Duck Soup

I'm writing (and perhaps posting) this on Tuesday evening, rather than the usual Friday morning, for I'm going to the hospital tomorrow morning for a carotid endarterectomy. (Lord, I hate any medical condition that I can't spell!) The carotid arteries, which carry the necessary juices to the brain, tend to get clogged, and as a result of living high on the hog for too long they now need to be purged, cleaned out.

Ten years ago or thereabouts, I had the right carotid reamed out, and since then the doc's been keeping an eagle eye on the left side. It's been serious enough to watch carefully, but it's now reached the critical stage and the surgery isn't really elective. So tomorrow I'll show up at glorious pre-dawn hour of 5:45 to jump through the necessary pre-surgical hoops, have the two hour operation around 7:00, and then spend that night at the hospital "for observation". I trust that doesn't mean they'll apply restraints! Which brings me to the real source of my discomfort about this surgery business.

It isn't the pain, for I expect that if there is some of that I'll get a pill or a shot to deal with it. It isn't the hassle, for that minor inconvenience is more than outweighed by the benefits. No, it's being out of control that I don't like. The whole deal is a living demonstration of powerlessness: they put me in a strange room, take away my clothes, tell me when and what to eat, inquire about all sorts of rather personal information, and then in the ultimate demonstration of powerlessness, they put me to sleep.

As a surgical patient, all I do is what they tell me I can do, and I have precious little imput to make in that process. This is not a participatory event or a debating contest, and once signing into the hospital I abdicate any suspicions that I might be in control. One of my brothers is a fine neurosurgeon with a twisted sense of humor: the night before surgery he tells the patient, "Don't worry, this will be duck soup...[dramatic pause]...and you're the duck."

I take great comfort, even in the midst of all this, in the awareness that this sense of being out of control has happened to me before, a couple of times in fact, and accepting the reality of my powerlessness has always, always, resulted in good things. Like so many of us, I live most of my life with the foolish delusion that I'm in charge, that I can handle things, that I'm in control.

Of course I'm not, not in things pertaining to the bottom line, which in this case means that I can either (1) retain control and eventually stroke out, or (2) surrender to being out of control and let the medics take care of me. The medics, that is, and God. So once again, I think I'll be the duck and take option 2. It always works.



P.S. I'm now home reuperating on Thursday, be posting on Friday, and the NCAA finals play out over the weekend, then Major League Baseball begins. How good is that?

Fanatics and Fans

"I used to be a Pirates fan," said the lady at a baseball game, "but they've done so poorly the past couple of years I don't pay any attention to them any more. Maybe when they start winning again I'll go back to the games."

Now I ask you, what kind of a "fan" is that? Hasn't the word itself evolved from "fanatic"? Nor was this just an isolated instance. The Atlanta Braves, once America's Team and the team I've followed for many years, has had a marvelous run of 14 consecutive division championships, an incredible record that's not likely to be soon broken. It requires an amazing degree of consistency and skill in this era of free agency to continue to win at that level for 14 long baseball seasons, and I was proud to be one of the many around the country who claimed to be a fan of the Braves. But last fall, after they had a "bad season" (which meant they didn't win the championship) the so-called fans left them like leaves from an October tree.

Nor is just a phenomenon of the pros. Here in Wilmington the UNC-W men's basketball team has over the years had a great team, winning far more than they lost and generating lots of excitement among their fans. They've been to the NCAA "Big Dance" four times, twice to the NIT, and last year they were 25-8 and conference champions. Everyone went crazy about the Seahawks. Now, after a 7-22 season, they might as well be call the Vultures, and the seats which had been packed for years suddenly became empty.

So what's happened to fans? Is it a matter of being fickle, or is it just not cool to root for a team that doesn't win? Is being a fanatic a bad thing?

