and began all of the
destruction that made international news.

"Drive. Don't look at it, drive!" my wife urged as I tried to soak in
as much of the storm as I could while going down the highway at eighty miles an
hour. She was finally feeling the fear and she wanted to get out of there. I
could see no reason to argue so I did my best to put distance between us and the
altar of the Wind Gods.

I was nonchalant when I left Camp but I become cautious. Of course, it was
Sunday afternoon so the broadcasting B team was on the radio. Between the
constant static of the lightning, the disjointed reports being read and called
in, the constant but uneven breaks to and from other weather broadcasts, and the
squealing alarm and droning computer voice of the National Weather Service, the
radio was almost useless for information. I did manage to pick a few things out
and one of those was that a tornado was in Platte City, which lay directly in
our path. There were also numerous sightings of other tornadoes to the
north of us. I had to get off that freeway before we drove right into another
tornado. Something told me- urged me- to take 45 back east toward home. I got
off at 45 and headed toward Parkville.

It was unsettling, to say the least, to know I had tornadoes on two sides of
me and nothing at all to protect me should I come upon another. However, as I
drove down 45 Highway, my anxiety lessened somewhat and fear became a simple
urge to get home and feel safe. I did not know that the beautiful monstrosity we
left behind had devastated the area east of the freeway and was heading directly
toward Parkville. It was moving at a pretty good clip- about 40 mph- so,
considering I had to loop up and around to get over the river and it took a more
direct route, I estimate it was hitting the south end of Parkville about the
time we were going through the north side. Luckily, it decided to turn right and
hit Northmoor and Riverside. Had it stayed its course, we would have met again
on narrow, winding, hilly 45 Highway. What is really spooky is, I had I decided
on the fast route and taken I-70, I would gone to I-635 and cut north which
means I would have had two more opportunities to cross the tornado's path as
it ripped through Northmoor.

No matter, none of this happened and we were safe. As we passed Parkville and
headed down 64^th Street, we once again found ourselves in the heavy
rain that had preceded the storm at Camp. We were in front of it now and I knew
we had nothing to fear.

There is something about being home that just makes you feel safe. When we
arrived, there was no question in my mind that we had outrun the danger. The
torrential rain and hail arrived at the house just a few minutes after us and,
again, like some cosmic instant replay of life, became the hail filled torrent
we had experienced at Camp. The rain lifted and I suggested that we go unload
the car. All of a sudden there was a huge BOOM and the power went out. As we
stood there feeling all safe and secure, that tornado passed one and a half
miles south of our house as it bulldozed its path of destruction through
Gladstone and on to Liberty. It had paralleled our path home almost perfectly.

I suppose if I were of a different bent, I would just thank whom or whatever
I worshipped and be grateful I gained a cool story out of the deal. However,
being who and what I am, I am still trying to sort out what happened on a higher
plane. On a Sabbat that also happens to be my birthday, on my way home from Camp
Gaea, I come across the paths of two tornadoes and they follow me. By sheer luck
(or something else) I avoid crossing the path of devastation in four different
places and it ends up going thorough my own neighborhood. There has to be
meaning here. There has to be a purpose, a lesson. I suppose that whatever this
is will become clear as I devote more thought to it. In the meantime, I am sure
of one thing: I have survived my baptism of wind.

posted by The Pendragon at 5/05/2003 08:34:00 PM

How to Import a Norwegian

[The following story was written in 2001]
As we have passed the first anniversary of the beginning of our non stop honeymoon, I thought it would be nice to share "the rest of the story" with the many people here who saw Webbie and I meet and fall in love. The whole process was rather rigorous but the rewards were more than worth it. I would do it again and even more so in a heart beat.

Here we go.

Webbie and I knew from the time we hooked that we were destined to marry. This worked out well because that was the only way she could get a resident visa to live in the US . So, about a year and a half ago, we began the process of arranging things for her to move over here. The first thing was compiling the paperwork. Oh my gods! She had to have more paperwork than you can imagine. I bet someone seeking a top top secret clearance at the CIA does not have to provide such proof of existence. Not only the standard stuff like birth certificates and passport, she had to go to the Politi (Norwegian police) and get a statement saying that she was NOT a criminal! The US required her to get a physical but not just any doctor would do- only two in all of Norway were qualified and, since Norway has socialized medicine, we had to pay $400 out of our own pockets to prove she was not diseased. This pissed me off because it is not like Norway is some third world pest hole, we are talking a clean ,decent country with a better lifestyle than the US .

She gathered up all of her ancillary paperwork and flew over here so we could get married. Along with it, was a ton of paperwork for ME to fill out. I had to provide W2's, pay check stubs, references, and even sign and notarize a form saying that I would support her for at least two years even if we didn't stay married. We spent half her visit here running to and fro gathering papers and getting things signed and notarized. Oh yeah, she had to get this special kind of picture taken. Passport photos are not good enough. It has to be at this certain angle that shows the right ear (don't ask me) perfectly. We spent an entire day finding a place that would do it. We hit everywhere we knew and it was the same story "Yeah, we used to do those but the government is so damn picky they are never right and we got tired of people coming back here being mad at us so we stopped." We finally ended up at Sear's Portrait Studio to get the picture taken.

With this all done and our marriage license in hand, we were set. We actually had two marriage  ceremonies. It was important to both of us that this marriage be special, not just another formality to get the paperwork through. So we had our own magickal bonding ceremony in our favorite sacred place. A few days later, we were married by a judge to make things legal. The day after that, a Saturday, my new wife flew back to Norway to finish up the lose ends of her life and make preparations to start our new one together. Of all the times we had to say good-bye, that was the very hardest. It was a little easier to take knowing that it was the last. We were set! We had everything signed, notarized, and paid for. The embassy had told her that all she had to do was bring that paperwork in and she would have her visa that very same day. Hooray! The hell of immigration was over.We thought.

I got a phone call in Monday from a very upset Norwegian girl. "You have to come here."

"What?"

"The embassy says that you have to come here for me to get my visa or we have to wait a year or more."

I would have thought this was a joke but Norwegians are not given to frivolous humor. "Why? Is there something I didn't do or sign? Can you mail it to me and I can mail it back?"

"No, you have to come here."

