“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

- Damon Runyon

One of the people I always look forward to seeing at our annual Inside Outfitters men's fishing weekend is big Don Steele. Don is originally from Jamaica and still has his delightful, lilting accent to go along with being one of the nicest guys you could ever meet. His, "Heeey, Brudder John!" greeting is one of the things that keeps me coming back. Next to God and his own wife and family, Don's passion is fishing and he appears to have a special gifting for finding and catching messes of crappe. This year was no exception as he caught 20 crappe Friday night, then went out with a fresh stringer Saturday morning and came back with another haul (see photo).



I met Don seven or eight years ago at one of our outings. The first time I saw him he was hauling a long fat stringer full of crappes from the dock to his cabin, looking more than a bit like a Jamaican-piscatorial version of Santa Claus. It later turned out that his cabin was also my cabin, which we were sharing with three or four other guys. I took the couch in the main room/kitchen of the cabin to sleep on, while Don bedded his crappes down — still alive — in several rubber tubs of water in the refrigerator.

I was used to the sounds of snoring, but it was hard for me to tune out the near-constant crappe-flapping coming from the frig 10 feet away. I opened one eye when I heard the slapping sound of Don's bare feet on the tile floor, in time to see him illuminated in the refrigerator light as he opened the door and leaned in. St. Nick-like he raised his finger to his face, placing it on his lips rather than the side of his nose. "Shhhhh," he whispered. "Peeple be sleepin'!"

My belly still shakes like a bowl full of jelly when I think of this, in part because of the absurdity of the scene, but also because his admonishment worked!

It's been a busy couple of days, complicated with a couple of headaches at work and ONE real migraine that has lasted now into it's second day. I spent most of Tuesday evening updating my notes for this week's "Marriageable" class, which was held last night. The focus in Week 3 was the difference between Courtship and Dating.

As the Mall Diva and Ben have a lot of experience in this area I asked them to come in and describe the way their relationship has progressed and answer any questions the lads had. It was a very lively session with a lot a lot of questions and some excellent answers; I'll write more about it in an upcoming post that will be part of the "Are You Marriageable" series.

At one point, however, the young men were especially concerned about how courting is carried out in front of the family (or families, if possible), and the inherent expectation of proper behavior. During one answer, Ben made reference to knowing that any impropriety could result in me coming down on him "like a ton of bricks."

"Oh, you're exaggerating," I said. "I don't weigh anywhere near that much."

It did remind me, however, that Ben has escaped my attentions relatively unscathed — at least compared to the experience of another would-be suitor who found himself at the point of a bloody knife. That was a story I've posted before, but I'll re-run it here for amusement and edification of both new and long-time readers. It's also a way for me to buy a little blogging time until my next post while my brain heals and work settles down.

A Night at the Prom
Regular readers of this blog know that my wife and I have a pretty simple philosophy when it comes to our teenage daughter, Faith, dating: No. (See here and here.) Therefore you might be surprised to hear that Faith went to the prom last Saturday night. And yes, there was a boy involved from an unrelated gene pool. How did this happen? One word: conspiracy.

(Click here to continue reading.)

Faith has a female cousin just a few months older than her and they've been best pals from the playpen. They both think that boys are nice to have around, but what really makes their hearts beat fast right now are prom dresses. I think we were still taking down Christmas decorations earlier this year when they hatched a plan for the spring dance.

The boy part was easy. The cousin has a boyfriend. The boyfriend has a best friend. The best friend wasn't doing anything the second Saturday in May. The deal was proposed and closed directly: the girls would buy the tickets, the guys would rent tuxes and buy dinner. Now - on to the Mall! It was about this point where my wife became a co-conspirator. I'm not sure how this was accomplished, exactly, but it may have involved lattes.

All I know is I was standing innocently in our kitchen a couple of months ago with my lovely wife and lovely daughter - two people I trusted implicitly - when Faith casually mentioned something about going to the prom. "Hmm," I said, "let me think about that a minute. No."

"I already told her she could go," my wife said, albeit sheepishly.

"Wha-," I said, as the floor began to open beneath me. I began to splutter: "Prom? Boys? Dark cars? Boys!"

I knew I was going down, but it didn't mean I had to make it easy for them. It was pretty clear that fashion, not passion, was behind the conspiracy and I knew that three of the four kids involved were more than trustworthy, while the fourth was new to me but appeared as if he valued his life. Nevertheless it was worked out that my wife would be one of the volunteer parent chaperones at the event, which would require her staying up well past her bedtime. It was also arranged so that the four youngsters would come to the house for a cook-out in advance so I could get to know the new guy better.

