Missing Lunch

I check the clock and it is a little after eleven, which means lunch. It is nothing fancy today, but I am thinking about the leftover pasta and couple apples waiting for me. the apples are still in the red net bag, but there were only two left, so I dropped them both, with the bag in my black lunch bag. I am not sure what kind of apples they are, maybe Empire, but they are crisp and have just a hint of honey flavor. Refreshing and sweet. The pasta will be in a vented Tupperware dish, clear and black, but the pasta is where it is at. It is an Italian sausage, spinach, red sauce and cheese concoction my wife. Made based on a recipe from the Chew. It was awesome yesterday, but something about leftover pasta, when the flavors have mingled and enhanced, is magic.

I don't even make it out of my seat before I am delayed. Perry calls and he wants me to look at some strange behavior on his computer. I tell him I'll come take a look, as I need to head that way to get my lunch anyway. "Thank you, boss," he says. I'm pretty sure he is the only one who calls me boss, he's probably up to something. Anyway, I go see him, the thing is not a big deal and I am off to lunch.

Not so fast. Next the Interns, who see that I am nearby, stop me and ask about adding columns to a pivot table. I walk them through the process and then talk a little while about the project. Use these number to break out your work. Every breakout needs a process. You make a dashboard by adding this kind of column. On I go. It distracts me for a few minutes, but when Emily and Dylan are ready to get back to work, I head to the refrigerators.

There are two refrigerators in our the small kitchen area that most of the third floor shares. This leads them to be constantly over filled. This morning, when I put my lunch in, I had to figure out how to get my black lunchbox wedged into place. I did it, but it wasn't pretty. In the kitchenette is a tall, black woman from Quality, who is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. I make small talk, but don't even slow down.

When I open the door I think it is in, I see the fridge is still pretty full, but I don't see my lunch, but I also don't even recognize the the place I had put my lunch. I bashfully look at the coffee woman, and go over to the other fridge. It get's me no better results. No lunch, no recognition of the place I put my lunch. This time, though I look at little deeper. I move things, look to the back, root around. I don't get it. Back to fridge one, to root around there. I decide it is not there.

Maybe someone else who brings a black lunchbox grabbed it, not knowing. I begin walking the floor, peeking cube after cube. Nothing.

Ok. Perhaps I'm remembering lunches past. Maybe I left my lunch in my cube when I started up my computer in the morning, or maybe I left it in the car. At this point, I just want the lunchbag and dish back. It is not in my office and, after a short walk I realize it is not in my car either.

Standing in the lot, I realize I have no lunch and no certainty if I go back in and keep looking I will find it. So, trying to make the best of the situation, I drive to China Express and order General Tso's Chicken.

Double Standards

When I was growing up I was very lightly aware that my Dad and his mom did not always get along. I knew that they both had, we'll say dynamic, personalities, but that didn't really explain the annoyance my father felt by something she had done, kept doing. Over time what I gathered was, my Dad felt it was always on him to call, always on him to visit, but his mother did neither for him. I didn't know what this behavior was called, or why it was, but I could see his point. "The phone works both ways," he would say.

Looking back to those long ago days, I am aware of several things I didn't conceive of then. First, my grandmother must have rationalized not calling. She had a reason. It might not have been good, but everyone who has a double standard has a reason. It could be as simple as she didn't want to bother him, or didn't like calling or some other thing, but whatever it was, it was there. Second, when faced with this double standard, my Dad could dismiss it, try to figure it out, call it out or mimic the behavior in an attempt to show the disparity. Third, I was learning, at a very high level, how many people work. How sometimes, in spite of myself, I would work.

At work I have a partner area I work with all of the time called BCU. They are an incredibly talented group of folks, but if you want them to do anything for you, you have to fill out one of their ridiculous, complex, overly long forms. I'm not sure if they are a deterrent, if they really need all of that data or if they are just really bad at making simple forms. Hate them. I would burn them in. The parking lot, if I didn't need them to get things done. Recently, we have implemented a control process to better the tickets which are submitted for the system we work with every day. Part of this is filling out a one page form. Every area I work with fills out this form, doesn't find it problematic, understands what it is for. That is, every area except form BCU, which has informed us they don't fill out that form. I remain controlled, but escalate the problem.