I tried to get more information out of her but she was getting more and more upset, so I agreed to check with the INS myself. Now, in order work answering the phones at the INS, they must require you to have hemorrhoids and sit naked on sandpaper. I called and got some nasty hateful mean woman- from New Yawk by the sound of her voice- who was about as helpful as a room full of three year olds and as friendly as a rabid pit bull. She verbally sneered down her nose and told me that, if I wanted the gems at the INS to handle the paperwork, we would wait *at least* a year and probably much longer (I didn't know about the express service for terrorists at that time or I would have said Webbie was one). However the US Embassy has its own authority to grant visas and they could do it the same day. That was that, it was either pay the $1200 bucks in air fare and go to Norway , or wait a year plus to claim my bride.I called the travel agent.

By the time three months had passed, I had gotten over being disgruntled and was actually looking forward to the trip. I had scheduled it to coincide with my MIL's big 50th birthday bash. I love her and the rest of Norwegian family and it was great to have the chance to celebrate this special occasion- except that, three days before I left, the sewer line to their house collapsed and they postponed the party. That's okay, I thought, I still get to see them and spend some time with my wife. Plus I love to travel.

I was sitting at KCI and I am all revved up and ready to go. I was so excited that I had arrived there extra early (this was last August so it was not mandatory). Soon United Airlines would be winging me to Chicago where I would connect to a flight to Frankfurt and, then, on to Oslo and the loving arms of my wife. The lounge was filling up and the flight was just about ready to board when the desk agent came on and told us that the flight would be delayed. I only had like an hour layover at O' Hare and this kind of made me nervous. I went to the desk and asked what was up. Of course, as usual for O Hare, there was a severe storm that had grounded everything. Well this was sort of good news because it meant my outbound flight was also grounded. Just in case, I utilized my extensive traveling background and reserved a seat on the next plane out- which they told was at 2:00 PM the next day, just in case. So we waited and waited and waited some more. Finally it was getting to be almost ten o'clock . I had been sitting in the airport for like six hours so I decided to go get something to eat. As I was standing in line at the snack bar someone came in and yelled that they were boarding the flight to Chicago . I went running back to the gate.

I live maybe ten minutes from the airport. If I was going to miss my connecting flight, I was willing to go home, get some Z's, and take an early flight to Chicago the next morning. So I asked the lady at the gate, again, if I was going to miss my flight. She assured me that all of the flights out were delayed and that I would probably make mine. So I boarded the airplane. After everyone else had too, the plane left the gate, taxied out to the runway, and shut its engines down.

Now, what? I stopped the flight attendant and asked him what was going on. "Well," he explained, " Chicago is not really open yet but it will be soon so we taxied out here to make sure we were not delayed in departing."

Was he kidding? This was KCI at 10:00 PM . There was not even another airplane moving in the whole airport! Now I was trapped. There was no way I had the option of going home. I was going to Chicago tonight. Seeking some reassurance I asked him if I was going to make my flight out. "I doubt it," he said, "They never hold up the international flights for connecting passengers." I immediately revised my mental list of “If you could legally kill one person, who would it be?” An hour later, we finally took off.

The busiest airport in the world is a scary place at midnight , especially when it is almost empty. The only people about were those who, like me, had been delayed in arriving. I ran to the departure board and, of course, my flight was long gone. So I joined the pack of disappointed zombies shuffling to the ticket counter to be told what I was to do next. I had a flight out but I stood in the long line to find out what was up with my luggage since it had missed my connection as well and my new flight was not due out until the next day. 

Presently, a snippy little man worked has way down the line handing out pink pieces of paper. "Here," he snapped, "This is a list of area motels that have shuttle services that have made special arrangements with the airlines. Call the number on they will give you a confirmation number." Someone asked him a question that I did not hear and he responded in his nasty, gay manner, "Well this counter is going to close soon." When someone else asked why, he actually stamped his foot and snapped back,” Well, it's after midnight and these people have to go home!" It was only the thought of what a jail in Chicago must be like that kept from punching the little dweeb out. It looked like my underwear was going to have to fend for itself.

So I looked at my pink piece of paper and whipped out my mobile phone (NEVER travel without one). While everyone near the end of the line stampeded for the pay phones, I called the number, got my reservation, and went to catch the shuttle. My flight was not due out til 2:00 so I might as well sleep in a bed instead of hanging at the airport. Being somewhat thrifty, I called the cheapest place listed. $50 was a not too bad considering the options.

Of course the Motel Mafioso at the desk wanted $75. I wondered how much of a kickback United got from those "special arrangements." I mentioned that the airline had promised a lower rate. "Those prices are old" he said in his heavy Arab accent. The place was just this side of seedy- sort of in the EconoLodge class- and it was evident from its location that it existed only to screw over people who were in my predicament. I had heard them turn away a several people who did not have a magic number from the airline and there was a long line behind me. Everyplace else would be full and it would probably cost me $50 to take a cab back to the airport as I am sure they were in on the scam too. I plopped down the plastic, grabbed my key, went to my room, and spent a few minutes on the phone sobbing with my wife over the precious day together we had lost. Days, even seconds, are important when you only see each other once every six months. As I feel asleep it was 2:00 AM and I noted that my plane would have been landing in Oslo.

The next dawned bright and beautiful. One thing you learn when you travel long distances is that you eat when you can. I had noticed that this lovely establishment offered its guests a free Continental breakfast and that it ended at 9:00 . Realizing that I was stuck until I went to the airport, I had arranged my schedule to make sure I had time for breakfast. However the first item on my agenda was morning ablutions. As I got up to shower, I realized that I had no clean clothes- not even a change of underwear- neither did I have a razor or toothpaste. Unfortunately I had been spoiled. In all of my travels I had never missed a flight nor had my luggage lost. So I was totally unprepared for this. I have since learned to pack my shaving kit and minimum essentials in my carry-on. Technically would be arriving in Oslo the next morning, so I would be greeting my wife in clothing I had been wearing for two days. Oh well, she had been camping with me at Heartland 2000 when the showers at the camp were inoperable. Still, it was a yucky feeling to put the same clothing back on after you shower.

