“Peace, prosperity, liberty and morals
have an intimate connection.”

- Thomas Jefferson

"Guns don't kill people. Dads with pretty daughters kill people."

— Tiger Lilly

My grandmother, Elizabeth "Lizey" Burleson Stewart Ray, passed away Wednesday morning in her sleep at 101 years of age, just a couple of months shy of making it to 102. I visited her when I was down in Missouri a few weeks ago and was able to hold hands with her for a few minutes but she wasn't aware of too much that was going on.

She'd been that way for quite some time but had been livelier of late and more interactive, probably due to a change in her medication. This was a good thing but also raised a tough question for the family about what to say if she asked where my father — who died more than a year ago — was. It was decided we'd just say "Oh, he's home, Lizey" and let it go at that. She'd been devastated when her oldest son died several years ago and no one thought it would do any good to tell her about her youngest boy.

We seldom lived near each other for most of my childhood. We'd see her a couple of times a year, usually, and a couple of summers we stayed with her at her lake place where my great-uncle Harvey would take us fishing out in his boat and tell us stories about the mischief my father and his brothers used to get into — almost all of which would end with Grandma's stern intervention. When I got older we talked more, especially after I got married and had kids of my own. Her faith was very important to her, and when we'd visit we could talk about her life and what it was like raising those four boys and two girls. I remember one time she told about the oldest boy getting very ill and having to go to the hospital; about how worried she was and how much she prayed; and how, when she walked out into the corridor outside his room she saw an angel and knew everything was going to be fine.

This morning I thought about that and of the time the family put on a big bash for her 85th birthday. There was a quite a crowd, even with accounting for her children, the 17 grandchildren and I don't know how many great-grandchildren. She had a lot to be proud of, and she was pretty pleased. I still remember her telling me, though, "So many of my friends have already gone home to be with the Lord. And they're probably wondering what happened to me!"

I'm sure they've been having a grand time getting caught up.

If we really think that home is elsewhere and that this life is a “wandering to find home,” why should we not look forward to the arrival?
— C.S. Lewis

If you see any references to a count-down here on this blog or on certain others it is all in relation to this:

Shivaree
Dictionary: shiv·a·ree (shĭv'ə-rē', shĭv'ə-rē')

n. Midwestern & Western U.S.
A noisy mock serenade for newlyweds. Also called regionally charivari, belling; Also called horning, serenade.

[Alteration of CHARIVARI.]

REGIONAL NOTE Shivaree is the most common American regional form of charivari, a French word meaning “a noisy mock serenade for newlyweds” and probably deriving in turn from a Late Latin word meaning “headache.” The term, most likely borrowed from French traders and settlers along the Mississippi River, was well established in the United States by 1805; an account dating from that year describes a shivaree in New Orleans: “The house is mobbed by thousands of the people of the town, vociferating and shouting with loud acclaim.... [M]any [are] in disguises and masks; and all have some kind of discordant and noisy music, such as old kettles, and shovels, and tongs.... All civil authority and rule seems laid aside” (John F. Watson). The word shivaree is especially common along and west of the Mississippi River. Its use thus forms a dialect boundary running north-south, dividing western usage from eastern. This is unusual in that most dialect boundaries run east-west, dividing the country into northern and southern dialect regions. Some regional equivalents are belling, used in Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan; horning, from upstate New York, northern Pennsylvania, and western New England; and serenade, a term used chiefly in the South Atlantic states.

Oh, and the count-down is at 26.

For my birthday today Tiger Lilly gave me a writing assignment that she completed from her writer's exercise book, 3 a.m. Epiphany by Brian Kitely. It read:

This was an exercise in The 3 a.m. Epiphany that I thought would be interesting to do. The exercise was to take a phrase or saying (preferably one with a large variety of words in it) and form 15 sentences out of that saying. The words needed to adhere around a character in a situation that seems related to (but necessarily a response to) the author's original sentence. I managed to get a slightly silly pointless deep, meaningful story out of it. I used the following quote:

Two roads diverged in a wood and I,
I took the road less traveled by;
And that made all the difference.
— Robert Frost

I traveled by two roads.
I traveled in a wood.
Two roads traveled in a wood.
A difference in the wood made the roads diverge.
The two roads diverged.
The roads made all the difference.
I diverged in the wood.
I took the road less traveled by.
I made all the difference.
I traveled less in the wood.
The road and I diverged.
I took the difference and made the road that made the difference.
I made the road diverge in a wood.
The road and I diverged.
And that made all the difference.

Tiger Lilly's present reminded me of Peter Gabriel singing "The Book of Love." In turn I'll modify one of the lines in that song to say:

And you, you can write me anything.

I cashed in some of my Best Buy Reward Zone points recently and picked up a couple of classic Xbox games — Halo and Halo 2. Tiger Lilly and I enjoy gaming together and these games have been a lot of fun. I can't help but notice some differences in our styles of combat, however.

For example, in my other gaming I typically play the WWII "Brothers in Arms" series. These games pride themselves on being realistic, so there are no health packs and "level ups" to be found. As such, I've learned to move carefully and to peek around corners to keep myself and my squad alive and it's a hard habit to break. TL on the other hand goes charging off in the direction of enemies as soon as they pop up on the tactical display, typically wreaking carnage with an occasional, "Whoops, I died." Her eyes and reflexes are also sharper than mine, so as she's blowing Covenant and Flood to pieces she's also scooping up useful debris before I even see it. "Cool — a rocket launcher!" or "Whoa, sentinel beam!" are usually my first clue that valuable items arewere for the picking.

She's also liable to run out of the range of my HUD so that I lose track of her in a melee. My most common utterance when we're playing is, "Okay, now where are you?" This usually results in her making her character (and its green overhead triangle) jump up and down until I can draw a bead on her. Either that or I simply follow the trail of body parts she's left in her wake. Nevertheless, we're getting pretty good at working in tandem, flanking enemies and alerting the other when we're throwing a plasma grenade, and she hardly ever runs in front of my sniper rifle any more.