There was many a Friday night in high school, where I would pace until I was completely wrapped up in the long phone, curly phone cord. I was calling person after person making arrangements for the weekend. Whose house could we go to? Who could make it? Who needed a ride? What game would we be playing? I was calling everyone, arranging everything. I loved it. I never felt put upon. This was a role I enjoyed. What I never considered was anyone else. I assumed they loved having something to do being arranged for them, but this might not have been true. That thing I said was my role, could have been my rationale for a double standard. No on called me on it, I don't know is anyone cared, but I was blind to even the possibility? How do you even know if it is your role vs. setting one expectation for yourself, which is different than what you hold others to?

How do you do it? When are you beIng bossy vs.when are you playing the role people want you to play?

I usually keep the double standards I see to myself. I know people don't mean to be this way. I know they have a rationale, or think it is just a role thing, or aren't even aware. I'm struggling though. I have a few friendships recently where I have run into this wall where I progress as peers and suddenly the same person asks me about my kids doesn't want to be asked questions about theirs. Where the same person who doesn't call me reads something into me not calling them. Where the same person who wants me to open my door a little wider, actively, clearly, closes theirs. I know none of these things are done with an intent to be malicious. I doubt there is any perceived double standard. I know all of this will pass, but there is a part of my father in me that wants to shout, "The phone works both ways."

Pushing Cinnamon

It seemed in high school I always knew the kids who were selling Blow-Pops or Bazooka bubble gum. I'd see the big boxes bought from PACE or Sam's Club peeking out of their unzipped backpacks, or sometime even boldly placed on their desks and watch the sales. They were slick, while others were reading or solving math problems, they would be taking quarters for gum filled suckers. A dollar or two an hour, more at lunch. I never bought from them, but I wanted to be them. I wanted to make that bit of extra money during the school day. I wouldn't have a job for another year or two, so this would have been huge for me. Money, in my mind, meant freedom.

The next time my Mom went to PACE, rather than dodge going to the store, as I often did because of my Mom's love to reveal intimate details of my life to complete strangers, I told her I would go with her. I was looking for product.

The store was four stories of gray, concrete, fluorescent lights and enormous boxes of product. This was where you could buy Blow-Pops 100 at a time and candy bars by three or four dozens. We spent too much time looking a cereal and lettuce, Kool aid and frozen chicken. Eventually, when I could take it anymore, I asked if I could go look at the boxes of candy. With a brief explanation of my plan to get rich off my fellow students, she agreed.

I didn't want to compete with the things that people were already selling, so I thought candy bars would be ideal. Twenty dollars for plain chocolate, Thirty dollars for a box of 36 king sized Kit Kats. The math wasn't working out. No one would spend a dollar for a Candy Bar. My dream was slipping away. My Mom had gotten everything she came for and I left with nothing.

I chewed on this few a few days, while I looked for my product. I wanted it to be mostly profit, easy to sell, no competition. It was about this time, I found Hot Pix. They were these little packages of small square toothpicks, which were cinnamon flavored. They seemed to last a long time, they had just the right amount of heat. It was like a fireball. Perhaps this would be my product.

Over the next few days, whenever I had the house to myself, I would experiment. Cinnamon powder baked onto toothpicks, not much flavor. Cinnamon in water, with the picks soaking in it. Wrong flavor, a little bitter and not strong. Add sugar and it cots the bitter, but it was still wrong. I was missing something.

I don't remember the reason, but my Mom was going to Bulky Foods, which was a store I never dodged going to. Not because my Mom was less "friendly", but because Justin and I usually got a little but of candy. I love the gummy bears from Mr. Bulky. So, after picking over chocolate disks and gummy worms, breathing in the aerated sugar and enjoying the multicolored candy goodness, we got in line. Then I saw it. In a small rack, but the checkout was all of these little bottles with flavors on them. Oils. One of them, was a red liquid marked cinnamon oil.

