Saw an article in the Wall Street Journal a few days ago regarding some former CEO/banker who having been dismissed from his rather lucrative employment in March 2008 has been living off his serverance and savings since then. The rather staggering thing about the subject of the article was his absolute incapacity to deal with changing circumstances (still paying 2 kid's tuitions at private schools at 13K a pop, giving up Starbucks for a 7Eleven coffee run (and adding up saved money on recycyled cups without taking into account getting into the car every day for coffee) because nobody in Maryland uses a coffee maker; wife still doesn't work (even with a set of professional credentials) because the jobs offered didn't extend enough consideration to her child rearing schedule in original family life (apparently unemployed hubby can't watch the kids)). Really staggering display of a total incapability to deal with anything outside of the very comfortable lines drawn in his earlier existence. This got me to thinking (yeah, I know, big surprise).
We pray for deliverence, but want to quiz the messengers. Sometimes we want to know the motives of "the calvary" before we agree to ride out with them.
Two weeks ago, I dodged a bullet for reasons that truthfully elude me. I suppose the reasons don't really matter, but sometimes when we survive unfortunate events our thankfullness is also seasoned by some humility (it didn't have to work out like this, and the world would have little noted or cared if it didn't). So, as to my original question on whether the higher quality of mercy is "not strained", I guess it doesn't make any real difference. We live to fight another day and best keep a sharper eye out, the next time we may not be so fortunate.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Have Faith
Early stage modification trials are in place with both Bank of America and Aurora Loan Service for our mortgage loans, but American Express is potentially complicating the outcome with their filing of a key derogatory against my gold account with them (seemingly not in conformance with the negotiated agreement we had). As usual, correspondence to address the issue and disposition are pending. On the positive side, the IRS approved the 1040X we filed for our 2004 return which resulted in a sizable (and timely) refund. Thanks is due the Tax Payer Advocate office in Plantation. Still, the ultimate conclusions at this stage in time are still impossible to predict with any sense of certainty. Yet I still "believe" things will work out. The facts supporting that belief are more nebulous than the belief itself. And yet. . .
Facebook has been a useful tool for me to organize my thoughts and start writing again (I'm more of a blogger than a twitter user), but sometimes an unexpected observation from acquaintences almost forgotten does help clarify things in an unexpected manner. An old HS friend describes his religious orientation as "Not superstitious". I like that because I think it addresses the core issues in what we really mean and need to consider when we make these generic statements about belief and faith. In this summer of change and challenge it brought to mind conversations I had a long time ago.
While an undergraduate at Columbia, I had slowly started to drift from attending services at the church I grew up in. I thought the pastor was some type of dispirited warped scholastic (his expression of faith seemed to be more in tune with the repeated performance of ritual than anything else). His family appeared to be a mess; his sons didn't appear to respect him; his attention seemed to be consumed by the small political intrigues of even smaller people, who led thoroughly unremarkable lives even by the standards of my hometown. So, I attended when Mom and Dad asked on religious holidays and began a mental walkabout among the questions in my own mind, which concerned themselves more with the vageries of one doctrine versus another and questions of text translation accuracy. I took courses in religious studies with Elaine Pagels at Barnard, Catholic Theology Post Vatican II with Ewert Cousins at Columbia, and spent some free time at the Union Theological Seminary Library exploring the different theorized editiorial voices in the Book of Job. It created a sense of smug satisfaction with the depth of my inquiries, answered nothing, and perhaps confused a third person analysis of the sublime and mystical with questions I refused to verbalize.
Somewhere during that time I spent an afternoon with Pastor B, who delivered the eulogy at my grandfather's funeral (with a delightful Musto Catholic/Protestant schism just barely contained for the day). Pastor B's eulogy was elegant and thoughtful, and drew me into starting a conversation with Pastor B, who I don't believe was more than 10 or 15 years older than me. So we talked on a long ago Sunday afternoon regarding the seemingly contradictory voices of the Book of Job. Pastor B in a nod to my geeky undergraduate presence and ego, complimented my scholarship, and said, "I would like to ask you a question first, if that's Ok". I agreed, and Pastor B asked me, "Do you think God exists?". I looked at him sitting there with his clerical collar and black shirt on (yet so different from other ministers I had known until then) and didn't respond fast enough for someone sure of that answer and he knew it. We talked further, but I left that day for a religious sabatical that covered four years and a parallel existence I don't believe anyone would characterize as christian in nature.