The cuisine arranged for the Continental breakfast turned out to be a couple of boxes of store-bought donuts and something that was impersonating orange juice. I decided to forego these delicacies and simply took a cup of the brackish liquid that was vaguely similar to coffee. Although my flight did not leave for three hours and I was only 15 minutes from the airport, I decided to hop the next shuttle. I like airports. I like to watch all of the people rushing around and look at the airplanes coming in from and winging off to the distant corners of the world. It beats midmorning daytime TV (what doesn’t?) plus they have Starbuck’s there and I was in desperate need of a cappuccino.

I got to the airport and joined the queue for check in. I still did not know where my luggage was. There was a very nice lady there checking to make sure people were where they should be, answering questions, and being really helpful. She checked my ticket and told me I was in the wrong line. She took me to the right place and, as we walked there, I gave her the digest version of my adventure so far and told her of my concern for my luggage. She said she would look into it for me and rushed off on her mission. A bit later she came back and said that she had found me a flight to Frankfurt (my next connection point) that left at 12:00 , would I like to take it? That would increase my layover there to six hours but hey, if it was a choice of waiting here or there I would take there, plus my son wanted me to bring him “something German.” Cool! Let’s go. She lead me to a ticket agent who had opened early just for me, stayed there while I described and the agent located my luggage, and wished me a great trip.

With the knowledge that my underwear was safe and a cup of cappuccino and a sandwich in my belly, I was once again facing my voyage with relish. Sitting there in the departure lounge watching the miniature world of the airport spinning around me, I was actually happy. They called my flight and I went aboard the huge 747. As luck would have it, the flight was not full so the seat next to me was empty. I could sleep on the plane. The plane was boarded, the doors were sealed, and we sat there waiting for departure.

And sat there.

And sat there.

The captain came on the intercom and told us that there was a problem with an icing sensor in one of engines. He said it was a minor thing but that he did not want to take off until everything was perfect. He was sure it would not be long. Hey, I can hang with that. If the pilot ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Let’s get that thing fixed before we go. Besides, I had six hours, almost time for a whole second flight. Safety first, dude.

The wait went on. The flight attendants served drinks, then they showed a movie (“Sweet November”- yuck! Just stick pins in my eyes next time). I realized that my original, later flight, had just taken off. Then they started another movie. What the hell was taking so long? Why didn’t they just get us another engine- or another airplane?Six and one half hours later, we left for Frankfurt Main.

I was so tired, so stressed, and so worn out that I have never slept so well on an airplane. After dinner I blanked out. The captain actually managed to make up an hour’s flying time and I arrived in Frankfurt with thirty minutes before my next flight left. So much for getting “something German,” I would have just enough time to make it to the gate.

I finally got off the plane and made my patented “mad dash through a foreign airport.” Frankfurt Main has to be the most stark and most confusing airport in the world. Twisting, turning, running up and down stairs and through corridors, I was bound and determined that I was going to make my flight and not be delayed one more minute from seeing my beloved. Finally, I found my gate- behind a wall of glass. Damn the new EU rules! I had to go through passport control.  I followed the arrows and arrived at three queues leading to three identical boxes occupied by three identical stern-looking Germans with brush haircuts and Nazi-esque uniforms complete with epaulets. I picked one at random, got to the front, and handed the officer my passport.  

“Are you an European citizen?” he barked at me.

 “No, I am an American.”  

“ZEN YOU ARE IN ZE WRONK LINE!” He flung my passport back at me.  

Considering everything that had happened so far, I full expected to end up in Airport Aushwiscz for being in the wrong line. However, he was merciful to “ze stupid American” and motioned the next person forward. It was then I noticed the signs. I got in the line for non EU-ers, gasped a sigh of relief when the correct Hitler clone gave me the nod, and then rushed off for my gate as I heard them making the last boarding call. I ran through the departure lounge and handed the gate agent my ticket. “Are you still boarding? “ I asked. She nodded and I went through the gate, down more stairs and arrived at. . . a bus. I was tired, stressed, disoriented, afraid, in a strange country, I had just run through the world’s largest rat’s maze, was wearing two-day old underwear, had a blood sugar of zero and terminal jet lag. Imagine how I felt thinking I was rushing out to a plane and finding a bus. I was in Frankfurt Germany . I was going to Oslo Norway . How the hell was I getting there in a bus? I was totally confused. I asked the driver if he was going to Oslo . He must have sensed my confusion (or he didn’t speak English) because he smiled and nodded yes. The fight gone out of me, I slumped into a seat and resigned myself to whatever fate befell me.

 Much to my delight, the bus took me to an airplane. It seems Frankfurt Main is Europe ’s busiest airport and they don’t have enough jet ways for all of the planes so they put you on a bus and you actually drive out on the apron. Man, there were a lot of planes out there. The driver found mine, I boarded it, and I was soon on my way to the arms of the most beautiful woman on Earth.  

In Oslo , I went to the baggage claim area to once again be united with my suitcases which I had not seen for two days and 6000 miles. I stood there at the carousel and waited. It will come as no surprise to you that my luggage never arrived. At this point, I was beyond caring. In fact, I had almost anticipated that this would happen. I looked around but could not find any luggage service for Lufthansa. Screw it. I was only about 100 feet from Webbie and I needed her badly.

In great excitement and anticipation I walked out of the arrival area and there, among the crowd of people waiting for friends and loved ones, Webbie was not to be seen.I panicked. I had no idea what to do. My first thought was to call her. My mobile phone does not work in Norway so I went to the pay phones. I had no Norwegian money but I thought I could use a credit card. The instructions on the phones were in Norwegian. I tried every combination of buttons I could think of but nary a recording could I raise. Then I spotted the information desk.

I can imagine what the lady there must have thought of some disheveled American in dirty clothes who hand been on airplanes for the last 16 hours and was on the verge of a nervous breakdown approaching her. Norwegians don’t like talking to strangers anyway and this job must have been hell on Earth for her in normal circumstances. So I tried to put on an “I won’t hurt you” smile and I explained to her that someone was supposed to meet me. I asked her to page Webbie. “We don’t normally page people.” What? This is an * airport*. What airport does not page people? I switched from harmless to desperate and asked her again. She agreed and paged Webbie.

Oh come on! I could fart louder than that! I waited and it was no surprise that there was no response. I approached Inga the Incommunicado again and asked if she would perhaps call Webbie on her mobile. She tried and there was no answer. Damn! What was I going to do? Where was Webbie? I had no choice but to settle in and wait. In desperation I asked her to try one last time. She did. I heard her talking Norwegian and she told me “The person you are looking for is right over there in the coffee shop.”

