Mowing the Lawn

Good music is one of the joys of my life. What is it about good writing set to music or just the right combination of sounds that lightens the soul? Maybe that has something to do with why I enjoy folk music and the singer/songwriter tradition. The words and instruments seem more accessible.  While writing this post, I'm listening for the first time to a song called Gravity by Eddie from Ohio.  Why bury lyrics like these under an overproduced sound: I've got this fear of falling that I'm trying to overcome. You and I know I'd never jump. Whom I'm trying to kid. But just imagine the sensation. There's no such thing as an atheist on the thirty-second floor. As an adult, I've also developed an appreciation for the power and wonder of classical music, especially when I can listen to it live. Thelma and our kids probably remember the summer of 2007 when I returned from London positively brimming with excitement after attending a performance of Elgar's En...

All I could see was "is that chicken?" I had just pulled the mail from our mail cubby. One of the great, modern suburban tragedies is that mail boxes have been replaced by the oversized mail cupboard with each house allocated a puny cubby. It's depressing to the very core. Bland, file-cabinet grey. Institutional locks. Our particular version is tipped slightly to one side from a collision with a car. The whole scene resembles a lopsided morgue refrigeratior for mail. (My personal favorite, by the way, is the KH500 with the 26-gauge, corrosion-resistant, stucco-embossed, coated steel interior walls.) Insert key. Open door. Slide out letters. Shut door. Remove key. Try not to drop key in the strategically-placed storm drain directly below. Throw mail away. Curse Wilmington, Delaware, for the avalanche of credit card applications. There is, occasionally, some mild drama when you're anticipating a package. The package—if it's a respectable package of a ...

"I'll be fast," she just said. "It doesn't take me long to be eloquent." Thelma is writing a blog as we speak. She is itching to get something out. I can guess what it is . We just returned from dinner with my parents and siblings to celebrate my mother's 60th birthday. Thelma and I walked into the Olive Garden lobby a fashionable ten minutes late at 6:40. My brothers had been there since 6:00. By the time we arrived, the natives were already restless. By seven o'clock the situation was becoming dire. We had been told repeatedly that a big party was getting ready to leave and we couldn't be seated until they had left. Meanwhile, numerous smaller parties were coming and going all around us. At 7:15, my brothers told me I needed to go deal with the situation as the oldest. I did my best to make the host and hostess uncomfortable about the situation. When that didn't help, I asked to speak to the manager. Restaurant or retail manager...

My wife is a blog hog—and a prolific one at that. On more than one occassion in the past few weeks, I've thought of posting to this blog about some topic only to find that she has beat me to it. The way our Christmas bear tradition was hatched in our poverty. My near-death experience with a pack of feral teenagers. The snowball luminaries I learned to make in Finland. It's that last one that really takes the cake. I knew I would have to be quick to the computer if I was going to write about it before Thelma did. But how quick? Impossibly so. Before I had my gloves of and had dusted the snow off my sandals, Thelma had beat me to the punch. Perhaps I'll start writing about what I'm going to do. I'm convinced that Thelma lives her life in draft. Somewhere in her mind she is always writing. She captures life in written form and then it's just a matter of finding time to get it down on paper. Dumbledore had a pensieve in the Harry Potter stories. Thel...

I was under strict orders from Thelma last night to come straight home with Braeden after Scouts. No dillying. No dallying. (Yes, I know "dillying" is not a word, but it should be.) I had every intention of being obedient when I set out from the Church. I let Colin Park ride in the front. Braeden sullenly slouched in the back seat because I had presumably ignored his cries of "shotgun" on the way to the van. I let Braeden move to the front after we dropped Colin off, but I let him know that his reaction was out of line. "Colin is older than you, he was our guest, 'shotgun' is not a binding legal contract..." And so forth. "But Dad, I just was looking forward to the two of us being together for a little while." I felt more than minor pangs of guilt. Here it was, about 8:30 in the evening, and I had given Braeden my undivided attention for about the seven minutes it takes to drive to the church building. That was all. That has bee...

Emma has started a blog. It's my solemn obligation as her father to brag a little. It is shaping out with a collection of her poetry. I'm really impressed that she can write poetry as she does at a young age. It's a talent that has always escaped me. Here is one of her pieces. A Tiger in the Sky A tiger is padding through the sky I hear him out my window He roars loud enough to be heard for miles Moments he scrapes the sky Once again he plays this trick Til he's moved far away What's the matter my dear friend? Can't you see it was just a storm? Emma's blog is a very exclusive place. Invitation only. If you ask nicely, I'm sure she'll let you in though. The poem reminds of Henri Rousseau's painting Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!) . Emma learned about it in school and she was able to see it when we visited the National Gallery in London. You'll want to visit the photo page at the National Gallery web site to get a good view of ...