I had soaked the dozen picks in oil for 24 hours. I couldn't sell them this way, they were sticky and stained you fingers. I loft some out and they never seemed to dry. So, the next experiment time, I laid them out on a napkin on a plate and placed them in the microwave. This was before I learned the oven was better for this kind of thing. I could smell them strongly as the microwave did its job and three minutes later, the bell rang out. Standing right there, waiting for the last second to drop off, I opened the door right away. The cinnamon oil steam burned my eyes, blinding me and making nose run. I stepped away long enough to get my vision back and tried the first one.

The stickiness was mostly gone. They were dry. I popped the stick on my tongue and the heat hit me instantly. They burned. Perfect. I loaded them into a small former medicine container and packed them in my backpack. Tomorrow I would be a seller. I would be making money on my own.

Nest

From the ground I could see the work of my team and I. Over the deteriorating roof of the trailer, balanced on the mountain, we had constructed a tin roof. This would keep the rain from getting into the home of the people we were helping. It felt good to see, like we had really helped, but the week wasn't over.

I looked with some pride around at the team I was working with from Milwood United Methodist Church. There were the Three Musketeers, Katie, Kristina and Tracy, and Steve, Kristina's Dad, and myself. Steve was the real workhorse of the operation, he had the most experience with home improvement and was past the point in his life when he felt like a kid needing instruction. Around us, our eyes looking up at out handiwork, the yard was littered with beer can, a pile of rocks and a partial trench. This was all better than what was inside the place, where we had not been. We would go in today.

Steve had gotten the next assignments from the Appalachia Service Project staff and we had two things to work on today. First, the trench needed to be completed and the rocks and drain placed into it. Second, someone, a few of us probably, needed to go into the home and fix some of the ceiling which had been damaged.

On the first day, we went into the house. The only water in the place was from a garden hose which had been jammed into a natural spring higher up the mountain and at the end of the hose, they had attached a kitchen faucet, which they dropped in the sink under the open window the green hose came through. They had handled the issue with no water in the bathroom by knocking out the bottom of the toilet and removing any plumbing beneath. Until the day with the new assignments, this was my last time in the house. I hoped it would be my last time.

Steve had already decided he and Kristina and Katie would be working on the trench. This meant, like it or not, Tracy and I would be returning to the interior of the house.

We grabbed a wrecking bar and a hammer and walked up to the front door. We politely told the family we would like to help them get some new drywall up on their ceiling, if they would show us the way. They directed us through the house to the girls bedroom in the back. We ignored the musty, fetid, stagnate air of the space, while we looked up at the brown stripes of water damage. We figured out how much we would need to take down, covered the items in the room so they would become anymore soiled. We asked if we could open the. Back door, which would give us better air and make it easier to go in an out. When the mother opened it, it was like breathing in air from spring valley.

With a little work, we found the edge of the dry wall tile we needed to remove and started pilling it down from the rafters. It was then Tracy brought to my attention something else in the room. On the walls, on the windowsill and now moving about the ceiling were long black ants. What ever we were doing was agitating them.

We stepped out and called to Steve. He came in looked around, pulled the drywall board down enough to look at the insulation, which was stuck to it. He then told us, not only were we removing the damage, but we were removing an ants nest. I have never heard of or seen on in a ceiling like that. I was even less excited about this task than before, but I wasn't going to show it. He recommended we get some ant spray and take it down in easy to manage sections.

In a few moments, I was back beneath what I knew was an infested ceiling and Tracy stood beside me with a can do Raid in her hand. Then, on go, I pried the two foot by three foot section we had cut loose, down from the ceiling. Immediately the air was filled with spray. I turn my head and started toward the door. A pace which dramatically picked up what the stream of ants begin curling around the board and onto my gloved hands. I also began yelling at Kristina, who was a little too close to the back door. Out of my way, out of my way, out of my way. I hope you do not read that with ever more high pitched voice, which may or may not have been there. I will say, my panic was clear enough that Kristina quickly moved.

