A Time of Innocence

As much as I am ill at ease with much of what God (and Bill Gates, Larry Page, Sergey Brin and Marc Zuckerberg) hath wrought I do love how technology allows us to reach out and touch those with whom we had lost touch.

I'm thinking, maybe, the last time I saw Sara J she was Sara P, having moved up from V and was heading back to the Land of the Round Door Knobs. It was thirty years ago if it were a day and I believe it was longer than that. Yesterday, I saw her again-she was kind enough to take time off from visiting her family to cross the frontier from Central Massachusetts through Northern Connecticut to share some memories of mutual acquaintances and some not so mutual as well during lunch at La Stella Pizza.

When I arrived at American Forces Network Europe Headquarters in Frankfurt am Main in the fall of 1976 after a year in Sondrestrom, Greenland, Sara was a fixture in Bob M's Radio Command Information shop. She, Marge L., Norm H. and Brian B. (with whom I still correspond) were the shop. Norm was nominally 'in charge' as he was the highest ranking military person in the room but if you wanted it done, and done creatively, whatever it was, you gave it to Sara and she did it.

I can recall a Halloween radio drama she wrote and produced from scratch with evil and awful afoot at "Moot Point (!)" "Where?" "Never mind." Probably right down the narrative from Rising Gorge, another of her geographic inventions to propel her Wellesian homage on its way. She was Marsha to Rik D's John (or without the H? Memory fades) and she was Connie Rodd of PM Magazine who delivered double entendre about dual exhausts in sultry tones that probably caused the wax in Army tank mechanics' ears to harden.

I was always more than a little intimidated by her. She lived so intensely and so out loud she made the rest of us seem like we were beige footwear in an era of argyle anarchy. Over pizza and soft drinks yesterday on the hottest day of the year so far, we reviewed and refreshed the catalog of nearly-lost recollections-Trevor became Trent and Leslie's husband Benny became, rightly so, Barry. Neither of us can recall what became of Shelby, so if you're reading this Shelby W, roger up, okay?

She's a mom and a grandma who has logged the miles and months in far off places where and when her children have needed her and returned home to The Other Coast because that's where her heart is. I hope I'm not overstepping when I say that, and she is so charming I can forget she's a Red Sox fan. I just can't forgive it.

And next time, assuming one of the two of us follows through and invites Lee (and when did that become my job anyway?) we'll have ourselves quite a Hot Stove League with the Mirthful Mr. Met. As it was, yesterday was just about perfect, though not picture perfect and we didn't miss that either as who needs a photograph when you have your memories.
-bill kenny

This is Real

I rail a lot, probably too much, about how we use and abuse technology for less than noble purposes. That is, instead of using connectivity and convergence to further collaboration and attack and overcome pandemics like world hunger, poverty and drought, we send one another knock-knock jokes or write brave little screeds about how we waste the potential of our tools. Oh dear, that was awkward.

Moving right along. I met someone on line yesterday who is a Facebook friend of someone (else) who is a Facebook friend of mine, whom I shall never meet. He, in turn, is a Facebook friend of someone I did meet, once years ago. None of us are the same people we were when we met, or didn't back then or now. I shan't meet yesterday's new friend either because they live in Ghana which I had to look up to learn anything more than don't call it The Gold Coast (an inside joke for us Connecticans that is often too hip for the room) and because FB friends are like morning dew in daylight.

They used to live in Canada and how they came to be in Ghana is, with a variation of destination and destiny, much the same tale each of us has as to how we got to where we are without ever addressing the why. The story intended to put one at ease, however, creates more questions than it answers but though it is probably fiction that's not the larger point.

We all know people from on line communities who used to live elsewhere, except we don't really know. What we've done is made the acquaintanceship of others on line who've told us they are from somewhere else and we've chosen, to a point, to accept those stories, or not..When all is said and done, nothing is said or done. Round and round goes the gossip and fills up the day. I think I see the point of no return on the road sign up ahead.

I'll assume on occasion, like me, you have difficulties making flesh and blood (F&B) friends-the Facebook (FB) kind are rarely the same people as in 'real life.' It's the struggle to keep the realms separate and the ability to know when they can be joined that makes so much of what we do and who we are as interesting and intriguing as it is and not just another ghost that slips right through your hands. And whatever we learn today is equal parts history and mystery by this time tomorrow when we start again.
-bill kenny 

And Now It's Down to this?