I'll probably write more on this, but when I next entered a church I was mainly convinced Pastor B's question could be answered yes because I had come to believe our sentience and complexity could not be viewed as the probabilistic outcome of evolution driving biological mechanisms. I also found resonance with the concept the author of our existence would not be succored by our petty sacrifices and attempts at embracing any moral code. Redemption of creatures who are both divine and depraved would best be achieved by the grace of their creator. Ironically, this belief, as Montaigne pointed out so many years ago, could not be argued definitively, and was forced to reside in the house of personal faith.
So, while I wait for conclusions to reveal themselves and continue to lead my life, I choose to "Have faith", recognizing that choice is impossible to defend with a rigorous proof, and yet is still a reflection of of an intuitive core belief of mine.
Facebook has been a useful tool for me to organize my thoughts and start writing again (I'm more of a blogger than a twitter user), but sometimes an unexpected observation from acquaintences almost forgotten does help clarify things in an unexpected manner. An old HS friend describes his religious orientation as "Not superstitious". I like that because I think it addresses the core issues in what we really mean and need to consider when we make these generic statements about belief and faith. In this summer of change and challenge it brought to mind conversations I had a long time ago.
While an undergraduate at Columbia, I had slowly started to drift from attending services at the church I grew up in. I thought the pastor was some type of dispirited warped scholastic (his expression of faith seemed to be more in tune with the repeated performance of ritual than anything else). His family appeared to be a mess; his sons didn't appear to respect him; his attention seemed to be consumed by the small political intrigues of even smaller people, who led thoroughly unremarkable lives even by the standards of my hometown. So, I attended when Mom and Dad asked on religious holidays and began a mental walkabout among the questions in my own mind, which concerned themselves more with the vageries of one doctrine versus another and questions of text translation accuracy. I took courses in religious studies with Elaine Pagels at Barnard, Catholic Theology Post Vatican II with Ewert Cousins at Columbia, and spent some free time at the Union Theological Seminary Library exploring the different theorized editiorial voices in the Book of Job. It created a sense of smug satisfaction with the depth of my inquiries, answered nothing, and perhaps confused a third person analysis of the sublime and mystical with questions I refused to verbalize.
Somewhere during that time I spent an afternoon with Pastor B, who delivered the eulogy at my grandfather's funeral (with a delightful Musto Catholic/Protestant schism just barely contained for the day). Pastor B's eulogy was elegant and thoughtful, and drew me into starting a conversation with Pastor B, who I don't believe was more than 10 or 15 years older than me. So we talked on a long ago Sunday afternoon regarding the seemingly contradictory voices of the Book of Job. Pastor B in a nod to my geeky undergraduate presence and ego, complimented my scholarship, and said, "I would like to ask you a question first, if that's Ok". I agreed, and Pastor B asked me, "Do you think God exists?". I looked at him sitting there with his clerical collar and black shirt on (yet so different from other ministers I had known until then) and didn't respond fast enough for someone sure of that answer and he knew it. We talked further, but I left that day for a religious sabatical that covered four years and a parallel existence I don't believe anyone would characterize as christian in nature.
I'll probably write more on this, but when I next entered a church I was mainly convinced Pastor B's question could be answered yes because I had come to believe our sentience and complexity could not be viewed as the probabilistic outcome of evolution driving biological mechanisms. I also found resonance with the concept the author of our existence would not be succored by our petty sacrifices and attempts at embracing any moral code. Redemption of creatures who are both divine and depraved would best be achieved by the grace of their creator. Ironically, this belief, as Montaigne pointed out so many years ago, could not be argued definitively, and was forced to reside in the house of personal faith.
I think we're kidding ourselves if we believe we can progress to the arguing of the relevancy of various theological doctrines, if we can't answer some of the basic questions first. As for Pastor B, my understanding is he died of AIDS some years ago, along with his lover, an excellent ER doctor, who in one of those weird six degrees of separation moments, was also the instructor for the cardiac section of the paramedic course I took in NYC during 1979-1980. I suppose, with no irony intended, if the answers can be known, Pastor B could provide them now. Still, in the loss of two really talented individuals (one who I considered a good friend and sounding board) it's hard to see the hand of a loving God. I suppose I've come to believe the anthropomorphism we indulge in characterizing actions we believe should fall under the domain of an omniscent and onmipresent God say more about us than (him?). Which simply brings us back to the first question Pastor B presented me (or perhaps the type of God we would have).
