Not Ours to See

This is a photo taken in La Verne, California, in 1940. The woman is my grandmother, Grace Dunton Sellen. She’s holding Joann Dee Waite, her granddaughter. The little girl in front is my sister, Norma Jean Calder. It would take an expert to guess the time of year, but I like to imagine it is spring, and someone has asked to take a picture of Grace and her two grandchildren. I know she had others at the time, but they were all living out of state.

My grandmother at the time was younger than I am now. She had given birth to seven children, one still living at home. Three of her four daughters settled in or near La Verne, and their children grew up near Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The California families got together every Sunday, usually at that house, after church. It must have been a happy life for the ones that were capable of being happy. Unfortunately, it didn’t last forever.

My sister’s father abandoned her, and during the war she and our mother, Velma Eloise Sellen Calder, lived in poverty. After the war my mother married a second time, Norma became the third wheel. During her teenage years she was passed from home to home. In 1952 she was in a terrible auto accident, and the use of her legs was limited for the rest of her life. The boy driving the car married Norma out of a sense of responsibility. In short order Norma had three children, the last one just before her divorce in 1958. The children’s father disappeared, then another man appeared and disappeared, staying only long enough to help make a fourth child. Then they all disappeared. The last time I saw Norma she was wearing a wig, having lost all her hair to chemotherapy. She died soon afterwards from cervical cancer.

Joann Dee, later to be known as Jodee, developed brain cancer in her 30s. Operations extended her life, but diminished her cognitive ability. She died in 1993.

Two young lives, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that awaits them. It's scary.

Pharaoh and Minerva

For those of you that don’t know, I have two cats, Pharaoh and Minerva. I have a thing for “classical” or retro names for pets. In retrospect, I should have named them Yin and Yang.

I got Pharaoh for Christmas from my daughter a year and a half ago. I was very reluctant to own a cat or any other kind of animal. Vet bills are horrendous nowadays, and animals, unless they have a rich owner, die in gruesome ways. We have packs of coyote passing through my foothill neighborhood, and I had seen firsthand what happens to a cat that gets caught by a coyote.

But my daughter, whom I shall call “Ariel” (until she says otherwise), had confidence in me…...and she felt guilty about going to college up north and leaving me alone. She wanted me to get a cat.

I had specified that I were to get a cat, I would get a kitten. The last two adult cats I adopted had severe health problems, and I didn’t want to experience animal death again in the near future. Plus, having taught kindergarten, I knew how important it is to get in on the ground floor. I was confident I could “raise” a cat at least as well as I helped “raise” Ariel.

However, I had forgotten all about the cat discussion by the time Christmas came around. So I was jolted with surprise when Ariel brought him out Christmas morning.

I have to admit, he was endearing. He zigzagged all over the living room cluttered with open presents, empty boxes, and tissue paper and sampled everything, including the people and their breakfasts. I was in a state of shock. I wondered if I was going to be able to handle that kind of hyperactivity...he reminded me of some of the ADHD kids I had taught over the years. I made a comment about his short attention span, and Ariel’s mother remarked that it was more likely a sign of healthy inquisitiveness.

I decided that there were going to be some rules, much the same ones I would have for a three year old: No staying out after dark, you don’t go out after you get fed (unless it’s breakfast and I’m going to be around all day), don’t go far from the house, come when your name is called, you have to stay in the house if I’m out of town. I chose the name Pharaoh for him because he looked like an Egyptian cat statue I had seen, and I wanted to raise him like a prince. Also, the name has only two syllables and four phonemes, so it was easy for a cat to remember (as it would be for a three year old).

So the first night I had Pharaoh home he got out. He found a space with a loose board by the air conditioner. When I discovered his escape I ran out the front door, calling his name even though he didn’t know it yet.

He was lying calmly on the neighbors’ front porch, totally innocent and unencumbered, confident that no harm was going to befall him. I realized at that point that I could love this cat.

The months passed swiftly. I had to leave Pharaoh inside the house alone most of the day during the week, and I could he hated it. When I would try to put my shoes on in the morning, he would attack the laces with his claws, my fingers occasionally getting in the way. Once, when I told him goodbye on my way out the door, he hid his face behind a bookcase….just like an angry three year old that doesn’t want you to see him cry.

I decided that if I was going to have one cat, I may as well have two.

Minerva came from a litter of semi-feral kittens born on the back patio of a gated apartment complex. The woman who owned the mother cat was an idiot who let her unneutered cat run loose. When the kittens were born, the woman ignored them except to put out food.