When they arrived for the cook-out we all visited for a little while in the living room, and then I went into the kitchen to prepare the hamburger patties, which required carving them from a tube of partially frozen ground beef. I cut a couple of patties with my heavy duty 10" chef's knife when I realized I needed more information. Walking back into the living room, I motioned to the new guy with the slightly dripping point of the knife. Contrary to Faith's report of the incident, the knife was nowhere near his face. I was easily three feet away. Two feet, at least. And besides, Faith can't be a reliable witness because she hid her face behind a sofa pillow when she saw me walk into the room. Nevertheless, knowing something about teenage boys, I had to ask an important question.

"How many burgers can you eat?" I asked the kid.

"How many do you want me to eat?" he said.

"Good answer!" my wife said.

"Kill me now," my daughter said.

Anyway, we all lived through the evening and the weeks leading up to prom seemed to fly by. On Saturday Faith went to her cousin's around noon to begin hair and make-up preparations. At 4:30 I joined the other parents and close family at my sister-in-law's house for the photo op. Altogether there were 11 adult paparazzi and half a dozen cameras flashing the four elegantly dressed youth. It looked like a Hollywood premiere. Faith was especially breathtaking with her hair exquisitely styled on top of her head, long sparkly earrings and an elegant dress that could have used another yard of fabric if you asked me, but no one did.

Then it was time for them to be off, and time for firm handshakes with each of the boys. "Drive wisely," I said, and my voice didn't crack a bit.

The evening went marvelously, and the youngsters were only a little late getting home after stopping to pick up late night tacos and wow the crowd at Taco Bell.

My wife also made it home from her chaperone assignment without falling asleep, largely due to the startling effect of watching what passes for dancing these days. You see, there's this thing called "freak" dancing - because it "freaks" parents out, I think - that involves a young lady(?) placing her fundament against her escort's crotch and both of them vigorously gyrating (music optional). It appears that girls have finally found a way to get the boys out on the dance floor. My wife felt as if she should get out on the floor as well, but with a bucket of water or a garden hose. She settled for prayer instead. It kind of makes the old notion of a guy hoping for a goodnight kiss seem a bit quaint, doesn't it? I mean, after three hours of something like that with teenaged nerve endings a peck on the cheek would be - oh, shall we say - anti-climactic?

Fortunately, the little flock she was most interested in appeared to be having a very good time but at more discreet distances. She does, however, admit to being discreet herself, letting them out of her sight for long, long stretches at a time.

As for the rest of you kids, though, be warned: she's calling your mothers.

(hide)

I think I was 13 years old and just starting to develop some musical tastes of my own. I was in a record store in a mall in Indianapolis, flipping through the "S" selections, probably looking for a Rod Stewart album, when I suddenly saw something that froze me in my tracks.



It was stunning to see my name on something other than my football helmet or a gym bag, let alone an album cover. Wow! Somebody with my name had recorded an album! Little did I know that he had actually recorded several albums by that time, and would release more than 40 in his career.

I was almost as shocked this evening when I went on YouTube to see if there were any John Stewart videos and read that he had passed away back on January 19 as the result of a massive stroke at age 68. I couldn't believe that I hadn't heard or read that news when it happened.

I didn't buy California Bloodlines that first day in the record store. The guy in the store said it was folk/country and that was the last thing I wanted as I tried to distance myself from my parents' Glenn Campbell and Bobby Goldsboro records. Ironically, I didn't realize that I'd already heard this guy on some of those old Kingston Trio albums my folks had. Nevertheless I would often check on the album when I was in the store, getting a little thrill each time I read the name. When I got to college I got a lot smarter and widened my musical interests and eventually bought my own vinyl version of the album that Rolling Stone would later rank as one of the top 100 albums of the rock era.

Stewart (and it feels strange to type that), through his work with the Cumberland Trio and Kingston Trio, had been a pioneer in the folk music scene of the early 60s, opening the door for people such as Bob Dylan. In fact, Bloodlines was Stewart's first solo album and it was recorded directly across the hall from where Dylan was recording Nashville Skyline. (Stewart also wrote "Daydream Believer" which was a hit for the Monkees and Anne Murray.) Once I finally owned Bloodlines I just about wore it out, playing it regularly along with an album by Gamble Rogers that featured a cover of one of Stewart's classics, "July, You're a Woman". When I spent a semester in England before graduating from the University of Missouri (my family had moved back to my parents' home town my junior year in high school) I often thought of the lines from the song "Missouri Birds" as I tramped around London:

Missouri Birds flying over old St. Louis
Hear that song they're singing to me
Go into the world, while you're young

I graduated from college in '79 and moved to Phoenix, AZ for my first job, driving across the country in my Pinto while Top 40 radio played "Gold" from Stewart's latest album, Bombs Away Dream Babies.with Stevie Nicks "ooh-oohing" on the background vocals. It was a catchy tune, but I liked the other songs on the album as well, and listened to it nearly as much as I had to Bloodlines. In fact, it was a lyric from one of those songs — "Midnight Wind" — that came to my mind two weeks ago when a friend of mine died in a motorcycle crash. The tune has been rattling around between my ears since then, and it was probably what led me to go to YouTube tonight, only to find that there was one less John Stewart in the world.

I had been fortunate to see him perform in Phoenix while I lived there; he was a local favorite and a loved Phoenix in return, even recording a live album there at one point. I'd like to say that I was at the concert that was recorded, but that would be too much serendipity. In the last couple of years I'd tried to replace California Bloodlines and Bombs Away but most of his music is out of print or available only as an import. Some of his later work is available on iTunes, but his voice — never a particularly strong one — had gotten reed thin and breathy and made me kind of sad.

I was eventually able to get the song "Gold" on iTunes by downloading the soundtrack album for the movie "The Groomsmen" but his older stuff is still elusive. Tonight I went to Amazon, however, and ordered an imported version of Bloodlines before this, too, disappeared. I look forward to re-grooving these songs into my memory banks. Among the many on-line tributes I came across this evening was an especially apt tribute in his own words, taken from "Hand Your Heart to the Wind" from Bombs Away and "Some Lonesome Picker" from Bloodlines.

There's always one more river the sea can carry.
There's always one more soul that heaven can hold
There's always one more star the sky can hang on to
So hand your heart to the wind, let it carry you home.

There's always one more song to sing for the lonely
There's always one more dream to carry you along
There's always one more eagle come flying in the morning
So hand your heart to the wind let it carry you home.

...

And I'm believing, believing,
Believing that even when I'm gone
Maybe some lonesome picker will find some healing in this song

I did strike "Gold" on YouTube tonight as well, but rather than link to that hit (which Stewart reportedly actually hated) I'll post a video of him doing a medley of "Missouri Birds", "Cowboy in the Distance" and "If You Should Remember Me."

Goodnight, John.

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.

I took last week off from work, yet it still turned out to be a pretty full week. It actually started out the Saturday before last when I landed a free "Supporter" badge to the US Women's Open. My company was hosting a Sky Tent on the 14th Hole (in Carl Pohlad's back yard) and the guy who put it all together could only stay the first half of the week and left me his pass, which he said would get me in anywhere but the Patty Berg Pavilion and the women's locker room, I think.

I arrived Saturday during the weather delay and met up with a woman from work who had had to evacuate the Sky Tent during the weather watch. While we were waiting by the ropes for the all clear and looking very official an older couple walked up to us for an update on the conditions. Noticing that my impressive badge said "SUPPORTER", the gentleman asked what that meant. "It means that I'm an athletic supporter," I said, straight-faced. "Let's ask her," the woman said, pointing to my partner.

Sunday was the unfortunate incident with the small but expensive container of chocolate ice cream.

On Monday I told Tiger Lilly we could go to the matinee show of WALL•E, which made her very happy, until I told her I just had to do some e-mails from work first, which didn't. Work e-mail is like a cancerous growth that keeps dividing and multiplying when you're not looking and I knew that if I didn't try to prune it a bit even while on vacation it would turn into a hazardous blob that would frighten Steve McQueen by the time I got back to work. Still, there's a reason I refer to my laptop computer as a "laptrap" and Tiger Lilly flopped resignedly on the couch. (I well know her feeling because when I was a kid my father owned a gas station and every time the family got into the car the trip was sure to include at least one stop at "the station" where he would disappear inside while we waited in the car with nothing but AM radio.) Sure enough, an hour and a half later I was ready to set out, and we made it to the movie in time though we missed about half of the "Play Green!" propaganda being shown on the movie screen to the captive, mostly-kid audience. Darn. Oh well, the commercials will probably have the same effect as those PSAs telling kids not to do drugs.

The movie itself was pretty cute, if not Pixar's best, though I hear the "critics" are lauding the film to high heaven. That's presumably because of the environmental "message" of humans filling the planet up with so much garbage we have to take to outer space. Of course, this is the same medium that would have you believe that Wile E. Coyote can really afford all that stuff he buys from ACME. The first half of the movie was kind of odd as the only "words" came from the communicative noises the robots made, though this wasn't any harder to understand than, say, Arianna Huffington.