It does feel a little odd serving as wingman for a 15-year-old, and I suppose there are more edifying things I could be doing with her other than burning a few hours a week saving humankind. I figure it doesn't hurt, though, to let her know I've got her back. And that — wingman or not — I am the Master Chief.

With Valentine's Day coming up I thought I'd give you less romantic guys out there a good suggestion for a Valentine's Day gift for your significant other. (I know, I know, you look at me and then you look at the Reverend Mother and you think, "Da-yum, that guy has just got to have some romantic secrets!") Anyway, here's what I did for my wife for last Valentine's Day (take notes, kids): I recorded a CD for her!

No, not me singing. She may put up with a lot, but me singing goes way beyond "till death do you part" for her. Instead I used my iTunes account to hunt down and burn a CD of special songs that all described her (or the two of us together in some way). To give you a flavor of how this works, here are the songs I recorded (don't try these at home, you've got to come up with your own songlist).

The title of the CD was Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress by The Hollies. In this particular case there isn't much about the song that describes my wife except the title: she's long, she's cool and she wears black. A lot.

The first song is Oh, Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison. An easy and obvious intro that's "pretty" fitting, but the particular lyric in this song that best describes my feelings is when Roy goes, Growwwwl. Mercy!

Another song is Dream Weaver by Gary Wright. You see, my wife gets prophetic dreams a lot. Not really the "see the future" type dreams, but dreams God gives her that tell what is going on in someone else's life (so she can pray or know how to minister) or a sign in her own life. Unlike regular dreams that she forgets immediately, when she has a "God Dream" it's very detailed and sticks with her until she writes it down.

Pretty women out walking with gorillas down my street... Is She Really Going Out With Him? by Joe Jackson. Yeah, she is. What of it? (I told you earlier, big secrets of romance).

I also put Travelin' Prayer by Billy Joel on there. This one is included because of all the times she's traveled abroad on missions trips, whether the Philippines (twice), China or Romania while I'm back at home thinking, Hey Lord, take a look all around tonight and find where my baby's gonna be; Hey Lord, would ya look out for her tonight 'Cause she is far across the sea; Hey Lord, would ya look out for her tonight; And make sure that she's gonna be alright; And things are gonna be alright with me. There's even a line in there about making sure all her dreams are sweet!

Another song that has great personal significance is Seven Bridges Road by the Eagles. One day when we'd been dating for about three months we took an autumn day trip up to Duluth, MN and the North Shore. There's a road that leads up away from Duluth and Lake Superior known by my wife as "The Road to Seven Bridges." It cuts through the forest and over streams (and seven bridges) and you see a lot of beautiful scenery and finally you can look down on the city and the lake like a panorama. It was a great day and that night when we got back to town I asked her to marry me — and she said yes and did so about a year later!

The next song really ties in with the previous one, but I didn't realize it until just now. It's Unbelievable by Diamond Rio, which, as just occurred to me, has the lyric: She's so elegant, intelligent, heaven sent, all my money spent; I put a big down payment on that itty bitty diamond ring. The part I like best is that She's so kissable, huggable, lovable, unbelievable!

Despite what you might think of a guy who proposes after just three months, I tend to over-think and over-analyze things. Think Too Much by Paul Simon was on the cassette we listened to driving back from Duluth as faith and reason tumbled over and over in my head as Paul sang "Maybe I think too much for my own good; Some people say so; Other people say no no; The fact is You don't think as much as you could," and Paul and I both said, "Hmmmm."

Back when we first fell in love I would have walked 500 miles and then walked 500 more just so I could be the man who walked 1000 miles fell down at her door. Yes, The Proclaimers and I'm Gonna Be (500 miles), assuring her that When I'm lonely, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you; And when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream; I'm gonna Dream about the time when I'm with you. More dreams! I'd still walk that far, but it would take so long these days that I'm not sure she'd wait for me.

The next song on the CD is You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Except...I believe in miracles!

If you love a woman, you'll do anything for her. Climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest sea, fight a grizzly bear, let her have the last doughnut, etc. You'll even, when you know she's a Barry Manilow fan, download Barry's version of Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You, even though you know it's going to go on your permanent record somewhere.

My favorite song on the CD is She by Elvis Costello, from the Notting Hill soundtrack. It's a love song not burdened or blinded by sentimentality but all the truer for the deep realization that this is it for you: Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears; And make them all my souvenirs; For where she goes I've got to be; The meaning of my life is...She.



What better way to wrap things up but with Joe Cocker singing You Are So Beautiful:

You are so beautiful to me
You are so beautiful to me
Can't you see
Your everything I hoped for
Your everything I need
You are so beautiful to me

Such joy and happiness you bring
Such joy and happiness you bring
Like a dream
A guiding light that shines in the night
Heavens gift to me
You are so beautiful to me

School's out, I think I hear my wife calling me.

So we come home from church the Sunday before Christmas and Boy #1 is standing out in the street in the sub-zero cold, waiting for us. Tiger Lilly is pleased; dad is more ambivalent. Nevertheless, we bring the frozen dude-sicle in for lunch and it looks as if he's going to stay for awhile. The Mall Diva, Ben and I have plans, however, to go out and shoot the new .45; fortunately the Reverend Mother is now home as well to keep an eye on things — and it doesn't hurt for me to make a big show of packing up the gun as we get ready to leave.