The ants and scrap went into the garbage pile. I then had to flick a few ants off of me, but there was no flicking the heebies or the jeebies. For the remainder of day every bead of sweat became an ant. Every time my shirt rubbed me I jumped. I was convinced those long black beasts were all over me. They wouldn't leave my mind until I got a shower.

Rain

The umbrella created a silo of dry. It was a space where I could stand or walk with my phone in my pocket without the fear it would be destroyed. It is an old phone and it might be a blessing to have to get it replaced, but I didn't like the hassle of the Verizon store. Also, as I would have to go back to my desk after these couple miles of walking, I didn't think it would be very comfortable to have a soaked shirt. Purple today, in case you were. Interested.

Reuben, my walking partner, and I walk down the steps of the building we work in and I am instantly immersed in the white noise. It starts in hearing the drops. A single crystal of water exploding with a slap on the wet pavement. Then, you hear them in patterns. More, than less. Like rhythmic waves, an audio wind. Soon, you realize it is not just a drop, or wave of drops, but many waves, which become a collage of soothing sound.

There is no thunder today, but if there had been, I probably would have walked anyway. There is something about the electric break in the sky followed by the deep base of thunder. It enlivens the rhythm of the rain. But, that is not the music today. Today it is all pops and slaps, and the whisper of a thousand drops.

The weight of the water has dragged down the branches of the pine trees we walk under. In addition, each of us are carrying umbrellas. So, had you been see us, you would have see us each hunched over, trying to get low enough so the peak of the umbrella doesn't catch in these, now, five foot high branches. I might be the only one who notices the oddness of how we look, so I say nothing.

Under those same trees, I noticed the smell of the rain. The match set to the sound. In addition to the normal water smell, in this space you could draw in the odor of the nature churning. Fresh turned dirt and a light pine smell.

We talk on church and family and God, but as good as it is, it is not as inspiring as the rain. The sound. The smell. The being wrapped in it all. We talk about the things God has done, but we are walking through what God is doing. I worship silently, as not to smudge the masterpiece.

Not the real bird

Night had fallen on my friends and I. I was the only one who could drive and had a car, but we were on foot tonight. We were rowdy and pushy. Spirits were high and we had the kind of energy which leads to both fun and trouble.

For a while the group of us had taken to fake flipping each other off in school. With a cleverness which was apparent to only us, we would slip a balled hand out and extend our ring finger upwards. The idea was to shock the person who had hast been fake flipped, but of course, we all knew what was going on. Something about that edge of doing something wrong was so attractive.

As you might imagine, in our goofiness walking through the neighborhood there was no shortage of this fake gesture, made even more convincing the the dim light. One subtle bird became two with hands held high. From there we were fake flipping off every neighbor who had we perceived had ever wronged us, might have wronged us, or had a foreign car. We laughed and talked in competing voices.

We could hear the truck before we could see it. It was Dukes of Hazard orange and lifted up on giant tire. Maybe a poor man's versions of Bigfoot. It came from behind us flashing it's brights so we would clear out of the street where we were walking. Even though we couldn't see the driver, I could imaging the overly cool, too cool for us, driver who would be behind the wheel.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one because as soon as it passed us, we rolled back into the street behind him and one of us, I think Scott, flipped him a fake bird. Our laughs were cut short when the truck slammed on the breaks and then into reverse. As the engine picked up speed, we scattered. I was convinced we were all going to get beat up.

Three of us scattered in the same direction. We ran through a yard and hid in a bush. We watched as the truck chased the other, larger group. I didn't even know where I was, but I didn't want to move. We needed to remain stealthy. We couldn't seem to slow our breathing.

Eventually, we decided to move out. We needed to find the other group and head home. We didn't even get close to the sidewalk, the shadows cast by the houses around us were our friends. We tried to keep as low of a profile as possible. I thought for sure we would hear the truck if it got close, but I wasn't going to risk it.

