Our Current Insanity

On Sunday, The New York Times ran a long article about the dangerous use of cell phones while driving. It featured a young man who ran a stoplight while on the phone and hit another driver, killing her. He was convicted of manslaughter and given community service.

You know what really gets to me? Sometimes this guy still uses the cell phone while he drives. He knows he shouldn't, but sometimes he just can't help it.

That's because he's an addict.

Lawmakers won't pass laws against cell phone use while driving because they know it will send the public into an uproar. Give up our phones while driving, even though we know that talking on a cell phone makes us more dangerous than drunks behind the wheel? Never!

We're all a bunch of addicts.

You can't sit in a waiting room or stand on the sidelines of your kid's soccer game without hearing the click-click-click of people checking their e-mails on the blackberries or Twittering or texting or talking away on their cell phones. When we were at the beach, I saw two lovely thirteen-year-old girls riding their bikes down the shoreline--and texting as they rode.

Yesterday, in Maureen Dowd's NY Times column, she cited a professor whose studies show that using digital devices gives the user a "dopamine squirt." Dowd wrote, "That explains the Pavlovian impulse of people who are out with friends or dates to ignore them and check their BlackBerrys and cellphones, even if 99 out of 100 messages are uninteresting. They’re truffle-hunting for that scintillating one."

I have this vision of the future where everyone walking down the street is texting or reading texts and everyone in the museum, the library, the restaurant, the school room, is doing the same thing. What am I talking about? It's already happening!

I find it all depressing. There's a lot about digital technology that I love. I love Google. I love Blogland and podcasts. I think that the communities that exist only online can be real communities, and I feel that my Blogland friends are real friends. But I fear what we're doing to ourselves with our devices when we can't turn them off even when we know it's dangerous to use them.

And I worry about those two girls, texting away on their bikes, ignoring the beautiful sunset taking place right beside them. What memories will they take into old age? What kind of life is it when you spend all your time seeking out digital connections but not real, live experiences? What kind of culture will kids who grow up spending all their time texting, instant messaging, and twittering create? What kind of art?

In Chicago I hung out with a dear friend who has strong feelings about institutionalized religion (he's agin it), and I'm not always crazy about it myself. But I do have to wonder if there's a connection between our collective loss of belief that life has a larger meaning than just satisfying our personal wants and needs and the way so many of us fritter (or twitter) our time away. I also wonder if our seemingly lack of awe about the universe is connected to our dwindling respect for the fullness of language (if u know wht i mean ;)) and the idiosyncrancies of lives lived locally, communally and in real time and space.

I don't know the answers to those questions for sure (though I have my suspicions). What I do know is, if you can't drive without talking, even though you're perfectly aware that you're four times more likely than someone whose blood alcohol level is .08 to cause an accident, you have a problem, and you need help.

We all do.

Back Again, Again

The older I get, the longer it takes me to recover from my travels. I got back from Chicago last Tuesday night and didn't feel myself again until Friday. My recovery was slowed somewhat by the fact that I felt like I was coming down with something, which is how I've felt all summer. I saw my doctor on Thursday, who is of the opinion that I have allergies. He suggested a daily dose of Claritin, and so far that seems to be helping.

Anyway. Chicago. It was a good trip. A few librarians squealed when they saw me and asked to have their picture taken with me. It turns out a little of that goes a long way, but who am I to complain? It was nice to be noticed.

***

The soap opera in our lives right now involves the nuptuals of an old friend of the Man's from college. Let's call him Bill. Bill is getting married. Again. And he wants the Man to be a member of the wedding.

When the request came last spring, the Man forgot the age-old rule, Never say "yes" to any request until you've thought about it for 24 hours. Say, "Wow, that sounds great, but I have to check with my _____ (wife, husband, therapist, personal trainer, priest, what have you)."

Thus last week the Man found himself on the receiving end of a xeroxed, two page, single-spaced letter from the 28-year-old Bride-to-Be (Bill is 43), filled with the precise rules and regulations for being a part of her wedding, including the requirement that all members of the wedding show up on site two days prior to the wedding to begin the preparations for the Most Important Wedding Ever.

Now, this would be bad enough, but there's more. Bill's first marriage was to a woman that the Man and I are both very fond of. We are also fond of their three children. We were appalled when Bill left his family a year-and-a-half ago because he no longer harbored romantic feelings for his (now ex-) wife. It went against everything we believe about marriage, fidelity and family.

So why did the Man agree to be in this second, monster wedding? Because he's a polite guy, and he was shocked that Bill was getting remarried so soon after his divorce and, quite simply, he did not have his wits about him when the request came.

Because the Man is all about personal honor, he won't let himself bow out now. But he's going to call Bill and tell him he can't come to town two days early. I suspect he will be dropped from the wedding party like a hot potato. He'll still attend the ceremony, which makes me happy, since I think it's going to be a big, honking freak show and I want to hear all about it.

And then I'll start taking bets on how long Marriage No. 2 lasts ...