While we're at the range, Boy #2 shows up as well. Boy #1 and Boy #2 proceed to try and kill each other — on the x-box, however. The delighted Tiger Lilly tries to kill them as well. (That's my girl!) Eventually it's time for Boy #1 to go home and the Reverend Mother graciously offers to drive him since it's still arctic-like outside. Tiger Lilly goes along, of course, while Boy #2 waits for them to return. He's sitting patiently in the kitchen by himself when the Diva, Ben and I return. Ok, when I left Boy #1 was at the house and now it's Boy #2; I don't even bat an eye. I greet him and then let everyone know I'm going downstairs to clean the GUN. An uneventful afternoon follows.


"Boys? What boys? I don't see any boys."

Still, I don't know if I'm ready to have boys stacked up around the house like airplanes circling O'Hare during the holiday rush. I've already been through the drill with just one guy, thanks to the assistance of Haggar slacks. If there's going to be two or even more boys, however, it may be time to escalate. Fortunately, I was exchanging a sweater for my wife at Macy's after Christmas and passed through the Men's Department. Lo and behold, Haggar cords for $14.50 and dress chinos for $17.50. Usually these cost $38 to $60, depending on the store. I considered the situation and bought three pairs.

Bring it on.

Today is December 11, a date that has come to have special significance in our family. You see, it was on December 11, 1987 that my wife and I discovered we were pregnant with our oldest daughter, the Mall Diva. Now you might think that this was a happy day, but nothing could be further from the truth. My wife had had endometriosis and a tubal ligation in the past and wasn't ever expecting or wanting children. To have seen the first ultrasound pictures of the Diva-to-be had been stunning to her in the same way as a sudden punch to the stomach. On top of that, when we got home that evening we discovered that my dog — the pup that had found me about a month after I started living on my own and had seen me through the first two months of my marriage — had died. A pretty emotional day all around.

No matter what we thought our life was going to be like, it was apparent that there might be another plan that we were unaware of. Fortunately we both more than recovered from the shock and were soon able to begin taking steps — physically, emotionally and especially spiritually — to prepare a path and a future for our unexpected miracle. Some 18 years later in 2005 we were making other plans for another special day, a double-ceremony at our church where my wife would be ordained and we would have a graduation ceremony in commemoration of the Mall Diva's home-school and beauty school graduations. We consulted the family calendars and church schedule for an opportune date and settled on the second Sunday in December. It wasn't until later the following week that I realized that we had had those ceremonies on ... December 11. I thought that was kind of neat at the time, not realizing that something else had happened that day as well.

I had helped a young blogging friend of mine get a job with a guy from our church and I had invited the young man to come with his boss to this special service. Yes, that was the day that Ben, my future son-in-law, first set eyes on the Mall Diva.

I had no idea 21 years ago, or three years ago, where each day's events were ultimately going to lead or what plans God had in mind for us. Nor do I have any idea of what He has yet planned for us. You will understand, however, if I can't help but look forward in trust and anticipation!

Last March the Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and Ben went with me down to Missouri when I bought my dad's truck from my mom. While we were down there we visited my mom's 92-year-old mother, Grammy, at the assisted-living center where she had a small apartment. We ended up sitting in the larger common room that featured a piano and several hymn books. As we visited the Diva and Ben flipped through some of the hymn books and spontaneously sang the ones they recognized. By the end of our visit there were several residents casually sitting in the common room, not-so-casually inclining their ears toward the singers.

Since then my grandmother has moved to a nursing home, one that also cares for my other grandmother, Elizabeth (or "Lizey") who is 101 years old. When Grammy learned we were bringing Ben down for Thanksgiving this year she let it be known that she would be quite the impresario at her new home if Ben and the girls could come and sing hymns again for the group. Not a problem; a time was set for the Friday after Thanksgiving and we even recruited the Diva's best friend and singing partner to come along on the road trip. Once in Missouri one of my nephews joined the choir as well and the youngsters rehearsed about a dozen hymns in and around the feasting on Thursday.

Earlier in the day I had gone to the nursing home with my mother to bring her mom back to the house for the holiday. Her room is right by the large, cheery common room and as we walked through it a man, presumably a preacher, was sermonizing to a group of residents in wheelchairs about how they should be thankful for their infirmities because these were what made them strong. Fortunately for him and the peace of the home he was at the far side of the room because I felt an overwhelming urge to smack him so he'd have something to be thankful for.

24 hours later we had our little choir set up in the same corner of the big room and a group of about two dozen residents arrayed in front of the kids and the electronic piano we'd carried in with us. My part, aside from carrying the piano, was to greet the assembly and introduce the singers and share a little of why we were there, mentioning that my grandmothers were among their fellow residents. I also reminded them that the Bible tells us that God inhabits the praises of his people and what are hymns but praise to God so they shouldn't be surprised or concerned if they felt a presence during the singing.

It was a beautiful performance with everyone in fine voice and I stood to the side and watched the residents smiling and bobbing their heads; some even raised their arms over their heads at times during the music, and a couple of ladies wheeled themselves right up in front of the piano. The hymns were all old standards, "How Great Thou Art," "There is a Fountain," "It Is Well With My Soul" and more. After about 30 minutes I told the group that we were pleased and honored to be before them, and that I was thankful in this week of Thanksgiving for the godly example and prayers that my grandmothers, their neighbors, had sown into my life — even if, at times, it didn't look as if they were having any affect. I also told the gathered men and women that while their bodies might not be as strong as they once were, I knew that their prayers were still as powerful as ever and that our informal choir was going to sing a Christmas song in honor of the one who came that our prayers might find their "yes" in him. I concluded by saying, "When the song is finished, each of the singers and my wife and I will move out among you and if there is anything you want prayer for concerning yourself or your loved ones, we will be happy to pray with you." Then the Mall Diva and her friend sang "Oh Holy Night."

Sometimes when you offer to pray for someone he or she will pull back a little, but from what I saw the group was eager and happy to receive whatever our little group could offer. I know there was no hesitation in the people I prayed with, including a woman who was very emotional over the death of her husband earlier in the week. Similarly, I felt none of my usual self-conciousness as I knelt or stooped by the ones nearest to me, and I certainly had little time for or awareness of the aches and infirmities of my own age, which seemed pretty minor in front of this congregation.