A the corner we ran to get in and out of the street light. Half way across two things happened. First, we located the rest of our friends, Second we heard the familiar sound of the truck breaking and turning towards us from a few blocks away. We ran. The sound of the ridiculous engine swallowed us. I was pretty sure Scott had gotten us all killed. If they were mad before, they had to be real mad now.

I didn't dare look, but I could tell the gap was closing. We made it into a larger yard by the main road. Well got the other side of a big pine tree. There were too many of us to completely hide, but it was a good spot to plan our next move.

We watched through the branches as our oversized enemy waited at the corner revving his engine. It was terrifying. Then, I guess with his point made, the truck made a left a drove off. There was silence as we considered if it was a trick. Then we laughed. Then, as we made our way home, we talked about how we could have taken him.

You can't sit here

The East Middle School band played the notes to Uptown Girl. It might be strange to say, but this was my first exposure to this Billy Joel song. This song was all rough notes and squeaky clarinets long before I knew how it should actually sound. Despite this, Mr. Reeves was smiling and waving his white baton. The song ended with him giving a fist pump, always supportive, and then a bell.

It was lunch time. I packed my Tenor Saxophone and placed it in the room, where I would pick it up at the end of the day. I grabbed my lunch, not suspecting anything, and made my way to the cafeteria.

I walked through the door a little later than most of the students and scanned the room. Mr. Ditzhazy was already harassing students and beyond him, though the windows, I could already see some kids outside playing. I looked at the table I normally sat at and my friends averted their eyes as soon as I saw them. Strange, I thought, but made my way over to them.

They filled every space. Not only no room to sit comfortably, but the gaps where room could be made closed as I got close to them. I told them in an insulting way to make room. No one answered, they wouldn't even talk to me. They worked to make sure I knew I was being ignored.

I had no idea what I had done, who I had wronged, but this felt like the end of my life as I knew it. Dan, who I considered my best friend at the time, wouldn't even look at me. We went from buddies to nothing, worse than a stranger. I sat alone an replayed the tape. I could not see any wrong doing.

The table, my table all got up, except for Dan and made their way outside. Normally this would be when I would play with them, tag or kipping or just talk. I wasn't welcome. I knew I wasn't welcome. In spite of that, I ran to Dan, before he made his way out.

I speculated it was a game and made a remark about how stupid it was. How stupid they must be for doing it. I never missed a chance to turn a comment into an insult. It turned out that was the problem. Once Dan assured everyone else was far away, he told me the group was tired of my mouth being in their midsts. They hate the way I talked to them, railing on all of them, making them feel like they couldn't speak. There was no one thing I had done, they didn't like me. My best friend had sided with them and he didn't like me either. He walked away letting me know I needed to find new friends.

I walked outside and hung around them, but didn't attempt to participate. I was on the bottom of the totem pole and didn't even know how to recover. I went to my next class early.

Storied Life: Steve

He loved a good bridge. Not the metal structures, which allowed cars to travel from one bank to the other, but in music, those breaks in the melodies, which play with the motifs of a song, heighten your expectations a drop you off somewhere different. These are the places where you could drop a guitar solo, or play in ranges that did not belong in the rest of the song. Inside of a bridge is a mystery and a journey. They are not nearly as enjoyable when they happen in life.

He was looking forward to the birth of his sister, at least as much as fifteen year old does. He already had a brother, but this would be different, but because she was a sister and the distance in years between them. He remembered contemplating what it would be like, in his bedroom in Idaho. That seemed like a different life now, a place he knew was gone. Tinted with sadness.

Susie had been born and it was like the melody of his life completely changed. It was as if someone punctured the container that held all the color and it drained onto the floor. The excitement about his sister was completely replaced, when he learned his mother would not be coming home. She, with the emotions and chemicals flooding her from childbirth, was loosing her battle with depression. It wasn't exactly clear, but it sounded like she intended to hurt herself. His mom could hurt herself and he had a new little sister. The room he used to be able to feel safe in, was invaded with conflicting thought.