Yesterday afternoon our son, Patrick, sent me a FB site with "9 Classic Calvin and Hobbes Strips" or something like that-one of the many places devoted to the two Reformation thinkers who manifested themselves as Bill Watterson's creations a lifetime ago, for some of us.

I mention that to give you a starting point and will not speak of it again, at least today (I hope). One of the panels involved Calvin telling a story in school about how deer were hunting humans, employing all the turns of phrase that outdoors men use in explaining why they killed Bambi. Of course, Calvin using them in the manner in which he is prompts a request for a parent teacher conference and Calvin's folks are seen at the breakfast table trying to figure out who went to the last summit.

Having been the child in the household who was suspended for laughing at the teacher (a nun) in sixth grade and who was suspended for fighting in the recess yard in seventh grade (I think I was suspended twice; once for fighting and the other for losing the fight though after that my antagonist became my buddy), I can relate and more.

Of course, I tell these tales now because when our children went to school, their mom had a get out of jail free card, "I went to Deutsche Schule" so her other continent educational experience wasn't held against her. While my Mom and Dad raised crazy children, they didn't raise stupid ones so I figured my chances of keeping our two unguided missiles on the proper trajectory would disappear entirely if I 'fessed up to being the malicious miscreant I actually was.

Yes, I became the parent who walked six miles in the snow uphill in both directions every day to school, even on Saturday and Sunday, because my father was too poor to afford weekends (was never sure how well that played with either of our kid, but they were and are very polite so I skated), who always did all of his homework, and everyone else's, at least when I was telling the story and whose teachers wept at the end of each school year when I graduated to the next grade and class.

And that was true as far as it went. They wept for joy because I was gone, but tears are tears whatever the reason and sometimes truth is the first casualty of parenting if you want to avoid a new error.  
-bill kenny

I Can't Stop Puttin' On Other Peoples' Clothes

Blame it on Friday the 13th though for me it marked the end, not a contributory factor to, an egregiously long and especially awful week. The days dragged and nights sped by-I have no idea what happened or why and as happy as I am that today is Saturday, I'm sad because it makes Monday that much closer.

About the only good thing that happened this week was this. And I'm not sure I can explain to you, or to myself, why I think that is. Hope you enjoy.
-bill kenny

Does a Black Cat See His Own Reflection

There are over seven billion of us currently alive here on The Big Blue Marble. I don't pretend to know the quality of those lives, though I suspect there are peaks and valleys amongst and betwixt and a fair number of 'doing okay" folks mingled throughout the population

I didn't conduct a survey or graph a trend on that response based on counting the answers to my favorite casual questions, 'how's it going? or it's separated at birth parsed twin 'how are you doing?" mainly because these are space and time fillers. We don't listen to each other when we answer those questions and rarely actually listen to each other when asking them. It's a dance routine, a verbal hokey-pokey and we turn ourselves about.

Point in fact, suggests more and more writing from behaviorists, sociologists and communications specialists, despite having technological wonders to serve as threads to bind us to one another and to the fabric of our society, we are more alone than at any time in recorded history. Read this by Stephen Marche in The Atlantic (my very favorite magazine of all time) and see if you don't agree with more of his points rather than fewer.  

That I'm sharing it in this form and through this venue sort of proves his point, and saves us both a lot of face to face awkwardness, me especially. The ankle bracelet goes off when I leave the county and the judge says if he catches me out on the street again without the required international emergency orange protective vest walking at least twenty paces behind the flagman with the siren, he's revoking bail and taking away my birthday. I've got a feeling this is the year for the pony ride so I am treading carefully.

But kidding aside (and that's what most of the above paragraph was), instead of recognizing how often we are all in the same boat, we decry the size of the ocean. Or like Hamlet, be bound in a nutshell and never recognize the beauty of this world with which we have surrounded ourselves as we continue shuffling along with the lost and remaining lost in the shuffle.
-bill kenny

The Wisdom of Sister Jean

As a child going to Saint Peter's (sic) School in New Brunswick, New Jersey, I hadn't started out with nuns as teachers, the Sisters of Charity (but with very little towards anyone in their classrooms), but with Mrs. H. in third grade followed by Mrs McG. in fourth.

