Treason of Words

I had written most of this and titled it before today; when I read about his passing, I thought I should wrap it up and post it now.

(with apologies to Gary Soto)

The first political thought I can recall having was in 1988, after a full decade of wholly apolitical existence. Tasked with choosing a presidential candidate to back, I studied the issues as best a fifth grader could. Letting individuals keep their earnings sounded right to me, as did the prospect of getting cool new weapons for the military. As an eldest brother and cousin, I had seen plenty of pregnancies, but despite the annoyance that babies could be, I couldn’t conceive of a justification for abortion. Therefore, George H W Bush seemed the logical choice, especially given his edge of experience over that funny-sounding guy who looked like a total dork in a tank. I gave a speech backing his candidacy at a forum at Buda Elementary; during the same event Jeff Borcherding (among others) also backed GHWB, although his speech ended with a taped rendition of a sappy anti-abortion anthem, and Nicole Stoffel (among others) backed Dukakais. We won, but I later discovered, to the chagrin of myself and many others, that a president doesn’t have nearly as much control over tax policy as the candidates would like us to think.

In sixth grade, I flirted with environmentalism, inasmuch as it was the thing to do at the time; I had a t-shirt and everything, but opportunities for recycling were few and far between in Hays County. The next year, Mrs Geen recruited a handful of the most boisterous in her English class to criticize an article in the Austin American-Statesman about Dr Timothy Leary. Swept up in righteous antidrug fervor, I condemned his advocacy of narcotic and hallucinogen legalization as well as the Statesman’s act of proving him a forum. The next year, my essay in social studies backing Clayton Williams for governor ended with a catchy campaign song to the tune of The Yellow Rose of Texas. This was, of course, before he publicized his thoughts about female leisuretime activities. Politics is, as you can see, another realm in which middle school just didn’t make any damn sense.

In high school, my world broadened. I took up speech and debate, and read about world affairs from perspectives left and right, common and advanced. I was unsettled when Bill Clinton took the White House, and found Rush Limbaugh to be a voice of reason and insight. Ah, the folly of youth. Over the course of the semesters, my understanding became deeper, and I found other voices that better reflected my views. Each led to another. I realized that many roads led to archconservative William F Buckley Jr.

Principled and relevant, witty and erudite, this was the sort of thinker that I wanted to be. Stimulated by his essays and nourished by the Economist weekly, I began to shun the shrill demagoguery of Limbaugh and Leo, and the emerging reactionary infotainment industry of the right. Equality of opportunity, freedom of conscience, and property rights defined my worldview.

College brought me to big, bad, liberal Austin, and put me in its center of leftism, the University of Texas campus. The world grew again. Detail and nuance emerged that had been beyond my previous experience. Small-L libertarianism, joining the best aspects of the conservatism I was comfortable with, those in the economic sphere, while jettisoning the part of it that was beginning to seem archaic to my mind as I met new people and found my ideas about how they should behave sorely challenged. Simultaneously, my education, where it touched on public policy, planted the seeds for the more pragmatic approach to governance that I hold today.

Once beyond the land of labs and homework, in the world where policy affects one more directly, practicality became a consideration. Surely, I had and have my ideals, but they rarely present themselves in recognizable form. No candidate that wants to be taken seriously runs on a platform as radical and austere as libertarian ideals would demand. Besides, a sudden transition to such a paradigm would be disasterous, and despite my misgivings, I’ll admit that there are some areas beyond national defense and contract enforcement in which government can do good. Today, I look for practical libertairian thought in the public sphere: clever uses of markets, thrift with tax dollars, and elimination of limits on personal liberty. And still I learn.

Look to the right for the blogs I read, some of which follow politics.

I’ve finally gotten around to posting a sampling of my photos from this past Christmas. Yes, I’m a lazy, lazy blogger, and an ever lazier photographer. Have a look-see here.

I read somewhere recently that one’s dreams are among the most boring things possible to discuss with another. I suppose this stems from the same you-had-to-be-there factor that makes stories about what happened that one time at that party seem so funny to the teller, but less so to the audience. Except, in this case, the teller wasn’t really “there,” either. All the same, I’ve had a few doozies lately, like the one where I chivarously defended a female crank-powered television designer against her knife-wielding chauvinist colleague, and later shoved him out the front door of my childhood home, only to turn around in the foyer and be confronted by an extraordinarily tall and thin man in a grey suit and a blank, glossy black mask.

Last night’s was less creepy.