After I'd prayed for three people I saw that our group had reached everyone in the room, and I'd even received a request for the hymn, "Just As I Am". I didn't know the song, but our singers did so they re-gathered and sang that as well. Missing throughout the program, however, was my other grandmother, Lizey. She's pretty much out of it most of the time now and sleeps as if the last century or so has left her worn out, which it likely has. We asked the attendants if it would be okay to go to her room and if the young ones could sing for her even if she was asleep. We were told to go right ahead.

My grandmother was asleep and I was a little anxious to see that her roommate, Wanda, was also asleep, though sitting up in a recliner with an afghan in her lap. Nevertheless my daughters, Ben, Casii and both of my nephews stood close together and softly sang through all the verses of "It Is Well With My Soul." Grandma didn't awake though her face seemed to relax. Meanwhile I was standing closer to Wanda and my mother and I saw her nodding her head and moving her lips during the song, though she never opened her eyes.

It was a great experience to be able to go in and do something like this, and to see the brightness in the eyes of those we ministered to. I confess to a bit of pride, as well, to see the talents and gracious hearts of my daughters who were so willing and ministered so easily.
We enjoyed the rest of the day with my family and drove back to Minnesota on Saturday. Sunday my mother emailed me with the news that Wanda, who had moved her head and lips during the song, had begun to struggle on Saturday and was taken to the hospital. She passed away Sunday morning.

My mother ended her email: "It's a good thought that maybe the last thing she comprehended and responded to was the kids' music."

Sometimes the girls call me "Poppi". I think it started when we were in Italy a couple of years ago and the phrase, "Gelato, Poppi!" was so cosmopolitan -- and effective. As they have gotten older, calling me Poppi is an affectionate endearment in so many ways that "Great Hairy Thunderer" isn't. And today Poppi is just about popping his buttons.

I wrote last week about the Mall Diva's debut with her friend Casii at The Black Sheep's Open Mic Night. Last night they hit another open stage, this time at the Dunn Brothers coffee shop over on Grand in St. Paul. Whereas the first outing was for teens, the Dunn Bros. stage is a long-standing, bi-weekly event for a pretty much adult audience. There are a lot of Old Folkie types there, including one guy who looked like the ghost of Tom Joad but with even less meat on his bones, and another guy who relished the opportunity to stand on a stage with a guitar and a microphone and drop high-decibel f-bombs -- not because he was outraged, but simply because he enjoyed it, I think. The girls more than held their own, singing the same three songs they sang previously, and engaging the audience which featured a lot of bright, smiling faces and bobbing heads. One guy was even moved to sing along with them as they sang, "It is well, it is well, with my soul."

I remember the first time my wife and I heard the young Diva sing in public. It was for a Christmas program when she was in second grade. Neither her mother or I have a lick of singing ability and we weren't expecting any in our progeny so when Faith told us she had a "solo" we figured she meant a speaking part. Lo and behold -- or should I say, "Hark!" -- she sang! My wife and I were flabbergasted. Never had we dared expect such a blessing! She later showed herself to be a quick study musically as well, once picking out a tune by ear on the piano even before she had had lessons. Later, when she had been taking lessons for a year, she played a recital with such skill and élan that others thought she'd been studying for year. To see her and Casii taking such confident and polished steps on a public stage is nearly enough to make me burst.

But that's not all. As Tiger Lilly posted on Saturday, she just won a short-story writing contest sponsored by the Dakota County libraries. The contest was to write a ghost-story or thriller (the deadline was Halloween) and she took time off from the novel (or novels) she's already writing to knock out something that came to mind. As with her sister, I was stunned with the result.

Stunned, but not surprised, if that's possible. I've given her writing assignments in the past, and we've seen her skills posting here on this blog but those were all things I asked her to write or some inspired silliness for public consumption. True, there were the series of "Larry the Guinea Pig" books she wrote when she was little, and she's let me peak before at some of her work in progress that was pretty impressive, but she didn't let her mother or I see this short story before she turned it in. Naturally, I expected her to win a prize because I figured she could out-write people her age, but when I read her entry after she posted it here I was awed at how skilled and mature her writing was.

If you haven't followed the link from her Saturday post you really need to do so. This is not a cute story that a teen-ager would write with the literary equivalent of "like" and "you know" phrasing or heavy-handed prose and awkward symbolism. The story grabs you from the first, one-sentence paragraph and she shows a lot of writerly techniques in phrasing and repetition that you would expect to see -- if at all -- in an older, more experienced writer. It is also, definitely, a "chiller" which I wouldn't expect from my sweet little angel, but I can definitely pick up on some of the bent from the "Dead Like Me" TV series we've been laughing at lately.

Seeing such a polished, fully-formed story was amazing even with my high expectations for her. It's both exciting and motivating to see this from her. I know she's been pounding away, doing at least 1700 words a day, as part of the National Novel Writing Month event and I figure if she's going to be doing this level of work I'm going to have to raise my own game or cede the writing title in the family to her. Either that or perhaps change the name of this blog to "The Night and Day Writers"!

Wednesday's Writer's Almanac featured a poem by Bruce Taylor entitled "Middle-Aged Men, Leaning." It begins:

They lean on rakes.
It's late, it is evening
already inside their houses.

The children are gone.
Their wives are on the phone
talking softly to someone else.

This frost, this early Fall
upon their minds, a small
measure of patience and regard

as if the twilight world
in bright papery pieces
diminished so and thus.

It caught my attention because my fingers and palms are still sore from all the yard work we did last weekend; yard work that had me leaning on rakes and shovels as well as standing on ladders, wrangling in brush piles and wrestling with awnings. It was a lot of hard, dirty work but we were blessed with an extended stretch of early September at the end of October, giving us the time we desperately needed to get the yard ready to host the Mall Diva's upcoming nuptials in the spring.