Drop this idea up (or down!) a notch, and think about what's happening to our Episcopal Church. We've always prided ourselves on being a community of faith that stuck together, no matter what. During the Civil War, for instance, when every other non-Catholic church in this country was dividing into northern and southern camps, the Episcopal Church remained united. Sure we had "high church" and "low church" and "broad church" and all those fuzzy groups, but when push came to shove we stuck together and worked in unity. It's not too much of a stretch to say that for generations we've all been "fans" of the Episcopal Church, no matter what.

Years ago (I'm talking the early 1960s) the Episcopal Church was facing a major crisis revolving around how we were going to deal with the reality of racially integrating our Church. Those were painful days as we struggled with reparations and regrets, anger and apologies, and out of that struggle emerged something called the General Convention Special Program in which we all, high church and low church, black and white, traditional and avant-garde, agreed on what we had to do and how we were going to do it together.

Those days are history. Today if there's something you don't agree with (chose one: new Prayer Book, choir in the back balcony, female clergy, ordaining or marrying homosexuals, the rector's new haircut, all of the above) you're gone as fast as a Pirates fan.

I'm not sure if it's a matter of loyalty or discipline or keeping promises and vows or maybe even just being "stuck", but mark me down as one who's a fan of baseball, a fan of the Braves, and a fan of the Episcopal Church. Being a fanatic's not all bad.

Carnival's here!

Ann's been a good sport over the years, agreeing to go along with most of my wooly-headed schemes. Most of them. Only twice, in all these years, has she vetoed any of my remarkably creative ideas. One was the time I wanted to get a Gold Wing (or some other big motorcycle) and bike across the country so we could go to a church convention in Los Angeles; it seemed like a good idea to me, but my thinking was quickly clarified on that scheme.

The other was the time I wanted to get in our motorhome and go to work for a carnival, traveling with them and selling Funnel Cakes or running a Hoop Toss game around the USofA. Great way to see the country, I said, plus get to live a slice of life we'd otherwise never know. That seemed to me to be a pretty good idea, too, but it got the same crystal clear response: "Noooo, we aren't going to do that".

But don't let me give the wrong impression: that's only two vetos in over 50 years of being togther. Countless times she's gone along with what turned out to be some pretty off-the-wall ideas, always resisting the "I told you so" comment when the mountain highway turned into a narrow dirt trail or the frozen calamari became a rubbery inedible. I've certainly no complaints. On the contrary, I'm forever grateful to be with a wife/friend/partner who's enjoyed exploring the other side of the mountain as much as I do.

Yet when the carnival comes to town, as it did this week, I couldn't resist a visit. I slowly meandered through it as the guys were setting up the trailers and rides, took a few pictures, and played with the "what if?" question. I suspect we all have those "what if?" moments, times when we let the imagination go back to the Big Fork in the road: what if I'd gone to another college or stayed in school instead of signing up with the Marine Corps or taken that parish in Phoenix or whatever.

Again, don't get me wrong. I've led a charmed life and wouldn't want to change a thing, not a single thing. I have been profoundly and repeatedly blest, and I'm supremely happy.

Yet every now and then, especially when the carnival arrives in town, the thought occurs to me, as in some sense it occurs to us all, "What if?".

Florida

I have this love/hate relationship with the southern part of Florida, where we're now spending a couple of weeks. Our agenda for this trip is to enjoy some spring training baseball games, visit a few gardens and art museums, soak up the warmer rays, visit my brother and wife, and generally enjoy a change of pace in our lives, all pretty good ideas. But there's something about this place that gives me the willies.

The best news about Florida, it seems to me, is the climate. If you can manage to be somewhere else during July, August, and September when the heat and humidity are absolutely paralyzing, it's a great place to live. Those who live here year round, generally recognized by their leathery skin, are quick to point out this feature, but when asked what else they like about Florida there's more discussion of the weather. Of course there's always spring training for four or five weeks, and some will point out the absence of a state income tax, but that's a charade; states will get what they need one way or another, no matter how it's disguised. No, it's the climate that's the big draw down here.