So, while I wait for conclusions to reveal themselves and continue to lead my life, I choose to "Have faith", recognizing that choice is impossible to defend with a rigorous proof, and yet is still a reflection of of an intuitive core belief of mine.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
In Memoriam
He wasn’t planned for (by me). I had just completed nearly 9 years of employment with PC’s PED group in Upstate, NY (future boss in initial phone interview during 1990: Uh, you know we’re in upstate NY. Me: Oh, yeah, sure (matter of factly, before getting to Upstate County, where as I informed people years later we had more cows than people). PC was getting out of the OEM business, and simultaneously, the N2N business. It was the first time I had left a job I had no plans on leaving from. Fortunately, my new boss, a recently minted PhD from Cornell, informed me my failure to pay attention to the outplacement councilor provided by PC was yet again another example of my failure to be a Cornell graduate student. I informed M as politely as I could that ship had sailed and concluded my last conversation with him for the rest of eternity.
I left PC with about 3 months in severance pay, a 28 week horizon for NYS unemployment benefits, a wife still working on her undergraduate degree and tending to her dying mother in Phoenix, Arizona and 3 young children who needed meals, clothing and reassurance the world was not ending. I was depressed and viewed my future with an attitude somewhere between anxious and panicky. J came back from Arizona, and after a less than stirring home coming at Syracuse airport, informed me we were getting a standard poodle because she had always wanted one (black if possible, due to some obscure aesthetics requirement). Apparently, with a finite cash supply, we would buy a puppy, and without a job to occupy my waking hours, I could focus on training said dog while looking for a new job. It was totally inane and worked out perfectly.
He was the family dog and a companion to all (even if he seemed slightly addled sometimes). We crate trained him and in the late spring of 1999 he was my constant companion in the 3 season room which served as my office and where I eventually found employment with J&J further upstate. His crate was the safe place where he would bark at us and then retreat within because that was his safe place.
He loved walks and winter runs and rides in the van once we got him past the car sickness which troubled him as a puppy. During J's spring commute from Rochester to Syracuse to finish her BSN, Moses would ride along and then nap in the car while she attended her classes. He knew his pack and , I think, in his dog society, I was the alpha dog. He brought a toy to the door to greet any family member returning and liked laying on a bed where he could watch the street. He loved smells; whether flowers, or sheep manure, it was all good. For more than a few years he was my running companion. The sight of my shorts or sneakers, or the shaking of his collar was enough to bring him running. He was devoted to his pack members, but would let someone else investigate a stranger first (as long as they presented no threat) and would first be seen by visitors peering around behind J at the top of the stairs.
He loved removing wrapping paper from anybody's gift, but then expected to retain something for himself, whether a glove, or slipper, or stuffed animal. He would go at stuffed animals until the squeaker was removed and then seemed to feel amiss it was broken so fast and would take more time when another toy presented itself. He became a traveling companion and traveled with us to vacations in North Carolina and Florida.
In life, death waits for us all. It advances inexorably, not with patience, or rectitude, but simply with the certainty of a cannonball’s trajectory in Newtonian physics. Some days we watch the slow deliberate arc in the sky, and some days we don’t, although I believe as Shakespeare said (I think), “Like the sun, no man should stare at his own mortality for too long.” Moses received chemotherapy for his lymphoma at CS Animal Hospital. Median survival time with treatment is about one year (Moses received the short version of a treatment protocol for canine lymphoma developed at the University of Wisconsin Veterinarian School). Twenty percent make it to two years. Moses’ remission lasted for 1 year and 10 days. The same treatment could be repeated with the same drugs for a second round, but median survival time was now 6 months. A long time ago, a doctor who lectured on the public health impact of asbestosis for a Sierra Club working group I belonged to told us statistics were lives with the tears wiped away. With my stats background I simply believe the house not only has the advantage, but ultimately wins every hand. Never bet against death.
In Moses last year (6-7 human years?) we enjoyed our time with him all the more due to our realization of it's very palatable limits. The chemo drugs had little noticeable effect on his temperament and he was soon back to his normal idiosyncrasies. The boys, aware of the endgame, took him walking or skating every night before bed. Ultimately, he would sit and stare at them on the couch every evening if the normal activities had not been concluded, and certainly refused to accompany Mom to bed if he hadn’t had his constitutional. He would run with a chew toy, or ball, into the backyard and bark for people to come play with him. Someone always did. I reflexively greeted him with, "Hi, good boy", because it always invoked a tail wag.