While Tiger Lilly, my wife and I worked on the gardens the Mall Diva and Ben cleared out the four flower beds in front of the house and planted tulip bulbs, happy in the thought of the rewards for their labor regardless of whatever hardships and depradations should be visited upon these by the winter, the squirrels or the administration.

A long, cold season may be ahead but there's so much promise on the other side of it. I've lived through many a winter now and quite a few temporal seasons of hope and change -- some of which even almost worked. I take any and all forecasts with as many grains of salt as I'll eventually pour on my sidewalk in the months ahead, but one thing I know for certain is that the head of my government has decreed that seedtime and harvest shall not cease as long as the earth remains.

As posted here earlier, last Thursday night was Open Mic Night at The Black Sheep coffee cafe and we went to watch and listen as the Mall Diva and her lifelong friend and musical partner, Casii, made their public debut. It was an interesting evening sponsored by the city of South St. Paul as an activity for the youth. The performances were all pretty good, but what I noticed most was the differences in attitude between the performers.

The first singer was a young man who is likely too young to remember Corey Hart, yet he was wearing sunglasses at night all the same. He was a beefy guy with a delicate voice reminiscent of Dan Haseltine of Jars of Clay. He did a couple of original compositions and some covers but all of the song selections were of disaffected angst that spoke of a misery too deep for anyone who hasn't, say, been audited. Even his take on Green Day's "I Hope You Had the Time of Your Life" had irony dripping off of it ... and right into my chai latte.

Another performer was a young woman who read her poetry from a spiral-bound notebook (I couldn't tell if it had hearts on it, but I suspect not). She stood in a way that announced she had "issues" even before reading her work that featured lines about brains splattered on windows and hamsters committing suicide. The girl prefaced some of her reading by saying her poems use a lot of symbolism and she hoped we "got it." Not a problem, as it was about as subtle as a manhole cover in a salami sandwich.

The young folks were good, and I know that it sounds as if I'm mocking them. Well, I am mocking them I guess, but it's more in recognition of my own artistic self-absorption when I was their age (I'd rather listen to Vogon poetry without sedation than go back and read my old, old stuff). Perhaps it's because, while we may suffer a lot of pain when we're young, we don't have a lot of years of experience to put that pain in perspective.

Or maybe it's just what is fashionable now.

When the Diva and Casii took their turn, however, it was a completely different attitude — and I say that completely acknowledging my proud-parent bias. They did two high-spirited and funny original songs (including, if you can believe it, a highly symbolic one about a hamster) plus their own take on the old hymn, "It Is Well With My Soul." They were warm and upbeat, engaging with the audience even though they did without the microphone. With their voices, and in a relatively small room, they didn't need a mic. In fact, they were nearly able to drown out the "whacka-whacka-whacka" of the espresso machine behind the counter. As with the other performers, they wanted the audience to feel what they felt; the difference is that they were having fun.


Photo from RaymondPhotographic.com.

I can think of a number of reasons why that might be, but I think the main one is "the perspicacity of hope".

There was great wailing and gnashing of teeth over the weekend as first Tiger Lilly's laptop and then the Mall Diva's crashed and died for unknown reasons (they weren't sharing any files or connected to each other in any way). The prognosis today is that MD needs a new hard-drive and Tiger Lilly's can probably be fixed by re-installing the operating system, though she's likely to lose all her data. Fortunately, almost all of her novels-in-progress and other writing are stored on Google-docs.

A techie friend of ours is working on the laptops, but the girls were still bereft of their electronic connections today. Of course, I offered to let them use the Man Cave and the PC down there, but you'd have thought I'd offered them a spider sandwich. So, apparently, the latest installment of Tiger Lilly's as-yet-unnamed web comic is delayed, while the Mall Diva can't share an important announcement with her fans.

Fortunately, I'm here to do the honors but first I want to tell you that someone at work offered me two free tickets to the Celine Dion concert this Thursday night at Target Center. I'm not a big Celine Dion fan, but she's all right and the price is perfect. I called home to see if my wife was interested but she was out and I ended up talking to the Mall Diva. I said I could get free tickets to Celine Dion and MD was very impressed. "When is it?" she asked.

"Thursday night."

"Dad, Thursday night is the night that Casii and I are performing at The Black Sheep!"

"Hmmm, who sings better — you or Celine Dion?"

"DAD!"

Okay, so if anyone wants to come and hear The Mall Diva and Princess Flicker-Feather (or Princess FLicker-Feather and the Mall Diva) make their public debut (outside of church), come over to The Black Sheep for Open Mike Night, Thursday, Oct. 30, starting at 6:30. It sounds as if the girls are going to get the opportunity to do several songs. And if you'd like to see Celine Dion, maybe I could hook you up!

It’s about the blood
banging in the body,
and the brain
lolling in its bed
like a happy baby.
At your touch, the nerve,
that volatile spook tree,
vibrates. The lungs
take up their work
with a giddy vigor.
Tremors in the joints
and tympani,
dust storms
in the canister of sugar.
The coil of ribs
heats up, begins
to glow. Come
here.

“Yes” by Catherine Doty, from Momentum. © Cavan Kerry Press.

I don't know if the Reverend Mother, Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly will be favoring us with one of their Friday coffee-blogs today or not, or if the Diva plans to do another cupcake post (or perhaps write about her first home-made salsa). Since the Minnesota State Fair opened yesterday, however, I decided I'd re-run a favorite: the Mall Diva's and Tiger Lilly's live blog of their 2006 State Fair adventure (with photos!).

Hat's off to the Mall Diva, who turns 20 today. Would it be too cliché for me to complain of how quickly the time goes? Yes. Will I do it anyway? Of course.