After a doubly joyous reunion and several minutes of mushy romantic stuff, we took a breath and some time to talk. Webbie explained that she had got to the airport but they had told her my flight from Chicago had arrived too late for me to possibly make my connection in Frankfurt and that I would be on the next flight. So she had found a place to wait for six hours for my arrival. Ha! Those people at Lufthansa did not know whom they were dealing with. I had made my connection despite their pessimism. Unfortunately, my underwear had not. I explained to her about my lost luggage and my Norwegian Goddess took over, found the right person, and made arrangements for my luggage to be delivered when it arrived. She even got me a free toilet kit so I could clean up.

As we got on the train into the city, I snuggled up to her and said, “I can not wait to get to your place, get cleaned up, and get some sleep.” I added other things but those are none of your business.

“Honey, we are not staying at my place. We are going to Slevik. My family is having a barbecue for you.” Great. Here I am beat to a mental pulp and looking like I just crawled out of a Goodwill box and I was going to have to be sociable with my entire Norwegian family. Plus how would my luggage ever find me?

We negotiated and I did, at least, get a shower and a nap before we left for the coast. I won’t go into all of the horrid details about the two days of phone calls and hassles, suffice to say that my suitcases took the scenic route and went from Frankfurt to Stockholm, then on to Oslo where they caught a bus to Slevik and, finally, on Sunday night, arrived by taxi at the house. I have never been so glad to see my underwear.

Luggage difficulties aside, it was a wonderful weekend. On Monday we went back into town and had dinner with friends. Our appointment with embassy was Tuesday morning.

This was mid August 2001 and the tensions in the Middle East were running high. The whole world was holding its breath. The Israeli embassy is close to the castle and the US embassy in Oslo . Preparations for the Norwegian royal wedding, with its stepped up security, were going on as well. Tensions were high in the area near the embassy. I even remarked to Webbie that something bad was going to happen.

When we got to the embassy there was a Politi van parked outside with officers scrutinizing everyone who walked by. A Norwegian marine who could have not looked meaner if he had been wearing a horned hat and bearskin stood outside the door and made people wait in line there until it was their turn. Once past the front door, visitors had to empty their pockets and go through a metal detector. Inside the embassy proper, you don’t get to talk to people face to face. The folks who work there are on elevated platforms behind bullet proof glass. Seeing that this kind of security was required in the country where the Nobel Peace Prize is awarded gave me an even greater sense of how dangerous it is to be an American in this world.

Even without all of the intimidating security, there is no feeling like having your entire life and future being placed in the hands of an uncaring bureaucrat. The woman Webbie spoke to was friendly enough but a shake of her head could have destroyed our future. She asked some questions, went through the paperwork meticulously, and told Webbie that she would have to pay a processing fee. They would not take anything but cash so we had to leave, go to an ATM, and then come back and go through the whole waiting/security thing again.

When we got back and went through all of that again, the woman shuffled our papers some more and then, sure enough, told Webbie that her picture was not good enough. We paid Sears like $30 bucks for that damn thing and it still was not good enough! Thankfully, the lady knew of a nearby place where Webbie could get one. Off we went to get the picture, come back to the embassy, and go through all of the waiting and security to once again arrive back in front of the lady who held the strings to our life. She gave the picture the nod and accepted it (we have not seen it since and have absolutely no idea what they used it for). After shuffling the papers a little more and talking to Webbie, she announced that there was an additional fee that had to be paid to further the process. Okay, this was going to be our fourth time through the mill so I asked “Could you please tell us about every fee we are going to need to pay so we can take care if it all at once?” Looking like she had never even considered the option, she informed us that there were, in fact, two more fees. Off to the ATM we went again.The last time through satisfied all of the requirements. For a sum total of only $450 * more*, Webbie was approved for a family visa to live in the United States.

As we walked away from the embassy and into the warm sunshine filled with the joy that we had finally got the visa, I realized something. I had not had to sign one piece of paper, produce any kind of form, and, aside from asking about the fees, I had not even said one word to the embassy personnel. WHY HAD THEY MADE ME COME ALL THE WAY TO NORWAY ?

We spent one more night in the city and the rest of the week at her mom’s in Lillehammer . It was a wonderful and magickal time if all too short. As we said goodbye- really for the last time- we knew that the only thing left was for Webbie to sell her apartment and then she would be coming to live with me.

A few weeks later, I was in Southwest Florida on business. The nature of my business required me to work at night. I had returned to my hotel room at about 7:00 AM and gone right to bed. At nine the phone woke me from a deep sleep. It was my wife. She was calling to tell me the wonderful news that she had sold her apartment and that, now, it was just a matter of weeks before she would be here. She also told me some other news that kind of ruined the magic of the moment. The date was September 11. The “something bad” had happened.

The greatest day in my personal history since the birth of my child was set for October 20th.  In the midst of all the turmoil and chaos in the aftermath, we were not sure what all of the impacts would be on immigration into the country. We anticipated that there would be extra scrutiny and security and that- with the additional factor that she was bringing her cat with her- anything could happen. Recalling everything that happened along the road to getting the visa- and that was before we went to war- it was decided that it would be best for me to meet her in Chicago.

As I approached O’Hare a mere five weeks after the attack, I expected to come upon and armed camp. I fully expected to see armed soldiers, security checkpoints, and even cars being searched. After all, I was approaching the international terminal of the busiest airport in the world. I saw nothing. The parking area is right across the street from the terminal and these was not so much as concrete barrier in place. Inside, I saw one cop sauntering through with no more concern than if he had been at a shopping mall.
Of course, since we had anticipated delays and endless trouble, nothing happened. Even needing her visa and having her cat in tow, Webbie came through the gate before many of the other passengers on her flight. I was almost an anticlimax, however I was grateful for it. My wife was here and we would never be separated again.