His last night was really hard because we wanted to give him and us every minute possible, but understood what the last treatment was. His breathing was increasingly noisy as his lymph glands pressed in on his larynx and the prednisone giving him little relief from the tissue inflammation. He waited for J to come back from Arizona. He was unable to sleep comfortably and roamed about our bedroom. On his last full day he couldn't be bothered to eat or drink. Upon rising the next morning, he did drink and pee and laid out in the grass under the palm tree in the fenced yard he loved and protected. During that last night, I think he had a seizure about 4:00 and I knew we couldn't continue this. His muzzle was now twice normal size with the lymphoma clogging the lymph glands along his jaw.
I had talked originally talked about Moses life expectation with Dr. L almost two years ago, and now, after that original horrifying diagnosis last year the moment appeared to be upon us. Was there still time? Should we have waited longer? The boys had said their goodbyes and the last ride was done. Moses paced the room and then laid down as the vet techs prepared his last IV. In calculus, there is always the last delta T before we complete our approximation of f(x), but limits in the real world are not asymptotic eternally. Moses ate some special last meal with some gusto, and I'm filled with doubt. Did we misread his condition. Dr. L says no, he would have told us.
Running in upstate NY with Moses, late winter and his collar jingling, and stop
Barking for us to come out in the yard and play, and stop,
Running downstairs to see if he can ride along on our errands, and stop,
Climbing off the bed next to J as I come into our bedroom at night, and stop,
The last delta T, and stop and then just memories.
That last delta T for Moses will stay with me until my last day comes. The first drug hits Moses and he turns back to me as I stroke his back and looks at me as he surely has a 1000 times, and wags his tail and lays his head down in J's lap. I can't tell him "Good boy", because I can't talk and anything that would come out of my mouth would be convulsed and I don't want him to hear that in his last moments. J convulses in sobs and keeps repeating, "Oh, look how handsome you are", and I hold onto to her because there is nothing I can do, the children J bore us are grown, I'm no longer 20 myself and our family pet is dying in my wife's arms. Moses quietly stops breathing and for the first time in a month, a room with him in it is quiet, except for the quiet sobs of J, Dr. L and myself.
It is now almost three weeks since that morning, and I miss Moses quiet, but constant companionship, as does everyone in the house. Still my shoulder appears to be healing and there are things I need to attend to beside my memories. The personal things of his are gone, and the reusable ones are put away because I believe if things stay on the path they appear to be there will be another dog in our life and hopefully the boys can help train him (or her) during the summer. Moses made me realize I will always like having a good dog as a companion. Moses ashes sit in a small box with pawprints on it with a small plaster cast of his pawprint in the corner of our bedroom. I think about their disposal (St. George Island?), or getting a small urn, but for the present time J keeps them in the small plastic wrapped box in the small plain plastic shopping bag we received them in next to her dresser and refuses to let me place them out of sight. Considering my original opinion of her dog deliberations it does not seem like a large request to honor.
I think Moses taught us it was a good thing to be a good dog with the other dogs in your pack, and it was a good thing to ride and run with the other dogs and smell those things which had any type of scent. I will miss him, but also will remember that in my heart I'm a dog person with my own pack, and my pack knows me as well as I know them and we all depend upon each other, each playing the role assigned by birth and other accidents of fate. And of Moses final trip, I believe Moses, who could barely wait to clear the next ridge at any given time, has run ahead, but we follow the same path.
I left PC with about 3 months in severance pay, a 28 week horizon for NYS unemployment benefits, a wife still working on her undergraduate degree and tending to her dying mother in Phoenix, Arizona and 3 young children who needed meals, clothing and reassurance the world was not ending. I was depressed and viewed my future with an attitude somewhere between anxious and panicky. J came back from Arizona, and after a less than stirring home coming at Syracuse airport, informed me we were getting a standard poodle because she had always wanted one (black if possible, due to some obscure aesthetics requirement). Apparently, with a finite cash supply, we would buy a puppy, and without a job to occupy my waking hours, I could focus on training said dog while looking for a new job. It was totally inane and worked out perfectly.
Moses the young dog.