Not that it would do any good. Holding back time and holding back the Mall Diva are equally impossible, both physically and metaphysically. Even now she's getting away from me. Plans are proceeding for the wedding next May where I'll officially "give her away". The trick will be to "walk" her up the aisle when she'd rather sprint. We're thinking the reception will be in our back yard, which means that Ben will have to hold off on delivering the 40-cow bride price until after the wedding so there'll be room. Don't worry, I think he's good for it.

"The kids" went up to Alexandria for the weekend so Ben could formally introduce his fiancée to his parents. They've spent some time with her already over the past couple of years, but this is their first "engaged" visit. Some details from the trip are posted here.

Speaking of time flying by, it was three years ago that I posted my first blogging birthday wishes to the Diva, along with some of the story about her birth and childhood. You can read the account and see the photos here.

Our favorite coffee shop is The Black Sheep in South St. Paul where owner (and my official 50th birthday barista) Peter first wowed my wife with an awesome and unexpected leaf design worked into the foam of her latte. It was an impressive demonstration well beyond my own bag of tricks for catering to my wife, but I didn't feel threatened.

After all, Peter may draw pictures in her coffee at his shop, but I'm still the guy who can bring it to her in bed. That division works well for me and having a local artiste nearby makes going out for a coffee a little more special. The pressure on me may be growing, however.

An article in today's Wall Street Journal (subscription required) suggests that time and money are no obstacle for those who want to create such foamy, temporary masterpieces in their own home.

Once an obscure skill practiced by a handful of baristas, latte art is invading the home. Amateur artists have posted thousands of photos and videos of leaves, flowers and swans made in foam, on Web sites like YouTube, Rate My Rosetta and CoffeeGeek.

Coffee shops offer classes in creating designs, and latte artists organize winner-take-all cash contests, or "throw downs," in which amateurs challenge each other, as well as local professionals. Espresso-machine vendors are doing a brisk business in special pitchers and custom steam tips that are affixed to machines to aid milk frothing. One online retailer says sales of its $79 "Latte Art Beginner's Pack," with instructional DVD, frothing pitcher and milk thermometer, are up 65% this year.

The pastime is not for those with weak wills -- or shallow pockets. High-end home espresso machines sell for as much as $7,000. Beginners can go through multiple gallons of milk a week as they practice.

Oh, great, so I need time, talent, money ... and, apparently, a lot of milk.

Some aspiring artists concentrate on the pour. First-timers mistakenly think they can paint the design on top of the coffee, says Nicholas Lundgaard, a 23-year-old software engineer in Houston, who took up latte art three years ago after seeing photos on the CoffeeGeek Web site. Actually, it's "a fluid canvas, where shapes fan out from the place you're pouring," he says.

Mr. Lundgaard spent evenings hunched over his espresso machine, studying exemplars on YouTube and rehearsing his "wiggle," the back and forth motion of the hand pouring milk. To avoid wasting costly milk, Mr. Lundgaard practiced with water, switching to milk every now and then to gauge his progress.

Another foam artist, Milwaukee pathologist Robert Hall, says he had to pour five or six drinks a day for a year before he could get a rosetta right every time. One big obstacle was his wife's preference for skim milk, which produces stiffer, less yielding foam than milk with lots of fat, he says.

Check that ... I need time, talent, money, a lot of milk ... and I have to work on my "wiggle." Isn't there an easier way? Well, it turns out that there is.

Not everyone wants to suffer for their art. After seeing a latte-art video, Oleksiy Pikalo, a 31-year-old electrical engineer from Somerville, Mass., decided there had to be an "engineering approach." Using a kit and spare parts found on eBay, he built a programmable computer printer that stamps designs -- such as words or corporate logos -- on foamed drinks in edible brown ink. One design shows a kingly figure saying, "Can your latte do this?"

Mr. Pikalo presented his invention at a national computer-graphics conference this week and has started a company, OnLatte, to sell his machine, at a tentative price of $1,500. His YouTube video has drawn more than 818,000 views and 2,500 comments.

A latte printer? Really, the things you can do with spare parts found on eBay! It kind of sounds like the coffee-blogging answer to Twitter. Click here to watch a neat video of the craft and a demonstration of the latte printer.

When my oldest daughter was born, nigh on 20 years ago, they put that tiny little bundle in my arms — arms that had, just a few hours earlier, been lifting furniture and heavy equipment in the delivery room as I tried to vent my anxiety and frustration. The contrast between the weight of those items and her seven measly pounds belied the heavy but invisible mantle that had just been laid across my shoulders.

Our pastor knocked and came into the room about that time and I turned my daughter toward him and said, "Now Faith is" — as in "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen" (Heb. 11:1). Our little miracle baby, Faith Christine, was amongst us and I had just taken up my first watch.

I thought of this the other day as Ben made his case for how much he admired Faith and, in exchange for my blessing, gave his personal promise to safeguard her heart and well-being, to support her physically, emotionally and spiritually, and to raise my grandchildren in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

I know there are a few people — well, probably many — who question the need or propriety of a would-be husband these days asking his prospective father-in-law for the daughter's hand in marriage. "Women aren't chattel to be passed from one patriarch to another!", or "Doesn't she have a say in the matter?", or "What right does Dad have to get in-between young lovers?" Some of the more perceptive might even ask, "Why isn't he asking both the father and the mother?"

To me it's all part and parcel of a culture that has grown accustomed to demeaning and diminishing the role of parents, going back to the days when we started saying "Don't trust anyone over 30," the presentation of adults (especially dads) as dolts on "family" sit-coms and the cultural and educational conceit that young people are wiser and more informed about "how things really are" than those stick-in-the-mud old folks. As a result we miss, or become uncertain about, certain nuances.