Thursday Report

Spent an hour weeding the garden this morning. The beans and peas are over and done with. The lettuce is a distant memory. But those cukes and zucchinis just keep on coming and the tomatoes loom large.

I found a huge green caterpillar eating a tomato this morning. I plucked the tomato, caterpillar and all, and put it in a jar so I could show it to the Man later. I punched a hole in the lid. I don't know why. This caterpillar is my enemy. He's probably not even a caterpillar. He's probably a nematode in caterpillar clothing. He's beautiful and horrifying all at once. He needs to go, but I'm not an executioner.

The Man, on the other hand, will have no qualms sending the caterpillar to his doom. The Man speaks lovingly about how he'd like to take a shotgun to the rabbits out back (now that the rabbits are eating my flowers, I'm beginning to share the Man's zeal). He's not sentimental about critters. Or at least he talks a good game. Has the Man ever shot a rabbit or a squirrel or any living thing? No, of course not. Deep inside, the Man has a very soft heart.

But I do not believe his kindness extends to green caterpillars who eat our tomatoes.

***

I'm going to Chicago on Saturday and coming back Tuesday night. I'm going for the big, national library conference, where I will be a very small fish in a very big pond. I get a little nervous, thinking about how thoroughly I will be ignored as the librarians swarm around my much more famous peers. There is only one way to deal with this situation: Find the very shy people and be kind to them. We shy people need to stick together.

***

The children continue to sleep in. This is because they are staying up until all hours of the night. We send them upstairs to bed at a reasonable time, but they just can't stay put. Their throats are parched and dry--they must have water! Turns out that they forgot to each lunch, and now they're so, so hungry. Just a little snack?

It's time to come down hard. Only I'm going out of town, and the Man, Mr. Tough Guy, is a big talker with nothing to back it up. He sort of expects the boys will go upstairs at 8:30, brush their teeth, and settle into sleep without him even needing to bring up the subject. He gets caught up in his own projects and forgets bedtime. He decides that the boys really need to watch the big game.

But when I get back in town, I'm going to lay down the law. Serious bedtime routines will be imposed. Up at 8:3o, not to be seen until the next morning at ... 7?

Hmmm ... maybe I'll wait til we get closer to school. Because it's hard to beat a quiet morning in the garden.

***

If I don't get a chance to post before my trip, I'll see you next week, hopefully with all kinds of good stories about life in the big city. Wish me luck!

I'm Back

Actually I've been back for a week, but I came home from the beach with a bug and took last week pretty easy.

The beach was the beach. You get there and are overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. You frolic in the waves, recline on the shore, obsessively collect shells, even though you're not actually all that interested in shells. You feel the luxury of a whole week spread out in front of you where you don't really have to do anything but eat and read. It's bliss, it's wonder, it's what you've always dreamed of--

and by Wednesday, you're ready to pack it in. Every year's the same: you can't help but hit the Wednesday trough. By Wednesday, you've had a whole lot of family togetherness and the mood is beginning to sour. Voices are raised, threats are made, no one really likes each other, and getting down to the beach seems like an overwhelming project that may just not be worth the trip--

but by Thursday the crisis has passed. By Thursday you only have two days left, and suddenly you realize how you've come to take the beach for granted--how could that be? Thursday morning you wake up extra early to drink up all the remaining beach hours in. You take long walks along the shore and realize you haven't been in a car all week. What a treat, not to drive.

Friday is a mix of pleasure and packing. Saturday is a rush out the door to make check-out time on time (which is 10:30). On Friday night, the Man ran out to the little convenience store close to our rental house and saw folks leaving the island, their cars packed, and thought that was a genius idea. Enjoy a full day at the beach on Friday, pack at your leisure, throw the kids in the backseat around 10 p.m. and get gone. We're going to try that next year.

***

While we were at the beach, Will decided that he was a dog named Andrew. It turns out that Andrew, unlike Will, obeys commands. It's easy as pie to get Andrew to brush his teeth and put on his pajamas. Andrew is a dog who listens to his masters. We rewarded him with treats and a lot of head-scratching.

***

So the beach was good, but it's good to be home, especially if I don't open any closet doors. The state of my closets and the attic is dire, but it's really too hot to tackle them, don't you think? Yes, I know you do, and that's why I like you so much.

Tee Ball Mom

Somehow I have given birth to a jock. It's not that I'm unathletic--I played a fair game of tennis back in the day and wasn't immune to running long distances now and again--but I'm totally noncompetitive. I clutch in the clutch. I drop easy pop flies, miss simple shots. I have absolutely no game.

Will, he's got game. He is focused and assured. He's in the zone. He is six and king of the Tee Ball field.

Yesterday was his first game. I believe "organized chaos" would be overstating the case of what went on. "Anarchy in a Baseball Cap" comes closer. In Tee Ball, certain rules are relaxed. You can strike out, but it takes awhile. Three outs might or might not retire a side. Sometimes getting ten runs, one after another, retires the side.