So , after about $5000, three trips across the ocean, and one big. . .adventure, I finally won the right to live with the woman I love.

posted by The Pendragon at 4/29/2003 05:25:00 PM

The Bravest Person I Know

 Bravery means to face or endure with the mental or moral strength to
venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. We have seen a
lot of bravery in the recent past. From the dauntless police and firemen in New York on
09/11 to our brave soldiers who fight for our freedom in Afghanistan and Iraq.
My father was a fireman, my mother was a child during the bombing of London in
World War II, and many members of my family have served in military service. So
I am well acquainted with bravery on a personal level as well.

Out of all these shining examples, none of them are the bravest. The bravest
person I know is a young twenty something girl who is not a soldier or part of
an emergency service. She is a mom and she has job and she lives her life every
day just like most of us do. You have not seen her on Fox News or read about her
in the paper. If I said her name you probably would not recognize it. Yet she is
something quite special.

You see, her father, whom she dearly loves as any daughter does, took ill.
The doctors said that he needed a new kidney. My friend was a perfect match,
being of the same genetic fabric, and volunteered to donate one if hers.

Not to diminish what those who stand in the gap and protect us from the
horrors of the world one whit but, to me, there is a huge difference between
facing the danger that the building might collapse of that you might
be shot and knowing that someone is going to cut into your living body
and remove a healthy organ which you may very well need later. Not to mention
facing the risks that any surgery poses and the weeks of pain and disability that
will follow.

I think about this and I am incredulous. To simply
read about it in cold words makes it seem more like an episode of ER. But I
cannot imagine the courage it would take to do this thing. Maybe if it was me
and someone I loved I would see things differently but the risk and the pain
would be no less.. 

I have not talked to my friend about this much. Before the surgery I did not
want to upset her and make her worry any more than she probably already was. Now
that it is over and she is just fine, the point to her is moot. However, no
matter how you look at it, her sacrifice is still an act of profound bravery
that proves courage is not always lauded with parades and medals. 

posted by The Pendragon at 4/23/2003 10:55:00 AM

Pharmaceutical Follies

During the course of this past weekend's activities, I damaged a tendon in my
right arm. It is nothing serious, it just hurts like hel. I was just going to
wait until it got better but my wife insisted that I go see the doctor. You know
how women are, running off to the doctor for every little thing while men don't
even entertain the idea unless it does not look like the bleeding is going
to slow down any time soon. Wanting to eliminate the growing pain in my neck
more than the pain in my arm, I acceded and went to see the doc. He gave me a
little sympathy, wrote a scrip for some pain relievers, and, of course, told me just
to wait until it got better. In order for my time not to be a total waste, I
decided to go ahead and get the scrip filled. At least it would feel better.
This is where the real trauma begins.

It seems we have this new law called the Health Information Privacy Act (HIPA).
Its purported intent is to ensure that health care providers protect the privacy
of their clients, which sounds very reasonable. However, how this wonderful idea
has been enacted is a study in bureaucratic madness and red tape gone wild.

I had not been to the pharmacy for quite some time. I navigated my way
through the cheap toys, the pantyhose, and the seasonal sale items and finally
came upon the counter where one could actually purchase medicine. I was shocked.
It looked more like a bank- and a very paranoid one at that- than my friendly
chemist's shop. There were ropes cordoning off the counter which was divided by
two inch thick Plexiglas panels that would have stopped an armor piercing round.
Near the ropes, was a large sign saying CUSTOMER PRIVACY AREA- WAIT HERE. I
looked around for the metal detector and the person who would make me take my
shoes off but, evidently, they have not yet been installed.

My turn came quickly enough and, as I approached, the pharmacist leaned
forward and almost whispered conspiratorially "Have you been here
before?"

I was taken aback. These were legal drugs I was buying. "Yes, I
have."

So he looked at the prescription and noted my insurance card and did all of
the these they usually do. Then, he reached into a bin and pulled out a
document. He waved it in my face (creating a nice breeze) and said. "Have
you read this?" This thing was printed on 11x 17 inch paper and had six
columns on each side of miniscule blue print. I have signed contracts on
business deals worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that required less
verbiage than that monstrosity. I saw a government seal and bunch of reference
numbers and I knew that it was filled with legalese that a Philadelphia lawyer
with a PhD in Latin would not be able to understand. Since I had not brought
food, water, or otherwise made arrangements for a protracted stay, I lied and
said I had. He turned back to his computer and typed for a moment then said,
"I don't show any record of you reading it." What the hell! The
pharmacy keeps tabs on my reading habits now? Being a writer, I can think
quickly on my feet. So I mumbled something about my wife getting one when she
came in a few days ago. He didn't believe me but he decided not to force the
issue. Did this guy really think that the people who took the damn thing actually
read and, if their lives were so desolate that they did read it, it meant
anything to them? I dismissed his scornful look and went to peruse the vitamins
while they filled my order.

As I was reading about the wonders of zinc with saw palmetto extract, I heard
my name being called over the loud speaker. "David W, please return to the
pharmacy!" Return to the pharmacy? Was there some problem? Was my insurance
cancelled or was I to be mistakenly arrested for passing a fake scrip for pain relievers?
In near panic I flew back to there and ran up to the PRIVACY AREA.
"Yes," I panted out, "Is something wrong?"

"No," the pharmacist said, "It's just that your prescription
is ready."

"So, why didn't you just say my prescription was ready?"

"Oh, we can't do that because of the privacy law. We can't even say your
last name over the intercom." Oh yes, I am sure Iraqi spies are lurking
around the neighborhood druggist insidiously making note of whom was getting prescriptions
filled and relaying the information directly to Baghdad. 

"Ayatollah, Ayatollah, Bill Smith just had a prescription filled!"

"Good job, Ali. You shall have 200 virgins in heaven to thank you for
your work."

Please.

I was sure he was just getting revenge for me not reading his "War and
Peace" on a page but I took it like a man and moved to the PICK UP PRIVACY
AREA. When my turn again came, I moved up between the Plexiglas nuclear blast
shields. The lady there just looked at me. I catch on to these things fast so I
told her that I was there to pick up a prescription (I am sure the
med police would not allow her to ask). She asked for my name and I responded,
"Am I allowed to tell you that?" This lady was a tech, not a
pharmacist, and the look she gave me made it crystal clear that she was someone
who's life and job had been made ten times more complex without her getting a
penny more for her efforts. She had to listen to people bitch about the hassle
day in and day out when it was not her fault and she could do nothing about it.
She did not appreciate the joke.

So I gave her my name.