Now, I enjoy playing the role of patriarch and benevolent dictator, but that is because I take it seriously and have not shirked the robe that comes with it. It fits. I have not viewed my daughters as my property to be maximized for the greatest return on investment, or as servants and dependents sent for my own amusement. My wife and I have always realized that we were not owners, but stewards, of what we were entrusted with and we structured our lives and our daughters' with an eye to providing the things that prepare them for long-term happiness (especially how they can get this themselves), even if it involved some not-so-happy decisions.

I have to say we are well-pleased with the results to date. Yes, Faith is well able to direct her own life, but every woman needs a man in her life who knows her value and is willing to sacrifice for her well-being. Before I cede that position to another I want to be darn sure he knows what is expected.

Ben may not be perfect (he's got some dents where the University of Hard Knocks has deposited wisdom), but the situation has been nearly ideal. They've known each other for almost three years and have progressed gradually from acquaintance to friendship to courtship and now engagement. While they have not been physical, they have been intimate, taking the opportunity to really know each other and weigh their respective characters. Similarly, our family has had the same amount of time (actually, longer) to get to know Ben and make our own evaluation. This isn't some shaggy freak Faith has drug home from a concert and asked if she can keep him.

So, while my stewardship is not yet finished, its days are clearly numbered. The promised land my daughter and I have been preparing for for so many years is at last on the horizon though, like Moses, I will not cross with her. She will always be my daughter, but then I will have something even better. A friend.

Two, actually.

Breaking (actually, "bonding") news over at Hammerswing for all you romantics, or the just plain curious.

I happened to come across a reference the other day to Connor Prairie Farm, an historic farm and village near Indianapolis that recreates life circa the 1800s. The setting is authentic, as is the clothing of the staff who each must stay "in character" as they interact with visitors. Seeing the place mentioned again brought back memories, especially one in particular.

When I was a kid growing up in Indianapolis it seemed as if we had a school field trip out to Connor Prarie every other year. About 10 years ago my family was back visiting in the area and we decided to take the young Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly out to the site for a visit. Tiger Lilly would have been five then, and this was the summer between kindergarten and first grade (she started kindergarten when she was four).

Her red hair and precociousness have always garnered her a lot of attention, and when we visited the Tailor's shop she was soon in a conversation with the tailor, an older gentleman with long, white hair, wireframe glasses, dressed in breeches and a waistcoat and stitching on some project. After they had talked a bit, TL asked the tailor why he said "thee" and "thou" so much.

"Because," he said, with a twinkle, "I am a Quaker. Does thou know what a Quaker is?"

"Oh, yes," was the reply. "Last year in school we read a book about Benjamin West and his cat Grimalkin!" TL went on to talk about how Benjamin West was a Quaker and wanted to be a painter, but the Quakers didn't think painting was proper but he did it anyway and became America's first great painter.

The tailor was quite taken by this unexpected discourse and smiled and said, "Does that tell you how important it is to listen to that small voice inside you?"

Tiger Lilly cocked her head and gave him a puzzled look for a moment. "You mean GOD?"

The tailor couldn't hide the surprise and amusement in his face, and shook his head, chuckling. "Thou art a caution!" he said.

Indeed!

My chief weapon is surprise...surprise and fear...my two weapons are fear and surprise...and ruthless efficiency. My three weapons are fear, surprise and ruthless efficiency....and coming out of the sun with a squirt bottle full of cold water. Make that my four weapons...oh, never mind. The point is Ben and the Diva weren't expecting it, but they should have been!

I saw the news today that American Girl is opening a store in the Mall of America, to complement their flagship stores in New York, Chicago and LA and smaller stores in Atlanta and Dallas (the MOA store will be about half the retail space of the flagships). It reminded me of a post I wrote three years ago about a trip to New York my wife and I made with Tiger Lilly. From the "Gotham Blogs" series:

After the museum we're out on the street looking for our next destination. Suddenly my wife grabs my arm and Tiger Lilly gasps audibly and freezes. What? Did some threat get past my radar? My wife directs my attention to the opposite corner of the intersection and I see that we may indeed be in line for a mugging. It's American Girl Place.

A year ago I had no idea of the marketing volcano that was about to erupt under our feet. Then some black-hearted scoundrel slipped Daughter Two an American Girl catalog - the first one's free, kid - and her life changed. American Girl dolls are a vertically integrated economic powerhouse. The dolls themselves go for nearly $100 a pop, but that’s just the threshold - the dolls represent different eras and ethnicities in American history and most are the stars of one or more books put out by the company and has full line of accessories, not to mention the magazine (catalog) that appears regularly at our house. My daughter and her friends now can recite model numbers, back stories and accessory details with each other the way my friends and I once were able to argue the finer points of a '63 Impala or '67 GTO.

When Tiger Lilly picked her favorite from the catalog - an American Indian called Kaya - we said that if it was that important to her she would have to earn the money herself. A born entrepreneur she quickly grasped the profit and loss mechanics of a lemon-aid stand and the economic rewards of an untapped market - extra chores - to build liquidity. With a seed loan from Mom she bought lemons and sugar, and with marketing advice from me ("put 'Fresh Squeezed' in big letters on your sign"), along with her natural charm and location, location, location she quickly covered her start-up costs and had money to plow back into her business as well as show a profit. This was repeated a couple of more times, and along with the household moonlighting she soon had the necessary discretionary income to buy her doll.

And now we were unwittingly across the street from Mordor, I mean, American Girl Place. It was like setting out for Oz and finding Mecca along the way. I looked around and saw a definite flow of young girls, many with dolls in arms and all with parents bobbing in tow, converging on the store from all directions. We were swept up in the current - as if we ever had a choice - and into the store. The store is impressive in both detail and scope, with three floors of merchandise and a restaurant where you can have lunch with your American Girl doll for just $22 per person. If I’m going to spend that much for lunch with a doll, I want to see the doll cook the meal and then serve it and then give me a quote on painting my garage. Nevertheless the store is jammed on every floor and countless cashiers and floor associates are - like everyone else in New York - working hard. Fortunately there were no meltdowns to be observed such as those we'd witnessed at Toys R Us in Times Square the night before, but I did notice a lot of earnest young faces making a case point by point. After Tiger Lilly parted with more of her profits she'd been saving for this trip we went elsewhere for lunch (Kaya would just die if she knew we’d eaten at American Girl Place without her) and then, since it had stopped raining, we went over to the Central Park Zoo.