He came up for air, ready to get back to a normal life. Steve's dad explained to him what needed to happen next. Over a bare table, the Air Force captain looked serious and thoughtful. His eyes looked sad. He explained he couldn't watch Steve or his brother here in Idaho, so they would be going to their grandparents in Colorado. It was crap. Steve could let himself into the house, make dinner, he could stay home and get his stuff done. They could stay together. He said none of this. There was no point. Additionally, his new sister would not be going with them, she would stay in Idaho while his dad finished out his commission. It was just for a few months.

The months came and went and were not all bad. Steve missed his mom and dad, but he managed OK. His mother was better and the family was reunited, but something had happened. The color did not return. His Mom would yell at his Dad and his dad would plead with her. They both seemed to want their lives back, but didn't know how to get there for where they were. Then, after Steve heard the echoing voices through the vent stop, would wait. Would it be his Mom, telling him how his Dad lacked ambition, how they would never return to England, or would it be his Dad telling him he was unhappy about being yelled at all the time, tired of this new ultra-demanding woman. If they were preparing him for a divorce, he wished they would get to it already.

Even though Steve was only a teenager, he knew his place. Keep the damage to a minimum. He listened to his parents and tried to console them, playing the councilor. When his mom was demanding he worked hard to meet her demands, to please her ever escalating requirements. When his dad commented on the craziness of what was being asked of them. Steve agreed. No waves. Waves kept you from getting back to normal.

When his dad walked out of his room, Steve thought about the party he would go to. Others there would be drinking or maybe doing drugs. He didn't need any of that, it was enough for him to not be home. He just needed to be out of everything. Needed the pressure to stop.

He slid the headphones over his ears and waited to the moment he could leave. He closed his eyes and listened, "Don't open your eyes, you won't like what you see. The devils of truth steal the souls of the free...". The bridge is all beatings and torture.

I Can Fly

I stood at the top of the stairs, which went down to the side door we almost never used and then on into the basement. The wood half door was open, with cigar boxes of screws and a small collection of tools, which had not yet made it down to the workshop. On the floor, to left of the door way, but just before the stairs began were a couple of mason jars. On the landing in front of the door, was a six sided crocheted rug.

Everything around me was colored by moonlight. Blues and grays. Behind me I could see the dinning room table and the windows beyond it. As I thought about the night, I could suddenly hear the crickets. I thought about our dog Lucky and how we used to use the side door to let him in and how the crickets would huddle in the long grass there. Lucky had been hit by a car, I had been told, but to my memory he just ceased to be. One day he was there and then, he wasn't. These were not the happy thoughts I needed.

I turned back to the stairs and focused on the task at hand. I could feel the fine fairy dust on me, but it needed activation. According to the book I needed lovely wonderful thoughts. Chocolate. Grandma. Christmas. I tried t force into my mind all of things which made me happy. How about the fact, I was chosen, I would be one of the few who could fly. I suddenly felt the lightness.

I moved to the edge of the stairs and crouched. Three, two, one. I pushed with both of my legs, so I would fly out, up and over the stairs. At first it was very much like a leap, but I slowed as I approached the rug at the bottom, then, before I touched down, I was able to turn, making the bend of the path and continued on into the dark basement. I landed after a ninth degree turn, in the dark, where wonderful thought were harder to come by.

I wheeled in the dark, exhilerated but afraid I would wake my parents and brother. My legs felt a little wobbly and I was trying to piece together what had just happened. I knew I had the power, but i had to get back into bed. I did quickly, trying to allow sleep to overtake me.

The next day, I talked about flying. My brother, even as young as he was, knew I was crazy. My friends laughed at the joke. I could still remeber the feel of the floating, the landing far downstairs. I couldn't not tell anyone. I was like a new Peter Pan. I imagined chocolate and grandma and being chosen and I thought I could feel the lightness. I might have even left the ground for a brief second. What I realized, though, was I needed to let people see fly. It was the only way they would believe.