He was the family dog and a companion to all (even if he seemed slightly addled sometimes). We crate trained him and in the late spring of 1999 he was my constant companion in the 3 season room which served as my office and where I eventually found employment with J&J further upstate. His crate was the safe place where he would bark at us and then retreat within because that was his safe place.
He loved walks and winter runs and rides in the van once we got him past the car sickness which troubled him as a puppy. During J's spring commute from Rochester to Syracuse to finish her BSN, Moses would ride along and then nap in the car while she attended her classes. He knew his pack and , I think, in his dog society, I was the alpha dog. He brought a toy to the door to greet any family member returning and liked laying on a bed where he could watch the street. He loved smells; whether flowers, or sheep manure, it was all good. For more than a few years he was my running companion. The sight of my shorts or sneakers, or the shaking of his collar was enough to bring him running. He was devoted to his pack members, but would let someone else investigate a stranger first (as long as they presented no threat) and would first be seen by visitors peering around behind J at the top of the stairs.
He loved removing wrapping paper from anybody's gift, but then expected to retain something for himself, whether a glove, or slipper, or stuffed animal. He would go at stuffed animals until the squeaker was removed and then seemed to feel amiss it was broken so fast and would take more time when another toy presented itself. He became a traveling companion and traveled with us to vacations in North Carolina and Florida.
Moses at the beach.
In life, death waits for us all. It advances inexorably, not with patience, or rectitude, but simply with the certainty of a cannonball’s trajectory in Newtonian physics. Some days we watch the slow deliberate arc in the sky, and some days we don’t, although I believe as Shakespeare said (I think), “Like the sun, no man should stare at his own mortality for too long.” Moses received chemotherapy for his lymphoma at CS Animal Hospital. Median survival time with treatment is about one year (Moses received the short version of a treatment protocol for canine lymphoma developed at the University of Wisconsin Veterinarian School). Twenty percent make it to two years. Moses’ remission lasted for 1 year and 10 days. The same treatment could be repeated with the same drugs for a second round, but median survival time was now 6 months. A long time ago, a doctor who lectured on the public health impact of asbestosis for a Sierra Club working group I belonged to told us statistics were lives with the tears wiped away. With my stats background I simply believe the house not only has the advantage, but ultimately wins every hand. Never bet against death.
In Moses last year (6-7 human years?) we enjoyed our time with him all the more due to our realization of it's very palatable limits. The chemo drugs had little noticeable effect on his temperament and he was soon back to his normal idiosyncrasies. The boys, aware of the endgame, took him walking or skating every night before bed. Ultimately, he would sit and stare at them on the couch every evening if the normal activities had not been concluded, and certainly refused to accompany Mom to bed if he hadn’t had his constitutional. He would run with a chew toy, or ball, into the backyard and bark for people to come play with him. Someone always did. I reflexively greeted him with, "Hi, good boy", because it always invoked a tail wag.
His last night was really hard because we wanted to give him and us every minute possible, but understood what the last treatment was. His breathing was increasingly noisy as his lymph glands pressed in on his larynx and the prednisone giving him little relief from the tissue inflammation. He waited for J to come back from Arizona. He was unable to sleep comfortably and roamed about our bedroom. On his last full day he couldn't be bothered to eat or drink. Upon rising the next morning, he did drink and pee and laid out in the grass under the palm tree in the fenced yard he loved and protected. During that last night, I think he had a seizure about 4:00 and I knew we couldn't continue this. His muzzle was now twice normal size with the lymphoma clogging the lymph glands along his jaw.
Moses last week.
I had talked originally talked about Moses life expectation with Dr. L almost two years ago, and now, after that original horrifying diagnosis last year the moment appeared to be upon us. Was there still time? Should we have waited longer? The boys had said their goodbyes and the last ride was done. Moses paced the room and then laid down as the vet techs prepared his last IV. In calculus, there is always the last delta T before we complete our approximation of f(x), but limits in the real world are not asymptotic eternally. Moses ate some special last meal with some gusto, and I'm filled with doubt. Did we misread his condition. Dr. L says no, he would have told us.
Running in upstate NY with Moses, late winter and his collar jingling, and stop
Barking for us to come out in the yard and play, and stop,
Running downstairs to see if he can ride along on our errands, and stop,
Climbing off the bed next to J as I come into our bedroom at night, and stop,
The last delta T, and stop and then just memories.