She found my little bag, rang up my order, and then started attaching all of
these little stickers to this clipboard thing sitting on the counter. "I
need you to sign here and here and sign and date here and here." When I
asked what I was signing she said, "These say you received counseling"
(I hadn't but  I was certainly going to need some kind of counseling
after this ordeal) "And these say that we complied with privacy
guidelines".

Now, please recall, gentle reader, that I was here to get relief for a
damaged tendon in my arm. A tendon I was required to use to sign ALL FOUR OF
THOSE FREAKING STICKERS. My arm was absolutely throbbing when I was through
signing and dating. Going the pharmacy made my condition WORSE! Why am I
responsible for indicating that I know what they are supposed to do and
not do? Should they not be signing things saying they complied with the law and
handing them to me? Who thinks up these stupid laws? What do they accomplish
besides making what should have been a smooth flowing process turn into
something skin to going to the DMV? How much did it cost the pharmacy to put up
those signs and barriers? How much do they spend providing, tracking, and
administering all of that paperwork? Who does it benefit and how? The one
question I can answer is who's pocket the money comes out of- mine. On
top of that it was all a WASTE because everyone else's stickers were on the SAME
goddamned clipboard and I could not only see their first and last names but what
medication they got!

Foolishly thinking I was done with the ordeal, I picked up my little bag with
my non-throbbing arm and turned to go. "Wait, you need to sign and date
this." She held out a piece of paper and a pen. I asked what this one was
for and she held up the giant piece of paper covered with legalese.

 "It says you read this."

posted by The Pendragon at 4/16/2003 05:08:00 PM

Spring Cleaning

Nary a dandelion was to be seen on Friday. However, on Saturday, through some
mystical communication via the vegetal hotline, they all conspired to make their
debut and the lawn was peppered with the bright yellow flowers. They had decided
there was something special about this day and conspired to commemorate it by
decorating the monotonous green carpet of grass with their bright accents.

There was not much time for observing nature as this was THE day- the day of
Spring cleaning. Company from Europe is coming next weekend- Scandinavian
company used to precision cleanliness in their domiciles. In a short month,
family will be arriving from the coast to attend the graduation ceremonies.
Plus it was simply time to clean away the last remnants of Winter and our imprisonment.

So we dug in to clean the carpets, scrub the floors, move furniture, toss
away the things we no longer need, even to clean out the garage and sweep off
the deck. It was a day of hard work and intense manual labor with the doors and
windows flung open and the animals hiding in their dens, confused over the
sudden chaos sweeping over their home, having their cages moved into strange
places, and the growling menace of the vacuum. We scrubbed, swept, shampooed,
polished, mopped, dusted, hosed, and cleaned until it felt like not a speck of
uncleanness could possibly remain. The house looked winderful. Well satisfied with our efforts, we
rested.  

Our respite was short lived, however, as the bustling tornado of a teenager
in a hurry burst into the house. Tonight was Prom night and Mr. Third All Conference
was not so concerned about the Academic Tournament that has consumed his day as
he was being perfect and ready on time for the party that would consume his
evening. In near panic he tore up the stairs to shower and don his finery for
the affair.

This is a child who thinks dressing up is a black t-shirt, jeans, and a pair
of Docs so putting on a tuxedo for him, I am sure, took more effort than putting
on a suit of armor required of a knight and his squire. Speaking of squires,
thank the gods my wife was there to sooth and cajole, to tie his tie and subdue
the errant hairs that sullied his coiffure, and to teach him how to walk in
shoes made for dancing and what that particular pocket was for. Soon enough, the
boy I raised was replaced by a polished gentlemen that would have made Henry
Higgins proud to call his creation. 

As we rushed outside to take the requisite pictures of my son and his date,
we noted that all of the other teenagers in our little cul-de-sac in the woods
had also been transformed. Now, instead of kids in shorts and skater garb, there
was an entourage of finely groomed young men and women, sparkling in that
scintillating moment between the glow  of youth and the grace of adulthood.

Wherever in the Universe there had been non-descript sameness, there was now sparkling finery and
a  beauty not formerly seen. Our neighborhood, our home, and our children
had all been touched by the magic of Spring.

posted by The Pendragon at 4/14/2003 04:52:00 PM

Calico

For the last several days I have noticed a calico cat hanging around. I don't
know where she came from. Her somewhat disheveled fur indicated that she was a
stray, possibly wild. What I could not figure out was, if she was a stray, why
she stayed put. Every time I left the house, she was imperiously perched
on the railroad tie wall which prevents the neighbor's yard from becoming part
of mine.

Last night, when I arrived, it was quiet and no one was around. I saw her on
her usual perch, looking at me with that suspicious disinterest only a cat can
muster. I decided to find out what she was all about. I approached her slowly,
talking low and with hand outstretched for her to sniff in the universal sign of
"I won't hurt you." She sniffed it, and actually placed a gentle paw on my
hand while she did so. When she was finished, I attempted to scratch her ears.
She immediately laid her ears back and spat at me, suddenly turning from nice
kitty to pissed off alley cat.

"She has kittens under their porch," my son called to me from where
he was standing on the back deck, observing the whole proceedings. Sure enough,
I could see a little tunnel leading under the concrete stoop of the house next
door- the perfect den. This explained why she stayed stolidly on that wall. It
also interpreted the message of the friendly paw and angry spitting. She was
hungry and, at first, hoped I had brought some food- she dare not stray to far
from her family leaving them unprotected. When she discovered I had none, she
warned we away as an unwanted interloper.

With my new understanding, I went in the house and found some canned cat
food. We don't have a cat but we do have a couple of spoiled brat ferrets who
turned their noses up at what I had bought on sale as a treat for them. I put
the foul smelling stuff in a bowl, took it outside, and, observing proper cat
decorum, I placed it on the wall far enough from her to be non-threatening but
close enough for her to smell and understand what it was. As I stepped back, she
caught a whiff and approached the bowl, giving me a look that said "Ah, you
understood." She then dug in with gusto which showed she must have been
starving yet she did not compromise her feline dignity.