After that, perhaps because we had already been confirmed so our amateur eligibility as Catholics was exhausted, we had Sister Thomas Anne in fifth, Sister Rosita in sixth, an entirely different Sister Thomas Anne in seventh (only her hairdresser knows for sure) and Sister Mary Jean in eighth grade.

We weren't a whole lot better in her eyes than those mission babies for whom we were forever collecting, except, for the most part, we had shoes (that she hectored us to keep clean and shined (boys only)). And like all creatures NOT (yet) in a religious order, we were NOT (ever) to be trusted. I don't imagine any religion has a minimum height requirement (though I don't recall any Pygmy Krishnans) but Sister Mary Jean would have been close. Actually, she was already close-as in closer to the floor than farther away.

Her job was to take children in eighth grade and make them into young adults ready to attend high school. She was very good at it though with us, it took everything she had. But of all of the crosses she had to bear, the hardest one was gum chewing. Gum to us was what cigarettes were for our folks-an activity that happened almost anywhere at almost any time.

When Sister Mary Jean caught a student chewing gum (and her hearing was so keen she could detect the sound of foil-covered paper being slipped off a stick of Bill Wrigley's Finest at thirty paces during a thunder storm), she would loudly demand of the miscreant: "Do you have enough for everyone?" Since no one ever planned on getting caught, the answer was whatever "doh!" sounded like in 1966.

That would mean the following school day, we would all be treated to gum after lunch, recess and a return to the classroom because the offender would have to bring in gum for everyone. Coming across this story, I thought of Sister Mary Jean and how wise she was to have lived when she did. She subscribed to our Mom's favorite axiom, "don't ask the question if you can't stand the answer" and how, this time, she would have been silent, sullen and stunned. It's preferable to the alternative.
-bill kenny           

Swearing Quietly

In the words of Bob Dylan, "Money doesn't talk, it swears." And this time last week, lots of people across the region, to include residents of Norwich, who've been quietly (and not so quietly) suffering from economic hard times, had plenty to talk about as next fiscal year's municipal budgets were unveiled to somewhat less than rapturous reviews..

Misery loves company and to read the on-line comments, listen to some of the call-in reaction on local radio and speak with neighbors, there seemed to be plenty of misery to go around. Here in Norwich, the City Manager's proposed budget of $113.4 million would, if approved as presented, precipitate a tax increase of just under 5%, causing howls of disbelief mixed with protest from residents and property owners.

It was probably of very little solace to any of them in learning their neighbors in New London were suffering even greater sticker shock as their Mayor's proposed $87 million budget would require a nearly 20% tax increase.

Monday night, the City Council held its first public hearing on the proposed budget. I think it's safe to assume all involved in the process, from the City Manager through the alderpersons to the various city department employees, and, most importantly, the residents, understand nothing is ever eaten as hot as it's served, and the proposed budget is just that, proposed.

The Council has already started conversations with the various city departments on why they asked for what they requested. There was a session last Tuesday evening with Public Works and Public Utilities among others and there's more next Tuesday, the 17th, to include a presentation by the Mayor on Economic Development that may be of more than casual interest followed by an early morning session next Saturday, the 21st, in the Taftville Volunteer Fire Department, with emergency management and public safety.

There's a meeting with the Board of  Education on its requested budget, as well as what the City Manager proposed, scheduled for April 26th, before the City Council holds its second public hearing the middle of next month, May 14th to be exact.

It's important that your voice is heard but as important that what you have to say is informed and factual. By the time this season is over there will be enough shouting and pointing for everyone. You don't need to get loud-what you need to do is improve the quality of your argument, be it pro or con. Start by getting copies of the proposed budget here (for the Cut to the Chase summary) and here (for the unabridged version of the full budget). I don't know where you can get extra parentheses (), but you're welcome to those two.

It's more than a good idea to attend the various meetings the Council is having to better understand what the various departments do and how they benefit the city. For instance, I did not know Public Works makes all of our street signs-I hadn't lost a lot of sleep worrying about it, but it was a reminder to NOT take things for granted. Also, did you know Public Utilities has its own space program? Or that one of the two preceding sentences was fiction?

If you had attended last Tuesday's session, you'd know which. See you at the launchpad. Bring Tang.
-bill kenny