That last delta T for Moses will stay with me until my last day comes. The first drug hits Moses and he turns back to me as I stroke his back and looks at me as he surely has a 1000 times, and wags his tail and lays his head down in J's lap. I can't tell him "Good boy", because I can't talk and anything that would come out of my mouth would be convulsed and I don't want him to hear that in his last moments. J convulses in sobs and keeps repeating, "Oh, look how handsome you are", and I hold onto to her because there is nothing I can do, the children J bore us are grown, I'm no longer 20 myself and our family pet is dying in my wife's arms. Moses quietly stops breathing and for the first time in a month, a room with him in it is quiet, except for the quiet sobs of J, Dr. L and myself.
It is now almost three weeks since that morning, and I miss Moses quiet, but constant companionship, as does everyone in the house. Still my shoulder appears to be healing and there are things I need to attend to beside my memories. The personal things of his are gone, and the reusable ones are put away because I believe if things stay on the path they appear to be there will be another dog in our life and hopefully the boys can help train him (or her) during the summer. Moses made me realize I will always like having a good dog as a companion. Moses ashes sit in a small box with pawprints on it with a small plaster cast of his pawprint in the corner of our bedroom. I think about their disposal (St. George Island?), or getting a small urn, but for the present time J keeps them in the small plastic wrapped box in the small plain plastic shopping bag we received them in next to her dresser and refuses to let me place them out of sight. Considering my original opinion of her dog deliberations it does not seem like a large request to honor.
I think Moses taught us it was a good thing to be a good dog with the other dogs in your pack, and it was a good thing to ride and run with the other dogs and smell those things which had any type of scent. I will miss him, but also will remember that in my heart I'm a dog person with my own pack, and my pack knows me as well as I know them and we all depend upon each other, each playing the role assigned by birth and other accidents of fate. And of Moses final trip, I believe Moses, who could barely wait to clear the next ridge at any given time, has run ahead, but we follow the same path.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
And spring rains will come . . .
Years ago, when first certifying for my Red Cross lifeguard certification, I had to get in the water with the adult water safety instructor at the St. Joseph HS swimming pool. The idea was to basically stay in the water with him and get him to the side while he tried to hold you under water. The end result was a staged scenario holding your lifeguard certification (and summer employment) hostage to some type of WWF reenactment in 10 feet of water. I got through it (although I did see one gal burst into tears outside the pool room door waiting for her turn to "recertify"). The event was really the first time I realized there were some fights I wasn't going to win, but how I accorded myself was as important as the final score (this or something like it was what was coming to me as I struggled to hang on to consciousness underneath "John?" who probably outweighed me by close to 75 pounds at that time). Of course shortly after that I took up judo at the YMCA to at least improve my odds in some circumstances.
A month ago after walking through my financial records in Quicken for the umpteenth time, I suggested to J we start paying mortgage payments with money we actually had as a way of acknowledging we have been burning money faster than we've been making it ever since the job at J&J concluded over two years ago and encouraging our two mortgage servicers (ALS and BoA) to modify our mortgages (sometimes the cash in my wallet was the only cash we had available until the next payday). The reality is the house we bought in September 2005 has lost about 40% of its purchase price value and we can't afford to capitalize the entire loss and deal with a loss of 40-50K in annual compensation. Frankly, in the worst case scenario, I can't imagine foreclosure would be any more costly to us in real dollar terms (principally destruction of our credit rating and it's recovery over the next seven years) than the presently unsubsidized loss we're looking at due to the decrease in house value. So here we are again and I'm just hanging on with the understanding I'm in a really nasty fight with some very real consequences.
Both banks are in conversation and appear to be encouraging, but I've been in the water with heavier, more experienced opponents before, so I'm not under any illusions. Meanwhile, Moses continues his slow decline with my understanding the lymphoma will eventually spread to his vital organs and we'll have to end his suffering (or better stated, conclude it when it really starts to affect him). Other diversions; I've learned turbochargers cannot be separated from an inline 6 and expect the engine will behave (labyrinth seal failure, hand cleaning of the thin lumen oil risers to the turbocharger, cleaning out the oil sump and replacement of the turbocharger will cost us about $1700 and I simply can't replace the car right now), and J's father had a series of MI's this past week (J is in Phoenix tonight with her sisters helping to coordinate her Dad's care and explain the treatment options and their implications).
Not really much to say with all of this except sometimes you have to take your opponent to the mat and give your best. We've done that before and suspect we'll have to do it again (although I sometimes wonder if I will always believe we can pull the rabbit out of the hat).