In an interesting (to me) contrast, later that evening I watched a show on the Discovery HD channel about what has gone on in the Ukrainian village of Prypiat, which rests next to Chernobyl and was evacuated in 1986. There are those who would have you believe that Prypiat and the 18-mile "Exclusion Zone" all around it are a nuclear wasteland, yet in reality it has become a booming, if unintentional, nature preserve as the forest has taken over much of the city and flora and fauna are thriving. Bears, wolves, elk, birds of prey and all manner of rodents and insects have moved in an thrived, including many species that were thought to be extinct or nearly extinct. You could tell that the narrator, and presumably the producers, were struggling to make sense of this, one moment intoning about this "greatest disaster of mankind" and the "evil unleashed on the earth" in this area that will be unfit for habitation for another 300 years, and in the next moment marveling at the health and diversity of the wildlife that has flourished there over several generations, apparently without ill effects.

Wednesday was the funeral for our friend Joe, which also happened to be the first funeral my wife has conducted. Appropriately, it was pretty much a biker affair as a row of Harley's lined the street in front of our church and filled the funeral procession out to Fort Snelling (Joe was a vet). The Reverend Mother is a biker, too, though she dressed more formally than the majority of the folks who came to the service. She should have worn her "Biker Chick" pin on her dark knit suit, but otherwise the service was flawless and touching.

On Thursday the girls and Ben took off for the cabin, leaving my wife and I home alone and without any plans. We made do, enjoying dinner at a new place, Aura in Calhoun Square (try the great "small plates" - like tapas but slightly larger portions, great for combos), grilling steaks on Friday night and going to our favorite place, Muffuletta, on Saturday night where I enjoyed a fabulous watercress puree and blue cheese cold soup (refreshing!) with orange aioli and cracked pepper for starters, while my wife thoroughly enjoyed an asparagus and horseradish appetizer and a beet salad. The menu changes regularly here so it's always fun to try something new but that night I opted for an old favorite, the Asian burger (ground pork, spicy thai peanut sauce and Chinese cabbage). It was a lovely evening as well, so we sat out on the deck and enjoyed the evening, the neighborhood and each other's company. It's a fun and romantic place, just the ticket if a certain someone wanted to take another certain someone to someplace special for a meaningful dinner!

All in all, I think it was one of the best vacations I've ever had. I felt refreshed and rested all the way up until Sunday afternoon, when I started hacking at the e-mail jungle again!

As I've mentioned here a couple of times I've been considering — and testing — the possibility of making use of the Light Rail Transit (LRT) Hiawatha Line for a part of my daily commute. I've ultimately decided to do this starting in August (more on that in a minute). On a micro-level (e.g., my checking account) it makes sense/cents because I can save about $80 bucks a month. I've had my doubts about the macro-savings, both in dollars and energy, of the current public transportation options, but haven't taken the time to dig into it. Fortunately, Bike Bubba did so last week, referencing a report from the Cato Institute:

Metro's buses [Note: St. Louis, MO area. NW] today consume more energy and emit more greenhouse gases, per passenger mile, than a typical sport utility vehicle. Its light-rail lines do better, but consume almost as much energy, and emit almost as much greenhouse gas, per passenger mile, as the average car.

Moreover, even where rail operations do save energy, this savings almost never makes up for the huge energy cost of rail construction. Highway construction also consumes energy, but because highways are more heavily used than rail lines, their energy cost per passenger mile is far lower.

If we ignore construction costs, many rail operations do consume less energy than the average auto — but almost none consume less than a Toyota Prius. As Lave suggested in 1979, to save energy and reduce greenhouse gas emissions, it is far more cost effective to encourage people to drive more fuel-efficient cars than to build rail transit lines.

Transit agencies that want to save energy and reduce greenhouse gas emissions should focus on increasing bus loads or reducing the size of their buses. The average Metro bus has 39 seats, yet averages less than 10 passengers. Concentrating service in areas where loads are higher, and using smaller buses in areas or times of day where loads are lower, will do far more to save energy than building rail transit.

So if it's more economically, environmentally and energy-efficient to get people to drive more fuel-efficient cars than it is to get them to build and ride rail transit, how do you "get" them to do so? If only there were some invisible hand that could get people's attention and cause them to act in a more enlightened (or just self-serving) manner! Something like, you know, the marketplace!