I was coming off a terrible day, the kind where you just want to go home,
pull down the blinds, and pretend you are living in a cabin in the far reaches
of the Northwest Territories. I am sure she was feeling no better having to
raise and fend for a family on her own, stuck there between obligation and
starvation. But there, in that quintessential moment as I watched her devouring
that 20 cent can of cat food, there were no bills or job pressures or trials of
raising a teenager into a man. As she filled her stomach with the nutrients she
and her family needed so badly and savored every bite, there were no dogs or
possums or cold rainy nights when she shivered in the cold. There was just
the two of us interacting in the most primal of ways, stealing a moment of
mutual peace out of the chaos of the Universe.

posted by The Pendragon at 4/04/2003 02:40:00 PM

Weather. . .or Not

If you want to talk about the war, just log on to any e-mail list, newsgroup,
or message board. Or you can turn on any TV channel, tune into any radio
station, or simply stop by any water cooler or other place two or more people
are gathered. Suffice to say that the war is the topic of discussion no
matter where you go.

Of course the media, which makes its living from hot topics of discussion, is
using every means to capitalize on it. The news is all about the war- poor
little Elizabeth Smart and all of the Democrats jockeying for a place in the
next election have been lost amidst the bombs and the bloodshed. Suddenly, every
up and down in the stock market is attributable to the war. Even the sports
casters find some way to work the war into the events they cover.

What gets me is how the weather forecasters feel they have to get in on the
action. Now, unlike the other facets of the media, the weather forecast serves a
very focused and specific purpose which is to tell me what I need to wear before
venturing outside. That's it. So why does every meteorologist from the prime
time Weather Channel bleach blonde right down to some guy on a 5 watt AM
station think I, or anyone else in this great nation, cares about the weather in
Iraq? What impact could it possibly have on us? Anyone who is traveling there
in the near future is probably doing do under orders and will go regardless of
how inclement the weather might be. I am sure the people who are already over
there care but, last I heard, they were more concerned with bullets and bombs
than with rain and thunder and I doubt that would change even if they did have access to Ferd Burfle on WXXX
in Pig Holler Iowa.

As for me, I am no longer going to endure the forecasts for cities who's
names I cannot even pronounce whilst trying to glean some faint glimmer of what
the Missouri spring holds in store for me. I will just look out the window

posted by The Pendragon at 4/02/2003 10:13:00 AM

What's Going On in the World

One of my favorite movies is Superman II. At the end of the movie- after
terrorists almost blow up Paris with a nuclear bomb and alien bad guys with
super powers wreak havoc on the Earth and almost take it over- Clark Kent has to
take Lois Lane's memory from her to protect his secret. When he does so, Lois
(who was at the center of all of these events) looks around at him and all her
coworkers at the Daily Planet and says, "What's going on in the
world?".

I know  how she feels. For the past nine days, I have been on vacation
and I have purposely kept myself isolated from the events going on around me.
This was by design because I needed a break. Yes, I am a radical Patriot and I
have some definite and very clear opinions. At one time, I was galvanized by
both the surge in patriotism and in anti-American rhetoric I expended a great
deal of energy expressing my opinions, ideas, and concerns. However, once the
starting gun went off (pun intended) all of the talk, I came to the realization
that all of the debates, the controversy, and the discussions had sapped me.

What a wonderful time for my own, personal Spring Break to happen along. I
have spent the last week or so without being glued to the nonstop embedded
coverage of the news networks or listening to the modulated debates of the radio
talk show hosts. I have not read a paper nor have I consulted a news related web
page. I have spent the recent past happily oblivious to everything going on
outside of my range of vision and enjoying the budding Spring, some mindless
fun, and the company of my family.

I still care about what is going on and I am slowly and begrudgingly tuning
back into it but I am in no hurry.

posted by The Pendragon at 3/31/2003 04:07:00 PM

Deja View

I have the exact same feeling I had over ten years ago when I was watching
coverage of the first war in Iraq. I cannot believe that the Iraqis  were
so defiant and that they are still fighting after three days. They are
outmanned, out gunned, and out witted. They don't have a chance and they have to
know this- sometimes it looks like they are not even trying to win- yet they
stand fast firing at targets that have long since passed and standing up to an
enemy that can squash them like flies from a thousand miles away. They have no
chance of winning and very little chance of survival.

What must be going through their minds as they see their fate barreling down
upon them.

posted by The Pendragon at 3/21/2003 04:07:00 PM

Live from Baghdad, It's Wednesday Night!

Last night a friend and I were, like, I am sure, many of you watching the
barrage of news coverage of the countdown to war in Iraq. All of the stations
seemed to be utilizing a feed from this one particular camera which was focused
where the news media thought they could get the best pictures of fiery
destruction raining from the sky. The scene depicted was, well, disturbing.

When someone says "Baghdad" I always think of genies and the
Arabian nights and an ancient city of roughly hewn mud walls and camels
walking along cobbled streets. The Baghdad on TV was quite different. There were streetlights,
several large multilane roads, and a lot of modern architecture. It could have
been any modern city anywhere. 

Just before dawn in Baghdad, you could hear some loud explosions and see
flashes reflecting off the buildings but the expected "shock and awe"
never came. As the sun shed its light on the city, it looked like early morning
anywhere. You could tell the city, which is normally home to five million
people, had pretty much been deserted yet a few cars were traveling down the
streets and, amazingly enough, a few pedestrians walked by seemingly concerned
about nothing more than getting to work on time.

"I wonder if that guy knows that like 200,000 people are watching
him," my friend said, "Waiting for him to get blown to bits. This is
morbid." She was right. Here we were, along with most of the country, watching
this serene street scene with people going about their business waiting, in some
cases hoping, that we would see their obliteration from planet Earth. 

Why were these people out there? Why were they driving and walking along as
if the day were no more notable than any other? They had to have heard the air
raid sirens and the explosions earlier in the day. Even if they bought the lies
of their evil leader, those detonations had to make them realize that war was
both real and near. Those people  had to know that they were possibly
moments away from being swatted like flies by the laser guided bombs and super
intelligent high explosive kamikaze robots of the most powerful nation in the
history of the world. So how could they act like it was just another day?