Nice things: we've completed all financing arrangements for the boys' schooling over the next year and we're far enough into this that I believe both boys will complete their undergraduate educations with a minimal amount of debt. J and I finally got the opportunity to have dinner out in celebration of our 25th anniversary and her 50th birthday. It's ironic, but even with all the challenges, we're in better shape as a couple and happier with each other than we’ve been in years. I’ll miss not sharing a bed with her over the next few nights.
A month ago after walking through my financial records in Quicken for the umpteenth time, I suggested to J we start paying mortgage payments with money we actually had as a way of acknowledging we have been burning money faster than we've been making it ever since the job at J&J concluded over two years ago and encouraging our two mortgage servicers (ALS and BoA) to modify our mortgages (sometimes the cash in my wallet was the only cash we had available until the next payday). The reality is the house we bought in September 2005 has lost about 40% of its purchase price value and we can't afford to capitalize the entire loss and deal with a loss of 40-50K in annual compensation. Frankly, in the worst case scenario, I can't imagine foreclosure would be any more costly to us in real dollar terms (principally destruction of our credit rating and it's recovery over the next seven years) than the presently unsubsidized loss we're looking at due to the decrease in house value. So here we are again and I'm just hanging on with the understanding I'm in a really nasty fight with some very real consequences.
Both banks are in conversation and appear to be encouraging, but I've been in the water with heavier, more experienced opponents before, so I'm not under any illusions. Meanwhile, Moses continues his slow decline with my understanding the lymphoma will eventually spread to his vital organs and we'll have to end his suffering (or better stated, conclude it when it really starts to affect him). Other diversions; I've learned turbochargers cannot be separated from an inline 6 and expect the engine will behave (labyrinth seal failure, hand cleaning of the thin lumen oil risers to the turbocharger, cleaning out the oil sump and replacement of the turbocharger will cost us about $1700 and I simply can't replace the car right now), and J's father had a series of MI's this past week (J is in Phoenix tonight with her sisters helping to coordinate her Dad's care and explain the treatment options and their implications).
Not really much to say with all of this except sometimes you have to take your opponent to the mat and give your best. We've done that before and suspect we'll have to do it again (although I sometimes wonder if I will always believe we can pull the rabbit out of the hat).
Nice things: we've completed all financing arrangements for the boys' schooling over the next year and we're far enough into this that I believe both boys will complete their undergraduate educations with a minimal amount of debt. J and I finally got the opportunity to have dinner out in celebration of our 25th anniversary and her 50th birthday. It's ironic, but even with all the challenges, we're in better shape as a couple and happier with each other than we’ve been in years. I’ll miss not sharing a bed with her over the next few nights.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Auld Lang Syne
A weekend well-positioned for considering the ramifications of "woulda, coulda, shoulda" and bookended by two movies I enjoyed which also complemented the aesthetic, "Into the Wild", and "Up". "Into the Wild" was Sean Penn's movie of the Jon Krakauer book of the same name chronicling the last years of Christopher McCandless and his ultimate death in the bush country of Alaska. Chris was a well-accomplished, sometimes gregarious, student athlete who allowed himself to be consumed by his self-developed form of ascetism (particularly with regard to material possessions and money). Ultimatedly, this vow took him to a rather isolated portion of Alaska where his rigidly enforced self-dependence created an environment where simple logistical mistakes (lack of supplies, inability to call for help, lack of knowledge of the back country) created a fatal trap with no escape. The irony of Chris's demise is compounded by the fact that in the movie, as in real life, he seemed to have realized a basic error (happiness is shared and his relationships, perhaps, had as great a value to him as his "code"). From my perspective, his larger sin was one of "hubris". He was as much part of the human fabric as any member of his family, and limited by the same physical constraints limiting us all. In the end, his beliefs simply did not have the same capacity to affect his well-being as much as the simple facts of the reality he dwelled in ("There's more under heaven and earth than there are in your philosophy Horatio").
The second movie, "Up", seen in the theatre with J, chronicled the winter adventures of an elderly man who has lost his lifelong love to disease and is haunted by the fact he never delivered on his promise as a young boy to that same young girl he would accompany her on the adventures she fantasized about. Genius thing about the Pixar folks is how they can make a kiddie movie, but also an adult tale about loss and coming to terms with your life. Here, our protagonist, Carl, thru the post mortem discovery of a note from his dead wife, realizes he may not have been as big a failure as he feared. Here again, I don't think we can separate ourselves via our beliefs (or fears), from the real music in our life.