While the cost of gas has been driven up due to the oil supply being deliberately restricted, it does create the motivation to look for alternatives. Even as math-averse as I am I can still do it (the math) when I have to, and spending $50 for a tank of gas will get me reaching for a calculator. I think most folks are capable of doing a basic cost/benefit analysis, which brings me to why I'm not going to start my full-time LRT commuting until August.

My parking contract at work requires a 30-day notice to terminate, and can only be given at the first of the month; even if I stop using the ramp I still have to pay for July. Now, if I could get the $39 a month Metropass through my employer it would still be about a push on the savings to pay both parking and transit fee; however I can't get the pass from my employer until the parking comes off the books. I could buy a MTC "GO" pass (actually, recharge the one I've been using) but the rush hour commuting charges would add up to $80 for the month. That means the parking, gas and train fees don't come out in favor of the transit, especially when you add in the extra time and hassle it takes as opposed to driving. So, it's easier on my budget and simpler to drive another month while I satisfy the parking contract, regardless of whatever benefit I perhaps bestow upon the planet (especially dubious given Bike Bubba's revelations). Similarly, in the future if the monetary savings of using transit diminish, or the inconveniences get too big, I reserve the right to change my mind again.

OK, so I guess that it's all about the money for me when it comes to saving the planet. Of course, as Speed Gibson points out, the same goes for the Metropolitan Transit Commission as well.

You've probably heard that transit fares will be rising, probably about 25 cents, probably around October 1st. A number of public hearings are scheduled in July.

Most of us will be paying more for transit July 1, however, when the sales tax goes up 0.25% in Hennepin, Ramsey, Anoka, Dakota, and Washington Counties. Also starting July 1, you'll be paying a $20 Transit Improvement Vehicle Excise Tax when you sell a vehicle registered in these Counties.

But that's already figured into the projected $15 million shortfall in the fiscal year starting July 1. As I posted earlier, that amount is suspiciously similar to the Light Rail subsidy. Increased business for an enterprise with such high fixed costs should more than cover the rising fuel costs.

So what does Metro Transit do? Raise bus fares, which will reduce ridership by pushing some back into their cars or carpools. And not just this fall, and not just a quarter, mind you. The resolution also would grant authority for another increase of up to fifty cents in 2009.

What else can we do to discourage ridership? Let's expand the morning rush hour to start at 5:30 AM, not 6:00 AM, so we can charge 50 cents more for these early birds. Isn't the purpose of off-peak fares to encourage off-peak ridership?

Oh, and let's make it complicated again, with the return of suburban fare zones to nickel and dime quarter and dollar us further.

All of this of course is just a double shuffle to secretly get more Light Rail subsidies. They're going to need still more money to run the Central Corridor and the Metropolitan Council is willing to further degrade the bus service to get it.

Keep your calculators handy!

When my wife became a police chaplain we knew we could expect some tense calls in the middle of the night since chaplains are commonly called on for death notifications. We didn't expect that the first call she received would be for someone we know.

Joe was the kind of guy for whom guardrails were invented. Life had thrown him a few curves and he had a tendency to get a little wide through these at times, drifting out on the edges where the traction can be treacherous. The same age as me, he was whippet thin and had a look about his eyes that suggested a dog that had been kicked too many times. There was no doubt he had been.

Kick a dog, or a man, often enough and he can get mean. That wasn't Joe. There was still a level of optimism, trust and forgiveness in him despite all that he had been through. Some of it was the rub-your-neck admission of the things he knew he had brought on himself, and some of it was a faith that things were inevitably going to get better. He loved his wife, he loved his kids, he loved riding his motorcycle.

His father left home when Joe was two; he didn't see him again for more than 30 years. Once when he had had the opportunity and inclination to do the same thing he pointed his bike toward the open road, but couldn't, wouldn't do it. Bad company and bad choices had often been his reality, but there had also been a share of good choices when he said, "I'm turning around."

Including that most important time, that time when he looked into Hell and said, "I'm turning around."

Monday night was a lovely night for a ride, and one of the few things he could afford right now. He and a friend set out into the darkness and at some point he found one last, non-metaphorical guard rail. His shattered wrist watch said 12:15. Our phone rang not long after. Another chaplain had received the original call-out and gone to the house, but when he arrived Joe's wife had asked for Marjorie.

Today a wisp of a song played through my mind, over and over. An older song, sung by someone who shares my name, called "Midnight Wind".

There are dreams that fly in the midnight wind
Souls that cry in the midnight wind
Lovers who try in the midnight wind
You and I in the midnight wind

Sometimes...you can see, feel the edge coming. And sometimes it drops away from you without warning. You, and I, in the midnight wind.