The two cats took to each other immediately. Pharaoh treated her like a little sister, teaching her games, showing her how a cat is supposed to fight, even occasionally helping her groom herself. I named her Minerva because with her long, puffy fur she reminded me of pictures I had seen of 19th century women’s clothing. Minerva sounded like a 19th century name.

So now I have two cats with two disparate personalities.

Pharaoh is aggressive, confident, the alpha male of the five cats around out courtyard. I don’t think he’s ever gotten into a serious fight...the other cats just naturally defer to him. I think he learned good social skills at the shelter where he spent the first few months of his life; there he was allowed to romp and socialize with many other cats in a protected environment. Minerva is shy, although she makes cat (and squirrel) friends easily.

Pharaoh is an expert hunter who eats everything he kills--potato bugs, lizards, birds, and rodents. Minerva chases anything that moves, like most cats, but to my knowledge has never killed anything. Pharaoh likes to be petted when I come home; Minerva likes to be petted when I get in bed at night. Pharaoh prefers the warmth of the sunshine and is always the first one in at night. Minerva would prefer to stay out all night and sometimes needs to be bribed with Treats to come in when canned food isn’t enough.

Last winter I told someone that Pharaoh and Minerva were the best family I ever had. I realized this one evening when I was watching TV, Minerva peacefully asleep on the top of the couch, Pharaoh perched on the T.V. just like the cat statue. Just like a family, we are three different personalities doing the best we can together to make a household.

Can We Forgive Them for Being Stupid?

After all the government investigations, after all the scandals, after Mark MaGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, after all that has happened the past few years, Manny Ramirez still gets caught taking an illegal drug, gets suspended for 50 games and loses perhaps 9 million dollars in the deal?

There's only one logical conclusion. Jocks are stupid. I guess I knew that back in high school, but for some reason I never thought it applied to my favorite baseball players. Mickey Mantle, Don Drysdale, Willie Mays....they were heroes, not dumb jocks. They were better human beings than the rest of us.

Well, Manny finally put that notion to rest. Hell, I'm not even mad at him...I'm mad at the people who were supposed to take care of him. How can I get mad at a toddler who runs into the street when his mother should have been watching him? Alas, Manny didn't even have the intelligence to use a tiny fraction of his 25 million a year to hire someone to watch his ass for him.

I was right back in high school.

Why All the Fuss About Susan Boyle?

Enough already with Susan Boyle!!! Yes, she sings beautifully; SO WHAT? There are millions of people in the world that can sing just as well or better. In fact, any voice coach will tell you that anyone can sing like that with the proper training. The fuss about Boyle seems to be that she can sing beautifully yet is not beautiful herself.

Well, duhhh. Since when does physical appearance have anything to do with the capacity of one’s lungs and vocal cords to produce extraordinary music?

I think American Idol has helped create this mistaken assumption. For years I’ve been telling people who watch this show that you can walk into any karaoke bar any night of the week and see the same level of performance. It’s one thing to watch Idol for the entertainment value, although I’ve never found any; yet the slobbering masses continue to follow every episode as if something extraordinary is happening, as if it makes some difference in the long run who wins and who doesn’t.

Another factor that has shaped the public’s attitude toward music is Clear Channel, the company that controls what we hear on most of the radio stations in this country. For years they’ve been marketing talentless “divas”, like Celine Dion, Cher, Tina Turner, and Christina Aguilara and sugary bubblegum acts like Brittney, Miley Cyrus, and The Jonas Brothers to the point where people have forgotten what real music sounds like.

Or maybe the real decline of American popular music began with MTV back in the early 80s with the popularization of music videos and the emphasis on visual more than aural sensibilities. How much airplay did great acts like The Clash and The Blasters get compared to Madonna, Duran Duran, and The Thompson Twins?

If you want to compare how attitudes have changed over the years, go to Youtube and do a search for Kate Smith. She was probably the most popular singer in America during the 40s and early 50s, famous for her performance of “God Bless America”. She was also very round, the inspiration for Yogi Berra’s famous quote about how it “ain’t over till the fat lady sings”.

I suspect that many who grew up in that era are scratching their heads about our reaction to Susan Boyle.

A Lesson from a Boy

This is not a sports story.

This is a story of a boy who had a passion, like some of our own children. He was a good student in school, but he was a natural with a baseball, and his dream was to become a major league pitcher. By the time he was 15 he was considered the best high school pitcher in the country. Baseball America named him national Youth Player of the Year. He was expected to be a top draft pick in 2004.