Postscript. Our canine companion of the last 10 years, Moses, appears to have his lymphoma redeveloping. With the costs we incurred in his chemo treatment last summer and fall, and the decreasing effectiveness of a second round (same drugs with a median survival time of 6 months), we can not reasonably pursue another course of treatment and I fear he will likely not see the fall. So for Moses in the winter of his life, who simply experiences and who I shall miss, he's a very good dog.
The second movie, "Up", seen in the theatre with J, chronicled the winter adventures of an elderly man who has lost his lifelong love to disease and is haunted by the fact he never delivered on his promise as a young boy to that same young girl he would accompany her on the adventures she fantasized about. Genius thing about the Pixar folks is how they can make a kiddie movie, but also an adult tale about loss and coming to terms with your life. Here, our protagonist, Carl, thru the post mortem discovery of a note from his dead wife, realizes he may not have been as big a failure as he feared. Here again, I don't think we can separate ourselves via our beliefs (or fears), from the real music in our life.
Postscript. Our canine companion of the last 10 years, Moses, appears to have his lymphoma redeveloping. With the costs we incurred in his chemo treatment last summer and fall, and the decreasing effectiveness of a second round (same drugs with a median survival time of 6 months), we can not reasonably pursue another course of treatment and I fear he will likely not see the fall. So for Moses in the winter of his life, who simply experiences and who I shall miss, he's a very good dog.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Governors, Love, Forgiveness and God
Mark Sanford continues as governor of South Carolina after concluding God's plans for him include him finishing out his elected term as governor. Apparently Mr. Sanford's proffering of himself in his weakened leadership state while advancing his legislative agenda and reclaiming his rightful position as family patriarch (although I'm not sure how his wife views his running off to Argentina within a week of her asking him to leave the family domicile), is the redemptive path God has in mind for Mr. Sanford. Meanwhile, certain post-feminist elements of the mainstream media seem to find a certain allure in the fact Mr. Sanford may have simply fallen victim to "eros" (nothing so crass as an ill-considered affair).
Without wanting to be simply contrarian, I suspect the truth is somewhat more nuanced. Mr. Sanford (at least as of this morning) seems to have a little bit more history in this "activities" area than original reports were willing to credit, and I can't help but see the outline of a furtive grasping of a life and reputation which must be hard to relinquish given the perks alone. As for Mrs. Sanford, she appears more tough minded and pragmatic than I normally expect with someone who shares any type of passion with anyone (I think it's ironic we are often the most susceptible to the greatest passions when we are most vulnerable.). I would guess the home fires have been banked for some time in the Sanford residence.
Of course, while reclaiming God's mantle for ourselves, I was reminded of David's liason with Bethsheba. I don't think anyone would disagree the event was one of the central events of David's life and God forgave David. He also struck that first child of David and Betsheba dead. That's probably a little bit too "Old Testament" for us today.
Without wanting to be simply contrarian, I suspect the truth is somewhat more nuanced. Mr. Sanford (at least as of this morning) seems to have a little bit more history in this "activities" area than original reports were willing to credit, and I can't help but see the outline of a furtive grasping of a life and reputation which must be hard to relinquish given the perks alone. As for Mrs. Sanford, she appears more tough minded and pragmatic than I normally expect with someone who shares any type of passion with anyone (I think it's ironic we are often the most susceptible to the greatest passions when we are most vulnerable.). I would guess the home fires have been banked for some time in the Sanford residence.
Of course, while reclaiming God's mantle for ourselves, I was reminded of David's liason with Bethsheba. I don't think anyone would disagree the event was one of the central events of David's life and God forgave David. He also struck that first child of David and Betsheba dead. That's probably a little bit too "Old Testament" for us today.
Fun things to do.
I've followed a number of blogs for some time, but usually as a lurker (with an occasional comment). I'm most intrigued by our lifes and those things that happen to us and how we respond. I'll also admit a certain reticence about the knee jerk uses of ideologies of any stripe to justify our actions and inactions (not that there is anything wrong with justification). I also like to write to help clarify my thoughts. So, here is my blog, Rightofthekeys, my impression of life from southern Florida, in a location somewhat north of Key West, where the warm waters of the Carribean swallow everything without prejudice.
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