My wife and I had moved to help Nona (that is, my dear maternal grandmother) with the small Old West tourist trap that she ran. There was a dusty main street lined with storefronts, chief among which was the Sherrif’s Office/Park HQ. I was working on fixing the small mine-cart-themed rollercoaster while a patron who had waited since the day before to ride stood patiently by. I got it working, and sent her on her way when ‘ol Black Bart, the guy who played the outlaw in the Main Street Shootout show, and who, I remembered thinking, occasionally forgot it was an act, came in. He had a new circular saw he had brought to show me, but had little experience in using it, so I showed him how to cut angles and variable depths with it. Christina was there as I tried to teach, but she grew annoyed because he wasn’t paying attention. He kept getting distracted by the action outside the window, where the improbably diverse (and improbably buxom–it was my dream, after all) coeds who ran the saloon were having a charity carwash, clad only in their denim cutoffs and easily-saturated half t-shirts. Christina and I were called away to help Nona prune a storm-damaged tree just before I woke up.

Illustrating the depth to which the internet has permeated my psyche, in the fog of semi-conciousness, I thought, “I should write that up for my blog.”

Dearest Friends and Beloved Family,

The year has sped by at an astonishing pace. There hardly seems to have been enough time to fit in all that appears to have happened: the fear, the loss, the joy and the hope.

It was not long after last year’s letter went out that Russell resolved to look into the increasingly troubling spells he was experiencing. It was the last day of a major January ice storm here in Austin when he learned that scans had found a tumor on the top left side of his brain. It causes an occasional electrical disruption, sometimes accompanying a strange, brief, daydream-like experience, which is followed by a headache. The growth is benign, though, and a daily regime of medication has the symptoms under control. An annual scan for changes awaits in future summers.

The beginning of the year also saw the passing of Christina’s grandmother, and our return to Plano for the services. G’ma Streeter will be sorely missed, especially during the holiday season. This will be the first Christmas that Christina can remember without the only grandparent she’s ever really known.

Before that first month was out, Russell started his new job as a Geospatial Technician with the Geographic Information Systems Department at First American Flood Data Services, where he wrangles digital land parcels into an ever-growing national geodatabase. By late summer, the enterprise was spun off into a new company of its own: First American Spatial Solutions (FASS). Ever unflappable, Russell just hopes he gets a better cubicle out of the deal.

Christina’s career in the care and feeding of young minds has taken an interesting turn as she and colleague Colleen Frerichs have become Westwood High’s gurus of Team Teaching, an educational technique that serves to help students with special educational requirements thrive in mainstream courses. They’ve completed the coursework necessary to teach their peers how to do what they have had much success in doing.

With an eye toward moving from classroom to library, this autumn Christina began studying to take the GRE in preparation to pursue a master’s degree in Library Information Science. Russell, who has long held an interest in librarianship, may join her in this pursuit, but is holding off until the prospects for FASS are a bit more clear.

In order to undertake this continued education, Christina has had to let go of some of her duties with her chapter of Zeta Phi Beta. While she continues as secretary, gone are the many weekday nights that we find ourselves on or about local college campuses observing the efforts of undergraduate Zetas. While the change frees up some much-needed time, the fun and minor adventures will certainly be missed.

The greatest thrills of the year, though, have been our new adventures in home ownership. Following months of casual browsing, including one close call that almost materialized, Russell saw the front corner of our new home on a local real estate website. Fleeing a noisy dryer and tedious grading, we saw it first in the twilight. Christina thought it looked like a gingerbread house, with its cedar-shingled gable and turned trim. A couple days later, we saw the inside and fell for it, hard. The custom-designed tile floors and counters, the generous closets and the modest lot suited us well. We closed the month our lease was up, giving us several weeks to get it ready for move-in. Russell surprised himself with just how much he knew how to do, learned from a childhood spent helping and “helping” his parents work on their home. Christina acquired at a lightning pace the finer points of prying, masking and painting, while at the same time bringing bathroom fixtures up to her discerning standards of sanitation. The end of June saw the move complete. In rapid succession, we had our first houseguests , our first chat with the neighbors, our first neighborhood association meeting, our first dinner guests, and a housewarming. The Thanksgiving Dinner that started with turkey at Russell’s grandparents’ home ended with pie at ours. Now the Christmas Tree is lit, the stockings are hung, and this odd little gingerbread house has become quite the sweet little home.

We’ll be ringing in the new year watching fireworks from a bridge over Lady Bird Lake, perhaps in the company of Christina’s folks. 2008 looks exciting already, with tests and admissions processes, more changes at the office, home improvement adventures galore, and Zeta-fied trips to such disparate locales as Beaumont and Las Vegas. Wherever you are and whatever you have planned this holiday season, we wish you safety, health, and happiness.

And of course,
a Very Merry Christmas,

and a Happy New Year!

I’ve been a public speaker for a long time now. While I’ve become perhaps a bit more reserved in my casual speech over the past dozen or fifteen years, I’m still apt to ham it up given an audience. I had gone many a year without a regular outlet for speaking until I joined Toastmasters here at First American. I’m an odd duck there, not attending to curry any favor, learn any leadership skills or gain confidence. I just needed an audience, and they all seem quite happy to listen. My only qualms are that there is so much “meeting” nonsense surrounding the “speaking” and that the types of speaking feel limited. I don’t often fancy the spur-of-the-moment Table Topics, and the prepared speeches have so many conditions on them. The first ten follow a manual, and coming up with a speech that meets the requirements of each objective is bothersome. I’d much rather get a topic than a template. Such is my annoyance with this system that I’ve only given seven of the ten in the past three years.