With that thought, I found myself again at the top of the stairs, the very same stairs. The jars had been moved and the box of screws was gone, but the important feature, the faith it would require to jump, was there. I moved my bare feet to edge of the steps. My toes hung over. I didn't have my audience yet, because I wanted to be sure. I crouch just a little, like I did before. One, two, three, three, three.

Three. I stood up, unable to make myself leap again. The power was gone.

Whirlwind Weekend

We sat in the large general purpose room, on red chairs dragged from the choir loft. Above us the air conditioners tried to drive out the heavy heat. Hanging from the rafters are two dozen cloth, hand crafted tapestries, with different Christian symbols on them. I wonder who used three fish swimming in a circle around a sliver cup. A microphone was set up at one end of the room for Andrew, the prospective Music Paster, and his wife. They would answer questions from us, the leadership of Praise Baptist.

The meeting went well, though the room remained too warm and a few of the questions were somewhat off base. Andrew and his wife were irresistible, their love clear and attractive. I hoped everyone else would see it. At the end, when we talked about going out for ice cream, or something, Andrew was asked to play a little something on the piano. He started with a classical piece, but when it ended his little daughter asked him to play, Here I Am to Worship. The room filled with the unified voice of people just worshiping God. Pastor Jeff and I, who watched from the sound booth, realized this was way more touching than any answer of a question could be.

The next day, we would be back with Andrew, but this time with the full church. Shelly had been their all day, getting our room ready for VBS, I brought the kids with me, Shelby and Sienna would be picked up by Aunt Stacey a few minutes after we got there. The questions broadened and many of them were repeats, but it went well. Very well. He was never flustered or confused, his wife bragged on him, the church warmed to him. This was good since he would spend the rest of the day with first with the praise team and then the choir.

The alarm Sunday came too early, but there was too much to do to linger, as I wanted to. I got up and began calling to my daughters to get up to, making annoying noises so they would get out of bed. I am convinced they love this. Everything about those moments was a blur of clothes and hair, coffee and cereal. No yelling over lost shoes, which was a nice change of pace. We made it out of the house in time to get to church for Praise team practice. Normally I would drive myself and the kids a little later, but the lack of Air in my car, made the additional rushing well worth while.

The drive, which is now twice as long because of the closing of the expressway overpass by our neighborhood, was a patchwork of traffic lights which were on, and off. The power was spotty. We didn't know it on the way there, but the church was in the worst part of that patchwork, without electricity. Everything Andrew had planned, was suddenly thrown into question, this, his moment to shine, had to be replanned. At the same time, Wayne and I were calling people get generators, and moving wires trying to make sure we could get it functional. A church on a hot day, with no air or microphones would be a strain. While we were rolling the generators into place outside, an electric Bass was being replaced with a cello and windows were being opened wide.

The first generator started, we planned what the would be without power and the praise team practiced a new arrangement. Unplugged. Right when we could see the end of the chaos, the power was restored, a day before we were told on the phone, but precisely when God wanted.

We reset everything, closed the windows and replaced the power cords. The service was one of the best I have been a part of. The church called Andrew at 12:15 on Sunday, then we went home, grabbed a bite to at and headed back to get ready for VBS, which would start that night.

Fine tuning

The workbench was a whiteboard, which had been attached to cold, black metal legs. The top of the bench could pivot like a drafting desk, but today it was completely flat. Efficient thought Norman. On the bench sat a variety of small tool, laid out in such a way none of them touched each other. Precisely placed allan wrenches and clamps, a custom soldering iron and tweezers. Many of the things didn't have a name, because Norman had designed them himself. Between these tools you could see the notes on the whiteboard, from when it had been in its upright position, notes on waves and signals, decibels and ambient noise. On the front of the desk, precisely centered, was clamped a large magnifying glass, the kind with its own battery powered lights and adjustable arms, which could hold the tiny component Norman was working on.