We arrive just in time for the Polar Bear feeding and to see another New York career option - bear feeder. At this zoo they feed the Polar Bears by first luring them out of the habitat enclosure and into their dens where they can presumably be locked up. Once that is accomplished a zookeeper enters the habitat and hides buckets of food - fish, apples and some veggies frozen in a block and smeared with peanut butter - in the enclosure. While we’re watching this preparation we speculate that there’s probably some initiation for rookie keepers where, once they’re in the middle of the enclosure with bear chow and an open jar of peanut butter, someone plays a loud recording of a Polar Bear huffing and roaring.

Perhaps TL will grace us with a post of her own with her thoughts on the new store.

The other day I stopped at Cold Stone Creamery and bought a small container of their Ghiradelli chocolate ice cream to share in a little private quality time with my wife.

Unfortunately, when I got home — and before any such quality time could materialize — I tucked it into the freezer of our kitchen refrigerator. This is an environment generally overstuffed with items that would enthrall an arctic archaeologist analyzing the lifestyle of my family. Hiding a small, innocuous container in there should have been relatively safe. Except. Except that I live in a house with three women and their chocolate-senses started jangling as soon as they all returned and entered the kitchen together.

Later I went into the freezer and saw that the container and been disturbed. And decimated. There was also a post-it note stuck to it, with large letters in Tiger Lilly's hand-printing: "FOUND YOU!"

There was only one thing I could do.

I took the post-it note and in red ink struck a line through the word "found" and replaced it with my own "I WILL FIND" and stuck the note on the freezer door.

Let me know if you see any of them.

This was a very full weekend. It started off with my family getting to meet a new-to-us family member, my grandmother's great-niece (not sure what the proper term is — 2nd, 3rd, 4th-cousin?), and fine young woman named DeShae who is spending the summer in Minneapolis with the Youth Works ministry. This has been a season for meeting extended family, as my wife's cousin from New Mexico has two grown daughters currently in the Twin Cities as well who we've enjoyed having over to the house. We're hoping we can have all these lovely young ladies over at the same time.

That will be a good-sized group but still small compared to the crowd that turned out for the first annual Father's Day party hosted by Chief. Besides the opportunity to see many of our MOB friends it gave us the opportunity to give Kevin Ecker his birthday present. Somehow or another, Kevin had gotten the crazy idea that my wife had bought him a howitzer.



Admittedly, that would have been pretty cool, if a bit difficult to gift wrap. Instead my wife had picked up something that made her think of Kevin the moment she set eyes on it.



Unfortunately we couldn't stay late at the party because we had to head up to to Brainerd Saturday evening in order to be on hand to conduct the chapel service during the opening weekend at the Parker Boy Scout Camp. Instead of staying at the camp we stayed at my brother-in-law's nearby lake cabin. It's quite cozy, but surrounded by hordes of hungry mosquitos. We grabbed our bags from the car and made a mad dash to get inside but a couple of dozen of the little blood-suckers made it in the door with us. It could have been a long night, but my daughters decided it was a suitable time to give me my Father's Day gift: the bug bat I had said I wanted a little while back. It looks like a badminton racket, but in place of strings it has wires that you can electrify by pressing a button on the handle. What a fly or a mosquito (or perhaps a parakeet) and ZZZZZTT! — instant crispy critter. I, of course, got to try it out first and if you think my maniacal glee was a bit effusive you should have heard the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly! "Hahlo, I am the Mall Diva, you bit my sister. Prepare to die!" I christened (actually, you shouldn't get it wet) the newest addition to our arsenal as "Old Sparky". This morning we again had to run the gauntlet to the car, during which many more skeeters tried to come along for the ride. The Diva was on the job, however!



The chapel service went great, though we were almost late due to having to take some unexpected detours. The Reverend Mother had planned to do a specific message for this morning, but with the news of the scout camp in Iowa getting hit by a tornado last week (killing four scouts), she decided on a different approach, including a special song by the Mall Diva. She once again was able to work the flash paper into her short message and it went over famously, as always. Afterwards two of the scouts even came up to us and, in unison, shouted "Best church ever!"

After that it was time to come home and complete the Father's Day assignment given by the Mayor of the MOB, King Banaian, in his decree, that being to grill meat. Since we know King is a vegetarian, however, we (Ben, the Diva and I) felt we needed to prepare a special course in his honor:



Finally, it was good that we had so much to do throughout the weekend since it kept me from dwelling too long on the meaning of the holiday. It was the first Father's Day for me without my father, and there were a a few tough moments throughout the weekend when things that happened would remind me of him. I expect this will be an ongoing experience in years to come. There was another first this year as well; I got my first Father's Day card from prospective son-in-law Ben, something I also anticipate more of in the coming years!

Here's a flashback for Fathers' Day: back when the Mall Diva was 2-3 years old her mom worked second shift and the little diva and I spent a lot of afternoons and evenings together, often watching Duck Tales and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. One of our most favorite things, however, was to watch the Adrian Belew "Oh Daddy" video, which featured Belew's own 11-year-old daughter, Audie, singing and dancing. I'm betting Mall Diva can still sing every word of that song.

Belew is a fabulous musician who has played on some of my favorite songs from Frank Zappa, The Talking Heads and Peter Gabriel. There's no song, however, that will stir my emotions as much as "Oh Daddy."