Then, in a playoff game that year, his elbow popped, and he had to undergo reconstructive surgery. One major league team decided to take a chance and drafted him anyway...in the 14th round.

He didn’t quit. In the minor leagues he continued to rehabilitate his arm, and pitched with success until he reached the upper levels. He had a miserable season in AAA, and did even worse in three starts in the majors at the end of the season. He went home and spent the winter studying tapes of Nolan Ryan, Greg Maddux, and Sandy Koufax.

This spring his team had three starting pitchers on the disabled list. The boy pitched well enough to earn a spot on the major league roster.

Last Wednesday night he pitched six shutout innings against the Oakland Athletics. Everyone who saw him was impressed with how polished and confident he looked. His fastball was clocked at 94 MPH. He had fulfilled his dream.

A few hours later Nick Adenhart, promising 22 year old pitcher of the Los Angeles Angels, was dead. He was a passenger in a car that was broadsided by a minivan driven by a drunk driver.

Amidst all the sorrow and anger about a young life being cruelly taken, most people seem to have overlooked the lesson Nick taught us. A lesser person would have given up after the injury and told himself, “Well, I guess I can be a P.E. teacher.” Instead, Nick devoted all of his time and energy into achieving his goal.

We must live like every day is our last.

Were the Good Old Days Really That Good?

It's predictable. Whenever there is a media feeding frenzy over the latest child murder someone interviews a neighbor who makes a comment like this one (clipped from a news release about the arrest of a suspect in the murder of Sandra Cantu:

"Neighbor Barbara Sokoloski, whose home is behind Sandra's, described Sandra on Saturday as 'a friendly sweet little girl who always went around trying to find somebody to play with.'

'It's too bad that kids these days can't go out and play like we did when I was a little girl,' said Sokoloski, 69."

Wait a minute. I'm in my 60s too, and while it is true that parents were less reluctant to let their kids "go out and play" when I was a kid, I question whether this was because there was less of a perceived threat than an actual one. If a child was abducted and murdered it would certainly have made headlines all over the region. It would have been news on local television channels. It's doubtful that someone in New York would have heard about a child abduction/murder in California.

Today, on the other hand, people from coast to coast are constantly bombarded with details of the Sandra Cantu case on all two dozen cable channels that feature news, on the internet, on cell phones that display news updates, radio, and, for those that still read them, newpapers.

Then consider that the population of this country has almost doubled since I was a child. The rate of abduction/murders could stay exactly the same, but the numbers would be higher.

I have two points. The first is perhaps our parents weren't cautious enough. Yes, Beaver Cleaver's parents let him walk home alone after dark. They didn't have seat belts on their family car either. Ward smoked a pipe when his kids were in the same room, and I doubt that Beaver ever wore sunscreen.

The second is, worrying changes absolutely nothing. Just like in the "good old days" a parent can only take reasonable precautions and let their children have as much room as possible to learn and to grow.

Terrariums

I’ve had concerns about the future of life on earth since the first time I saw a terrarium, probably in high school.

It seemed to me that the perfect terrarium would be a miniature earth, a closed system where nothing comes in except sunlight, nothing goes out except heat, and all living things worked in perfect balance. The bugs in the terrarium I saw provided just enough carbon dioxide for the plants, which provided food and oxygen for the bugs. All of the water from perspiration and respiration condensed back into liquid for the organisms to use. Theoretically, the terrarium could stay viable indefinitely without any outside intervention. The University of Arizona’s Biosphere 2 is a large example of such a place.

I wonder, what would happen if those bugs had free will and an opposable thumb? Suppose the animals in the terrarium (I’ll call them territes) were consumers of dead and dying leaves who were suddenly given the intelligence and physical ability to manipulate their environment?

The miniature Eden would immediately be lost. The territes would quickly learn faster ways to access food other than crawling up a stalk or waiting for leaves to fall. Since more food was available, mommy and daddy territes would decide to have more maggots, or whatever. Soon their food-gathering technology can’t keep up with the population growth, and they discover how to cultivate. The population growth would continue. Finally the day comes when there is no more room for both territes and plants. The responsible territes start practicing birth control and eat no more than they need to nourish themselves; but some territes believe that birth control is a sin and others can’t control their impulses to eat food that is readily available. So the territe population continues to grow as the food supply starts to diminish. Out of desperation they start harvesting healthy leaves. Soon plants are leafless and territes are starving en masse.
The carbon dioxide in the air….well, you know that story.

It would make a great short animation.