The latest one requires a visual aide. I’m loathe to use Power Point, as I think it rots the brain. I had considered doing something with GPS and Geocaching, but reception in the building is nil. Astronomy might be interesting, but despite the pretty pictures, I think I’d put folks to sleep. Something more unusual, that stretches the concept of a visual aide would be great. Dancing or acrobatics are right out, as I’d like to avoid anyone getting crushed and/or dying from laughter. I’m thinking of doing some giant origami, with follow-along paper at each seat. Of course, that requires I learn some origami.

Has anyone seen November? I could have sworn it was just here. It was an hour longer than it used to be, with all sorts of digging and yardwork, and even a new speech at the start, a big lull in the middle, with guests and baking and eating toward the end. It got a bit of Christmas on it, but that’s not unusual these days. If seen, please return ASAP. Thanks!

As we approach the autumnal equinox, the other story of the year, my cranial health, has reached an equilibrium as well. While I’ll never look at that damn Kindergarten Cop quote in quite the same way again, the outright fear that came with each mislaid word, paper or memory has faded. The drug regime has proven adequate to control the symptoms, and after three stints in the ol’ MRI tube, the little fellow-traveler in my skull has remained largely unchanged. Once a year, I’ll go visit Dr Tallman and Dr Stoval to see how things have changed. It stands to reason that eventually it and I will have to part ways. I do hope that that day is well removed from this.

We’ve stumbled into an interesting land. The natives are tidy, organized, and decidely more funky than one might have expected given the northern clime. Friendly? You betcha! To date, we’ve received mysterious lawn-mowing and trashcan-moving, not to mention offers of tool loans, assurances of vigilance, and useful advice at every turn. To say it’s far superior to my previous homeownership experience is an understatement of mammoth proportions.

It’s called Quail Hollow Garden Homes, a small part of what seems to be called ”Gracywoods,” although I’ve never seen that on a map. It has an HOA that is voluntary, although the fees are laughably small. It seems we’ve landed right next door to the first family of the area, an active and very nice couple who I believe have repeatedly been our benefactors. Most recently, they’ve helped rid us of about 10 gallons of taupe paint left in the front closet by our predecessors; eat your heart out, craigslist!

The move finally concluded yesterday, with the arrival of the last few objet d’art from the old place. We’ll be dropping off the keys this weekend, closing the books on the treetop living era of our lives. Important yardwork is ahead, and although I have the tools for it, we’re planning to do the bourgeious thing and get someone to do the mowing and edging for us. That, I hope will keep our lawn in line with our more industrious neighbors, and allow me to play with the fun parts of having a yard, instead of the boring parts.

I promise my next post will be about something besides the move. Really.

It’s high time this place had a name. Until now, it’s been like having a town called Exit 221 (Hi Buda!). I’ve taken the name from a favorite painting of mine by Magritte, which illustrates both the wonderful facility with which the human mind decodes meaning from sensory inputs, as well as the problems implicit with such ability when it is not done critically.

Welcome, then, to Treason of Words, and remember, ceci n’est pas un endroit.

Yesterday, we closed on our new house. Should we hang on here for the next three decades, we can expect to pay about 303 grand for our modest abode, a figure belied by the reasonable 131 kilodollar asking price. As soon as we got the keys, we went to work. Christina scrubbed vigorously in order to make commodes that had sat fallow for months fit for her discerning tushie. The bathtubs will take a bit more work, she tells me. It’s not so bad when it’s your own crud, but when it’s a stranger’s schmutz, well, it shan’t be tolerated. I became a walking advertisement for Leatherman brand multitools, using only my trusty Squirt S4 to rip up a room worth of unwanted berber carpet and take a dodgy door off it’s hinges. Dashed manly, that. Next, I will remodel the closet using only a toothpick and some tweezers. The very nice ceiling fans use the ponty-type, odd-sized bulbs with tiny little bases that don’t come in nouveau-vert compact flourescent varieties. They are, as I wrote, very nice, so we’re opting to stick it to the earth in the name of home decor.

Speaking of the earth, our new patch of it is teeming with green things much larger than we’d like. There are red tips on each side in need of trimming, and mimosas in need of training. The front yard is shaggy, and the back yard is a jungle. I’m told that the previous owners cultivated tomatoes and habenaros against the house, and roses against the fence. I’m planning to continue the cultivation, although most of my recipies call for serranos instead of the evil orange pepper of doom. The yard work starts tonight, when I become the owner of a tree pruner and prune something or other with it.