She was right. It  was positively morbid to be watching what could have
been the last moments of this ancient city. So, like everyone else, we kept
watching and went to bed disappointed that nothing had happened.



posted by The Pendragon at 3/20/2003 01:33:00 PM

Tempest in a Toilet

I am sitting here wondering at the bizarre collage that makes up the day’s current events. Of course, the big thing on everyone’s mind is the coming war with Iraq. Another very worrisome story is that of the “mystery flu” that is coming out of Asia. We are all glued to the story of a Elizabeth Smart which started as an all too common account of a young girl being kidnapped and, presumably, killed but has turned into a bizarre tale of love and brain washing. Meanwhile, a man is holding Washington DC, the capitol of the greatest and most powerful nation in the history of mankind, at bay with a . . .tractor.

ll of this and more is rocking our world and is certainly worthy of note. However, there is a much greater threat
looming over mankind than madmen with bombs, biological weapons, crazed kidnappers of children, and hostile farm implements. This threat is insidious and threatens almost all of the civilized world. It is not supposed or theorized, it is proven and real. Restrictions, security, and Tom Ridge have no hope of stopping it because it is already here and it has spread into about 95% of American homes.

It is the common toilet

Go ahead, laugh at me. World leaders are not laughing as they meet to discuss the toilet crisis. This crisis does not exist solely in a global scale. Toilets have attacked people in their own homes. They are not only the sites of criminal activity and perversion, they also aid and abet the perpetrators. Saddam may even be involved in one of the high level toilet-related conspiracies. Sadly enough, just like Saddam, toilets have been responsible for mass murder.

We need to take action nowto control this threat. These plumbed terrorists should be strictly confined so they cannot do as much harm. Governments should take a firm hand in controlling them. Support should be offered to those who have been victimized by the  porcelain terrorists.

If we take these steps and maintain a firm hand in dealing with all forms of water closet warfare, these detriments to society may actually become valuable contributors to and vital members of it instead of being conspirators in lawlessness and murder. They can be rehabilitated, they can be used to improve domestic relations, they can champion the cause of equality, and, in the end, they may become the saviors instead of the banes of society.




posted by The Pendragon at 3/19/2003 11:31:00 AM

Spring Has Sprung

It was just two weeks ago that is was so cold you would swear the air itself
was going to solidify and crack. It was just last week that an ice storm hit and
made things into a slippery mess. That's apparently all over now as Spring has
washed over the land like a tidal wave. Out of nowhere it has hgit suddenly and
unexpectedly. 

Everyone has found a  reason to be outside. Up and down the street my
neighbors are cleaning garages, washing cars, or visiting with those so engaged.
I even saw one fellow wistfully working on his lawn mower, yearning for the day
that he can fire it up and do what Saturdays were made for. The roads are packed
with traffic and everywhere the are people. The parkas, hats, and gloves that
were high outdoor fashion just days ago have given way to shorts, tank tops, and
sandals.

We too found reasons to be outside and, just as we were resignedly heading
back home, the mobile phone rang. It was friend asking us if we would like to
come to an impromptu barbecue at Camp Gaea.
Dude, we were there! 

As we entered Camp, we noticed a lot of cars. Someone was having a wedding. I
don't know of a more sacred celebratory rite of Spring but planning an outdoor
wedding during mid-March took a gambler's heart. It could have just as easily
been below freezing with a foot of snow on the ground. Ah, but those in attendance
weren't worried because they simply would not accept that.

As we had arrived first, I got to open up the cabin, which had been sealed up
since the first cold winds blew back in November. As I unlocked the door and
threw it back, the cabin blew out the staleness of the air that had been held
captive for months and breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet air. It felt so good
to swing back the shutters and raise the windows- ah, Camp season again.

Later, as we sat outside under the beauty of the full moon listening to the
celebration still going down at the main hall, we heard a different sort of
party being held in the deep woods. Tree frogs, just a couple of early
risers getting some extra practice in before their fellows and the other
creatures of the night added their whirs, clicks, buzzes, chirps, and other
assorted noises into the cacophony which is the soundtrack for the living
woodlands. As a bass backbeat, an owl hooted and a group of four legged sopranos
joined in with their maniacal barking and howling at the moon.I even had the
first mosquito of the year buzz me. Now where could she possibly have come from.

The fields are still brown and dead. The trees still stand black and naked
with no grass to carpet their domain. However, the message is clear. Life has
had enough of this endless and depressing winter. Regardless of what either the
calendar or the climatological records say, it is now being declared Spring. The
cold and the dark are gone and life is waiting in the wings for the overture to
be played. 

posted by The Pendragon at 3/15/2003 10:18:00 PM

Retro Radioactive

I am a fan of radio personality Howard Stern.
I was listening to the show today and, of course, they were dealing
with some familiar topics. Two comedians were having a feud with each other and
Howard suggested that they bring them both onto the show for a reconciliation to
which Robin (Howard's co-host) replied, "The chances of getting them here
are about the same as getting Bush and Saddam around a peace table."
Throughout the show, there were references to the "current troubled
times" and commercials spoke of the "slow economy"- all of the
doom and gloom stuff you hear anytime you turn on the TV or radio these days.

The thing is, the comedians involved in the dispute were Andrew Dice
Clay  and Sam Kinneson, "Bush" was George Herbert Walker Bush and
the peace talks would have concerned Operation Desert Storm. This was a
"Best Of" show from October of 1990- thirteen years ago yet it could
have been something I was listening to live.

13 years ago, the world situation was pretty close to what it is now.
However, there was not all the panic and despair that we see around us now. I
suppose this difference could be attributed to the trauma of 09/11 but we also
consider that, this decade and some change ago, the Internet had not really
taken off. There was one cable news channel and most folks did not have
it.  We had not endured Bill Clinton as President with all of the
accompanying scandal. It was a different world

Funny, isn't it, how the world can stay so much the same and yet be so
different at the same time? It is interesting how change can have such an impact
yet be so cosmetic. For me, listening to this show was like having a crystal
ball from 1990 to the present and smugly knowing what was going to happen next.
I saw the death of one of the comedians, the resolution to the war, a new
technology that would knit the globe together and horrible tragedy that would
tear it apart. I saw a boom economy where they could not shovel money out fast
enough. I saw everything coming full circle.

I am going to save today's Howard Stern show and hide it safely away. I am
also going to make a note to myself to listen to it in 13 years. I intend to
scientifically and irrefutably prove that, someday, we will look back on all
this and laugh.

posted by The Pendragon at 3/13/2003 06:51:00 PM