Not Were, but Had Been…

Friday night Pretty Lady and I enjoyed an outdoor evening concert on the lawn of a wonderful city park in downtown Indianapolis.  We were within two blocks of Victory Field, home of the Indianapolis Indians baseball team, AAA affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates.  As the concert was in its encore presentation, the ball game ended, and it being a Friday night game, fireworks were going off just behind us.  How cool is that?  Very cool.

The concert was by the “The Dukes of September.”  A rather strange name, given we were seeing the concert on an August evening.  Of course, the “September” reference may have been assigned to celebrate the ageing stars of the show: Michael McDonald, Boz Skaggs, and Donald Fagan (one of the stars of, and originators of, the recording group known as “Steely Dan.”)  All three solo stars were on stage for the entire two-hour show, backed by a great collection of horns, keyboards, bass guitar, and drums.  Two female back-up singers had outstanding voices, and the guitarist was very, very good.  Very good.

It was a good night to be outside, and it was a very good concert.

Several hours before time to leave home for the concert, I was telling a colleague about my plans for the evening.  Her young son overheard our conversation and wanted to know if the artists headlining the concert had been famous.  Not were famous.  Had been famous.

The young man had never heard of Michael, Donald, or Boz.  Try as I might, I could not conjure up even one of their songs that he knew.  My 13-year old daughter, a few years older than my colleagues’ son, most likely would not have know the names of the were famous singers we went to enjoy that night.  She might recognize a couple of their hit tunes from the oldies radio station I listen to…but maybe not.

Fame is fleeting.

Time flies.

The music I enjoy is not the music my parents enjoyed; and its not the music my daughter enjoys.  There are other generational differences, of course, but music is a particularly obvious bone of contention.  Guess I shouldn't be so surprised by this. 

However, there is a glimmer of hope.

The very next night, Pretty Lady and I were in Brown County for a concert headlined by Carrie Newcomer.  The opening act was a young lady name Cari Ray, a darn good songwriter and pretty fair singer.  I purchased one of Carrie's CDs and two of Cari's.  When my daughter was in the car with me on Sunday, she was forced to listen to one of Cari's CDs.  She liked it!

I had gained "cool" status with my kid!

Life is good.

Sweet Dreams, Baby...

I don't remember my dreams.  I do accept that all of us dream, but I simply do not remember mine.  In a Seminary class with Dr. Wismar, we were all asked to keep a pad of paper and a pen (or pencil) on our nightstand, and, over a given period of time, to write down our remembered dreams.  We were going to discuss dream patterns...and probably some other items, as well.  I knew I would have nothing to write when I woke up in the mornings, so I faked it.  I made up some stuff and wrote it down.

Dr. Wismar (whose son gave me guitar lessons for about two years) quickly figured out I was not reporting real dreams.  We had a conversation about the whole thing...I told him I had never been able to remember my dreams...and while he sympathized, he wasn't very happy with what I had chosen to do other than be honest.

The picture above is titled "Dream State" by Howard Brink.  If I could remember my dreams, I think they would look like that picture:  no color, strange images, sorta "washed out" looking.  I think that because I tend to daydream like that picture, so I assume my nightdreams would be similar.

I have heard people describe their vivid dreams, their romantic dreams, the frightening dreams.  I've heard about dreams of falling, dreams of running away from a threat, dreams of sexual activity, dreams of heroic activities, and many more.  If I have dreams like those, I don't remember them.  Maybe I am missing out on some exciting nightime stuff...maybe not.

I have read Freud's material on dream interpretation.  There have been times I wished I had dreamt some dreams that would make a dream interpretation publication.  Only the kind of dreams that would reflect well on me, of course...not so much the other kind.

If you remember your dreams, good for you.  Maybe you could tell me about some of them so I could vicariously remember the sleeptime brain activity that all of us engage in...but not all of us remember.

Sweet Dreams, Baby!

School...

School starts tomorrow.  In Bloomington, Indiana, school starts tomorrow.  The bus taking my daughter to begin her eighth-grade year at Tri-North Middle School will arrive at 6:40ish a.m.

I can barely remember my eighth-grade year at Lydick Middle School.  I am sure that at the time, it was a big deal in my life.  It would be the final year of attending school in my small hometown.  High School would be about ten miles away in New Carlisle.  I don't think school back then started as early as it does for my daughter this year.