My parents, for reasons none of us have ever really understood, pulled up some well-planted stakes and left Chapel Hill (a.k.a. the southern part of Heaven) for the unknowns of St. Petersburg. We're talking here about intelligent, well traveled, healthy adults, who enjoyed the Florida climate for nine months of the year and then either became air conditioned hermits or visited family "up north" during the heat waves. But I'm showing my bias.

What we all love about Florida is the climate. Every day it's warm and pleasant and, well, boring. Which brings me to the things I hate about Florida, and I guess you can understand that at the top of the list is that relentlessly boring climate. Tediously boring, except for hurricane season, which is another negative to be explored some other time. But I have some other "issues" with Florida.

It's not only the climate that's boring; check out the geography. It's flat. Endlessly flat. Don't be misled by places named Bay Hill or Mt. Dora or Glenvar Heights. Florida is flat.

Then there's the architecture, which seems to objectify boredom. Everywhere you look it's always the same one storey, stuccoed cottages with tile (or faux tile) roofs and screened porches or endless rows of single and double wides in "Ranch Estates" or somesuch, with the view broken only occasionally by a garish pink palace complete with minarets and palm trees.

Of course it's crowded and the traffic is a mess, but that's pretty much true everywhere along the coast, so we won't hold that against them. Except that here it's aggravated by the driver in the '93 Chevy Caprice going about half the speed limit with the left turn blinker saying, "Pass me if you dare!"

But boring, crowded, rootless southern Florida has the weather! That's why we keep going back.

Ten Most Influential (Con't)

Following up on the first five, published in the 2/16 blog, here's the rest from my personal Hall of Fame...

Charles Harrison -- Not exactly a household name, unless you happened to be an English major at Sewanee in the '50s and '60s, when he ruled that kingdom with an aristocratic hand and cultured voice. He was the most elegant gentleman I had ever encountered, who taught as though he had just come from conversations with Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. They were on a first name basis. From Dr. Harrison (we called him "Chuck", but certainly not to his face) I was introduced to the beauty and rhythms of the English language, and, far more importantly, I learned how to read, slowly and thoughtfully, savoring each word, each sentence construction, as jewels in a crown. Truly a gift that keeps on giving.

Robert Frost -- Although we never met, I did hear him read his poetry one evening at Oberlin and heard him often on records and audio tapes. While the intricacies of poetics has always escaped me, I'll never forget being introduced to his powerful use of ordinary words and simple sentences. Frost is often put down as a "popularizer" of poetry, and while in the Higher Realms of literature that may be true, his clear voice remains with me still, down through these years. Besides which, he was one helluva baseball player.

Cliff Stanley -- Another of my teachers (interesting to note how many of the Top Ten are teachers), Dr. Stanley looked like Billy Graham, had a voice like Moses must have had, and taught Systematic Theology with a winsome sense of humor, no small feat. From him I learned the value of theology not as a musty set of rules but as a part of my faith and life. We'd often sit around his living room in the late afternoons (he was my faculty advisor in seminary), sipping on too strong coffee while he led us deeper and deeper into integrating theology into our lives, learning how to "think theologically".

Fr. Joe Martin -- He came into my life in the early '80s, shortly after it became apparent to me that alcohol was really calling the shots (unintentional pun) for me. A Roman Catholic priest and a recovering alcoholic for many years, Fr. Martin was a powerful, engaging, clever, and profound speaker, as well as a humble man who once said to me as we were parting (for the last time, as it turned out), "Bob, keep praying for me." He spoke of the power of this disease, both for the individual and the family, with a clarity and a passion that went right to my heart. I still do pray for him.

Sgt. McCaffrey -- I suppose he must have had a first name, but I've no idea what it was. What I do know is that he was my D.I. during the three summer months I went through boot camp at Parris Island, SC. Our whole platoon considered means of getting rid of him as he pushed us to the limits of physical endurance, taught us that there was a right and a wrong way to (among other things) fold underwear, and that discipline had something to do with learning. Years later we met again, at a bar in southern California, and I discovered the delightful man who was so hidden back then.

These then, are my Top Ten, whose influence has shaped my life. Perhaps on another day, another year, the list might be different, but for today this is it.