It will come as no surprise to many of you that the parents are already out of control, even at this early stage. Okay, mostly the dads. My first sign of this was when the other side went up to bat. Our team--the Red Dragons--seems to be pretty laid-back, parental-wise. I liked that everyone clapped for every play, no matter whose team was up. That's the tee ball spirit! But when the Blue team came up to bat, the other side went wild. They were cheering and chanting. I think it psyched their guys out, quite frankly. The Red Dragons were victorious in the end, 17-15.

Of course, a score of 17-15 tells you everything you need to know about the quality of the defense.

Except, that is, for Will. I try not to brag about my kids too much in this space because it's unbecoming and nobody wants to hear it. Yeah, yeah, all our kids are geniuses.. But I'll brag on Will a bit, just because he's earned it. The kid is out back every day playing catch with his pitch-back contraption. He's fielding, he's throwing, he's batting. And I will say with some pride that the other parents were saying, "Who's that kid on third with the arm?"

"That's my boy," I said, mentally thumping my chest. My little jock.

***

We are off to the beach tomorrow. I'm thoroughly unprepared, so today--when the temperatures will be soaring close to one hundred--I'll be running around like a crazed person, buying groceries, washing clothes, and getting out the sheets and towels we'll need for our rental house.

I don't think our beach house has wireless, so I'll see you week after next, assuming I'm not eaten by a shark. Until then, be good, hug your children, and eat some good chocolate. You've earned it.

Some vague, rambling, unconnected stuff (i.e. what you've come to expect)

I don't know about you, but last night I was hanging out at a ukulele jam. Yeah, I took Jack down to the local fiddle and guitar shop, where a group of ten or so ukeleleists were putting their own particular spin on "Sewanee River," "You Take the High Road, I'll Take the Low Road," and that great old Elvis Costello tune, "(What's so Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding." Would you believe me if I said it was incredibly cool?

Ukulele jams definitely fit under the category of "Homemade Good Times." If I sometimes long for days when folks sat on their porches and chatted and played guitars and fiddles (and, maybe, just maybe, the odd ukulele), it's because there is something about making your own fun that's awfully, well, fun. And there are no commercials to sit through, nothing to make you cover the kids' eyes.

Do-it-yourself entertainment: the wave of the future?

***

Second fiddle lesson yesterday. Why is it that at home I don't screech or squawk at all, but as soon as I sit down in front of my teacher, it's like my fiddle has turned into an outraged chicken?

***

Saturday I took Will to a birthday party at another one of those birthday party warehouses, the kind with giant inflatables and kiddie slot machines. When it was time for cake and ice cream, we were led into a small room where a college student dressed like a basketball ref served the kids pizza. If I could have discretely slipped this kid a tip, I would have. He put up with a lot of smack and smart talk (including, I'm afraid, some from Will, who has unfortunately decided that he's a comedian), all with good cheer.

It reminded me of the various lousy jobs I had during summer breaks, including telemarketing and camp counseling. Telemarketing was the worst; I lasted three days. As I recall, being home during the summers when you're a college student isn't much fun in general. I quit doing it after my junior year, choosing squalid, un-air conditioned apartments with a multitude of friends over having a curfew and watching the 6 o'clock news while eating dinner on TV trays, the air chilled to a perfect and constant 72 degrees.

***

It is way too hot for June. So why have I started knitting a cardigan for my dad? Because Christmas is coming! Will this be the summer I actually get my Christmas knitting done by September?

Um, yeah, I think we all know the answer to that.

Philosophy 101

It's summer, and when it's summer my thoughts most often turn south. I live in the southeastern United States and spend a goodly amount of time in the Appalachian mountains, and when everything turns green I fall in love and start reading books with titles like Southern Belly: The Ultimate Food Lovers Guide to the South and All That is Native and Fine: The Politics of Culture in an American Region.

In general, I am a sucker for local cultures, regional foods, and old ways. When I practice my fiddle playing, it gives me a thrill to learn a song that people have been playing for hundreds of years. When I knit, I happily ponder the fact that folks have been knitting down through the ages.

I'm trying to work on a theory why this stuff intrigues me. Why do I enjoy being connected to the past? Why do I get excited when I read an article in the paper about a family-run barbecue joint in South Carolina? Why does the idea of a quilting bee or a knitting circle just tickle me pink?

I don't think it's nostalgia or being homesick for the home I never had (as Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum put it). I'm too old and cynical for nostalgia. The closest I've been able to get any sort of answer goes back to another question I've raised before in this blog (and of course has been raised since the beginning of time): What are people for? There is something about idiosyncratic self-expression--whether in the music we make, the food we serve, the socks we knit--that seems at the heart of it to me. Which means that mass produced culture is somehow antithetical to what we're supposed to be about.

These is the stuff I'm going to think about this summer while I'm knitting and fiddling and eating barbecue. If you have any insights, let me know.