School started after Labor Day back in my day.  Now, it starts before the middle of August.  I think I remember school ending in early June when I attended.  My daughter will finish her final year at Tri-North before Memorial Day weekend.

That things are very different for my daughter than they were for me, school-wise, is not surprising.  And its mostly all for the better.  And even if it isn't better, there's nothing that can be done about it.  It is what it is.

I didn't have a computer in the eighth-grade.  No i-phone.  School wasn't air-conditioned.  My daughter will study what were current events in my school-days as history from half a century ago.  2 plus 2 will still equal 4, of course.  What was taught as "writing" to me is "cursive" to Hannah. 

It is what it is.

School starts tomorrow.  Time marches on.  I hope it is a very good year for my daughter, and that she will learn and experience new and positive things.  There's a chance that one or two things could go less-than-positive for her this school year, but probably nothing we can't deal with together.

My kid is in the eighth grade!

And the bus arrives at the butt-crack of dawn!

It is what it is.

Your Own Personal God...

I have a set of golf clubs...not a usual set...but my own personal set.  I don't carry a 9 iron or a pitching wedge, I let my 7 iron do the work of those two clubs that most everybody else carries in their golf bag.  I do carry a sand wedge and employ it in place of a wedge when the shot I have to make doesn't lend itself to a 7 iron.
Likewise, I don't load my golf bag up with other clubs I simply haven't mastered and choose not to use: a 3 iron, any metal-wood with a number higher than 7.
Over the years, I have purchased new clubs to replace older ones, of course, but I am still using the only putter I have ever owned.

I have the same Honda SUV model as millions of other folks, but I have personalized it to suit my tastes.  Its my own personal car...even though a whole big bunch of red CR-Vs were made and purchased between 2007 and 2012 (when the styling was revamped).

I've got my own personal stuff.  You've got your own personal stuff.  All God's children got their own personal stuff.  Including their own personal God.

The concept of God many folks...maybe even most folks...have is that of a God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever; and for everybody, too.  And if not that exact concept, one quite like it.  But that's just the God we pay lip-service to.  My guess is, from personal experience, that the real concept of God we live our daily lives in service to, is very much like the man in the picture above speaks about.

Our own personal God has the same beliefs as we do.  My God has my beliefs, and your God has your beliefs.  I don't think that plays out too well in real life, do you?

BTW, I am working on some bumperstickers:

• My God is Bigger than Your God
• Your God can't hold a Candle to Mine
• My God can Beat Up Your God

What do you think?

Once a Year, Every Year...

Every August (for a very long time) the Indiana State Fair rolls around.  And, its a good thing to go to the Fair.  For all kinds of reasons.

• Displays by all kinds of people, from 4H members to adults to senior citizens.  Paintings, home-made clothing, photographs of Indiana scenery, pies, cakes, cookies...and on and on.
• The small band that plays just outside the Home and Family Arts Building every day...great Central and South American indigenous music.
• Animals. (I especially like the tradition as you enter the Cattle Barn from the State Fair Blvd...some kids have a large black spider rigged to a nearly invisible line that they drop in your face as you enter...especially if you have kids with you.)  Sheep and cows and horses and goats and rabbits and chickens, and pigs...always some very large, huge, boar just laying there doing what a boar of that size would do: nothing (but getting bigger, maybe).
• The watermelon-seed spitting contest.  My friend, Steve, and I used to enter that thing every year...back when the Fair was an annual event for us to attend together.
• The Midway...

• Fair Food!  Great corn-on-the-cob.  Indiana Pork Producers pork chops.  Indiana Dairy Association milk shakes.  Something deep-fried...something different every year: deep fried oreo cookies, deep fried pepsi-cola, deep fried snickers bar, deep fried ice cream, and this year: deep fried Girl Scout cookies.  A doughnut burger.  An elephant ear.  What's not to like?
• Your kids.  Take your kids to the Fair.  I used to take my boys.  I used to take my grandkids.  Now I take my daughter.  Its a wonderful tradition.
• Friends.  I cannot remember ever attending the Indiana State Fair and not running into someone (or several someones) I knew.

The weather will be hot...most likely very humid, too.  But, go anyway.  Its the Indiana State Fair, for cryin-out-loud!  And it only comes once a year.  Thankfully, its every year.