What is the funniest show you are not watching on television? Mayne Street . It's an ESPN production, it's not about sports, episodes are about four minutes long and it's only available online. The web series stars Kenny Mayne as himself: an oddball sports reporter whose dry wit makes him seem more suited for a good British sitcom than SportsCenter. You can subscribe to the video podcast , but you'll find a nice set of extras at the ESPN.com video page for the show. Here's one such extra introducing the cast of characters. Kenny Mayne came to fame in the late 90s when his humorous style of describing the daily sports highlights began to upstage the actual events. While other sports anchors might describe a homerun by saying a player "hit one deep", Kenny Mayne was saying things like, "Your puny ballparks are too small to contain my gargantuan blasts! Bring me the finest meats and cheeses for a clubhouse feast!" He has talent and humor to sp...

As we were driving home from Boy Scouts last night, I asked Braeden what he thought about the election process the day after. "I feel clean," he said. What a great answer. His whole life, he explained, he has only known one president. Now there will be a new president. There will be a chance to start again. A clean slate, I suppose. What makes it even more interesting is that I know Braeden preferred John McCain to Barack Obama. He's observant enough, though, to recognize the historic nature of the outcome. He's excited to show the rest of the world and elements of our own society that a person's race doesn't matter. People will judge you on the merits of what you say, what you believe and what you do. That is part of the greatness of America. It may have been narrowly applied by our founding fathers, but its a notion that can't be contained.

Eric Jorgensen and I were talking about ballot measures and voting systems as we trailed our trick-or-treating boys on Halloween night. One of the methods we discussed was range voting in which voters assign an acceptability score to various candidates or choices. Think of it like giving each option an approval rating. The candidate or option with the highest total score wins. I like the idea. It seems emotionally more satisfying to be able to express your level of support for a candidate or outcome instead of an all or nothing approach. In our current political environment, there are no viable third-party candidates. Casting a vote for someone other than a Democrat or Republican is more likely to spoil the chances of the candidate you would have selected if forced to choose between the two major parties. I hear people talk about the election between George Bush, Bill Clinton and Ross Perot. Bill Clinton won with less than a majority of votes. If you were to give just the Pero...

What has our family laughing this weekend? This parody of the Lawrence Welk Show from a recent Saturday Night Live. Having watched this video a dozen or so times now, I'm not sure which is funnier: the video or listening to Emma and Mark imitate it?

Given how much I miss Thelma, it's only fitting that the song of week should be about love and longing. I've chosen "Tomorrow is a Long Time". I'm not sure who wrote it. I know Dylan and Elvis have covered it, but the version I prefer is by Nickel Creek. I was able to see them perform is live at work one day. Visits from artists who sell on our sites is one of the perks of the job. Amazon.com Widgets If today was not an endless highway, If tonight was not a crooked trail, If tomorrow wasn't such a long time, Then lonesome would mean nothing to me at all Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting If I could hear his heart softly pounding Yes, and only if he was lying by me Would I lie in my bed once again I can't see my reflection in the waters, I can't speak the sounds that show no pain, I can't hear the echo of my footsteps, Or remember the sound of my own name. There's beauty in that silver singin' river, There's beauty in th...

I'm feeling strangely nostalgic as my trip nears an end. Perhaps "nostalgia" is the wrong word. That's a longing for the past. What is it called when you long for the present? What is it called when you feel emotion for a place that you know will someday become a memory? I suppose it's a type of anticipatory nostalgia. I'm sure I'll be back, perhaps even this year. But the writing is on the wall. My days traveling to the UK for business are numbered. It's difficult to manage clients in the UK from Seattle. With the eight hour time difference, many of the people I need to talk to and work with are in the office from midnight to eight AM when I should be asleep. There are just too many late nights and early mornings with long days in between. For the past year, I've been working to hire a team that can be based in the UK. My boss has always been based here. We've now been able to fill seven of the other eight positions. The only thi...

After 24 hours in the cocoon I call the Marriott Maida Vale, I finally emerged a few minutes ago for fresh air, exercise and food. I've done far too much sitting around and staring at a computer. It's strange this is what I call work. This sitting, typing, talking, thinking, writing. That's the new reality on the edge of cyberspace. It doesn't feel right to call it work sometimes. It doesn't burn enough calories. It doesn't get me dirty enough. A stain on a shirt every now and again when I spill something at lunch. What does it say that my clothes are so clean as to make a stain look out of place? If my hands are clean, if my palms are without callus, have I really created something of worth? There is danger when we stop being part of the creative process. There is danger to the human spirit when we can't see the product of our own hands. When we become just one step in a process, just one role in a factory, we stop being fully human. We are com...

London | 6:55 PM It's been a long time coming. Assuming nothing goes wrong between now and midnight, I'm only five hours from being able to launch the project that has been keeping me up at nights (with work, not so much with worry). Update | 12:15 AM Here we go. The first sign that something is happening. Update | 6:35 AM What a day (and a night). We were in labor for 4.5 hours, but at 4:45 this morning I helped give birth to a brand new web site for Mothercare . This is what has been occupying the majority of my professional life for most of the past nine months. Perhaps I'll write about it sometime, but not now. I've been awake for 24 hours. I need to get some sleep. The site will probably need feeding in a few hours.