Norman stood by the desk. He always stood while he worked, the better blood flow allowed him to concentrate for longer, deeper thought, he felt smarter when he stood. For now, this thin arms crossed in front of he frail body. He wore the white coat, he had ordered from a medical uniform company, and black dress pants with crisp pleats. His button up shirt had one band-aid, a tiny mag-lite and scalpel in the front pocket. In his left pocket was a single coin, a token from Chuck-E-Cheese. He would have spent it, had his parents not rushed him out of the birthday party, the one birthday party he had ever gone to, ending his very brief attempt to find friends. Jeff, the boy who had invited him and played with him in the ball pit, died in a car accident a month later and after that Norman couldn't imagine spending that twenty five cent token. Jeff and Norman were both ten, which was nearly twenty years ago now.

Norman unfolded his arms and felt the small bump beside his ear, where he had implanted the device. He didn't want to do the surgery himself, but after calling a couple surgeons he found on the Internet, he realized no one would do this for him. They weren't going to risk their careers for a nobody. He tried to explain about listening into auditory ranges that elephants and whales could hear. With the second, he talked about a dog whistle and questioned what else we might be missing. To be honest, he wasn't sure that one heard the question. The click of the hang up was all he got. There did not seem to be any pain or itching and his hearing did not seem to be impacted.

Deciding he had waited long enough, Norman grabbed two tools off of the work bench. He imagined this must be what it felt like to be at the top of a roller coaster hill. The first was a simple black speaker box with a button, which, if Norman had designed it correctly, would produce an ultrasonic note for as long as the button was depressed. He had based his design on a device called The Mosquito, which was a tool to break up loitering teenagers. The second tool was a 0.7 millimeter Allen wrench. It was the size he had chosen for the adjustment screw.

For a moment, he sat the box back down, while he worked the allan wrench into the hole at the top of the bump left by the device. To do this, he need to tighten his skin with his left hand, while he manipulated the wrench with his right. Once in place he was careful not to move it.

No longer needing his left hand, he grabbed the box again and depressed the button. Nothing. Slowly with a slightly shaking hand, he pulled the allan wrench down. Clockwise.

The first thing he noticed was his breathing sounded deeper, then quieter, but at the same time he could hear a bug or something. It would buzz, then stop, the again. As he turned it became louder, like bringing noise into focus. Finally, as if from a far away place, he could hear the steady drone of his speaker box. He released the button, then pressed it again to confirm and sure enough, he was hearing into the ultrasonic range. He focused it, deepening it, tuning it into his ideal pitch.

He let the button go again, just to test. There wasn't silence though. He could hear insects and electricity and noises he couldn't find the source for. It was like a new array of sensations. Then, in between this strange new symphony, he heard a whisper.

Rusty gears

The alarm this morning was on the edge of painful. Because we had gone to bed late and it has been more than a week since I knew I needed to get up and go to work it was rough. I forced myself to an up right position, barely containing the desire to lay back down. After a few moments of trying to clear my head, eyes still closed, not even wanting to see the shadows of light, I rose to my wobbly legs.

I moved before I let gravity cause me to plop back to the position I came from. I opened only one eye and shuffled across the room, promptly kicking my weights on the floor. What a cruel reminder that I should be working out this morning. Nope. Isn't enough that I'm upright and sorting the list of things I need to do before heading into work.

I decide on making coffee and taking a shower first. I unplug my iPad to make a note and the light from the screen is too much to look at. It burns.

When I walk through the door at work, I am in a much better state. Clean, both eyes open, coffee drank and on time. I am ready to work, but it is hard to know where to begin. 202 emails? Catching up with employees? The manager who had some of my duties? I do a little of each, and it turns out it is not that bad. Between Barb handling some of the pressing e-mail, my staff moving forward and others on vacation, the work is not as heavy as a feared. Additionally, I have only one meeting and it is one about a news article. Simple.

At lunch, I continue my routine and pull up the app I write blogs with and... nothing. As it turns out, have a week of great experiences and an exciting Fourth of July don't help. It has been so long since I wrote a blog, it takes me a while to remember how to do it. When I settle on what to write, it is the small pain in my toe that casts the deciding vote.

Somewhere I can hear the squeaking of protesting gears.