Maida Vale | 7:20 PM I've decided not so sit around the hotel for the evening. I received a phone call from work not long after returning from the launderette. After 30 minutes or so talking on the phone and answering email, it was starting to feel too much like just another weekday. I need a break. Kilburn Park Park Underground Station | 7:30 PM I'm surrounded by people speaking Eastern European languages. Maybe it's Polish. There's a news dispenser outside the tube station for the Polska Gazeta . The promotional sign reads "Polish language only. Don't bother if you can't read Polish." I won't bother. It was nice of the publishers to spare me the trouble. In any case, I have all eight pages of the London Weekend Hotel Edition of the USA Today to help pass the time on the tube. It's supposed to contain the best stuff from USA Today over the past week. I'm impressed they were able to find eight pages. Interestingly, it contain...

On a scale from zero to three, with zero being best and three deserving adjectives like "abject" and "utter", this has been a 2 Tasty Kebab week. Tasty Kebab is the kebab and chip stand next to the train station a few blocks from my hotel. It's not great food, but it's convenient and fast--rare qualities in London dining where dinner can easily last three or more hours. The number of times I'm forced to visit Tasty Kebab is in direct relation to how busy or chaotic my week has been. (By the way, avoid the fish and chips unless you like your fish with the scales still on. Ask Braeden and Emma about it some time.) On the plus side, I was fully expecting this to be a 3 Tasty Kebab week. The fact that it stopped short at two is really rather positive. On the other hand, even a 2 Tasty Kebab week has left me so exhausted that it is now 4:30 in the afternoon and I've only been awake for a hour. I should be rushing off to the museums before they close...

My habitual clock is telling me that I'll be getting on a plane tomorrow morning to head back home. My calendar, though, reminds me that I still have six days to go. My heart, caught in the middle, is heavy. So are my eyelids. I'll wake tomorrow to a full weekend to myself in one of the world's great cities. I should be out and about. I'll probably just sleep. Maybe this time will be better. I've spent a few weekends in London on past trips. With all of the work there is to do on these trips and the difficulty of adjusting to a drastically new time zone, I'm usually too sleep deprived come the weekend to do anything but sleep. This week has been a little different. I'm still working 14+ hours a day, but I've managed to get at least five or six hours sleep each evening. So, where to go on the morrow? I can always do the tried and true. The British Museum. St. Paul's. Walk from Hyde Park to Green Park to Buckingham Palace. The Tate Modern....

I've never been one to bemoan Mondays.  Sure, I've occasionally regretted that the weekend was ending.  I get annoyed, though, by people who act like Monday is the end of the world instead of just the start of another week.  These annoyers are probably the ones buying up all of the infernal posters showing a kitten clinging to a branch with the caption "Hold on.  Friday's coming." If I were a superhero (which I'm not) and I had a kryptonic weakness (which I don't), it would be cat posters with cutesy sayings.  I'm not talking about the kind of weakness that makes you give into temptation like having a weakness for chocolate or babies.  I mean the kind of weakness that makes you lose your temper or become irrationally irate.  Of course, can a hatred of cat posters really be called irrational?  I puts it to you, guv'nor. Back to Mondays.  More specifically, Mondays in London.  The problem with Mondays here is that they never seem to fully start or fu...

What do you call a familiar place you never thought would become such?  "Strangely familiar" is already taken.  Is "oddly familiar" too similar? It's  strange  odd to me that there are places all over the world that feel familiar.  I'm off to one now.  I believe this is trip #21 to London in the past three years.  I "lived it up" on my first trip, never expecting to return.  Now I know exactly what to expect.  I know the good places to eat, the places to avoid and the shortcuts for getting either to or from them. There is something missing though.  Thelma asked me on the way to the airport if anything about the trip excites me?  I couldn't come up with anything in the moment.  Could it be that London is losing its charm? Probably not.  It's the charm that has me excited.  But not much else. The more I travel, the less I become accustomed to the overwhelming feeling that I miss my family.  The romance of the road or skies is nothing compare...

I'm nothing if not a humanitarian, so here's a bit of wisdom. It turns out that true bliss costs $100 plus gas. I'm not talking about in-the-moment bliss like Whac-a-mole or just-passing-through Bliss like the town in Idaho or even temporary bliss like the 90 minutes after you've had really good Chinese food . I'm talking about lasting bliss. The kind of bliss you can still feel when you close your eyes at night. The kind you think about the next day—that gets better the more you think about it. It's not true love, but it's a clear second. Yesterday Thelma fell in love with the raw beauty of Lake Chelan. I fell in love with the raw power of a four-cylinder, 1052cc, 20-valve, 110-horsepower, liquid-cooled, wave-running dream machine. For five and a half hours, it was the only thing between me and the lake. Throw my boys on the back and I'm in liquid heaven. I'm not exactly certain where my enthusiasm for wave runners originated. It must be...