Church Food : Chicago

Door County in February: Cartwheels Down the Middle of Highway 42

Tue, 21 Feb 2006 21:52:07 GMT

“You’re staying during the week?” she said as she wrapped up the shirt--now priced something near what it was actually worth. “Monday morning you can watch us all do cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42!”

In “season,” and that would be any season but the one right now in the very dead of winter, we wouldn’t have even entered the store, much less buy anything. A retailer whose mark ups regularly drew giggles of disbelief from the wide eyed tourists was reason enough to keep walking. But add on what had to be a corporate decision made worlds away from Fish Creek Wisconsin that broadcasting some kind of bland, tuneless music out on to the sidewalk would somehow entice all who passed to enter and buy stuff; we both had the thought: There is nothing in that place for us. Besides, if you can’t find it at Nelson’s Hardware just a bit down the road; then you probably don’t need it.”

But the friendly and helpful young woman promising cartwheels was not the store or its corporate parent. She just worked there.

Her work was not just in the depth of an icy Sunday in February.

Back when warm autumn winds of orange and golden were heralding the splendor of October and then fading to the crinkly brown and brittle leaves of November just before the cold; she was back behind the counter ringing up the sales.

Even in the height of summer as the apple cheeked throngs of tourists traced the paths of pure geological wonder, walked in the steps of hard and hearty fisherman, and listened for the singing of Moravians trudging through the woods to church, she was folding neat the clothes. Watching from inside the store the lines of lumbering SUV’s, and mini vans, silver and black sheet metal gleaming like money, snake north at the beginning of the weekend and then back south in a hushed and solemn twilight Sunday parade.

In that grand cycle of the seasons, she pretty much worked the year. Maybe March or early April, as the land turned to mud and a wild gray rain marked the days, maybe then you’d find her gone from the County.

But in February she owned the place. At this time of year, she could do cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42, skip through Fish Creek chanting poetry, drive for miles up Highway 57 feeling grateful for all the company, remembering only later that she didn’t pass or see a single other car.

Strange is the tourist that comes here now. Strange and so few that they almost seem not to matter. They are easily tolerated or even ignored.

And that presents a gift of unimaginable joy for those who come now at this time of year. The very best kind of gift because one feels that it’s earned. Come here now and you get the gift of feeling what it’s like to actually belong here.

So different now from the color splayed abundance of autumn. When the supper club machines are running hard on all cylinders and there’s just a bit of a wait for a table.

Now all the tables are good tables. There is no wait.

Chris at the C and C is still working hard on the weekends---because that’s what she does. But as the absent minded diner pays more attention to the blazing fire place in the center of the room than where he is going and so mistakes the kitchen door for the Men’s Room; Chris sets him straight. He then turns, smiles, and jokingly says to her, “Oh, I was just going to help out with the dishes.” Chris smiles kindly. The response of a consummate professional. But then she shares a laugh. A real one. It was funny. And right now, in February, it’s almost like: it’s just us here. So laugh! Cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42!

After dinner, back at the condo tucked into the edge of the looming, dark forest; we’re in one end of the building. Another couple, Wisconsin plates and a Volvo, are at the other end. And there is no one occupying the eight silent and cold units in between. No one. The wind and the night and the unimaginable frigid cold comes swooping down straight from the stories of those woods and it is just that rumbling heater in the closet and a thin layer of plasterboard and insulation in the wall that holds that cold of time itself at bay.

The silence, for us city folk, is just thundering. And a bit scary too. No sirens, car alarms, traffic, drunks stumbling along outside our bedroom window. Just the silence. Just the bone chilling silence. Just like we wished for and got.

An early Sunday dinner at the Sister Bay Bowl. We weren’t really sure the place was open---it seemed so dark inside and the plastic room divider curtain that separates the bar and empty bowling alley from the dining room pulled open just enough to walk through. From the distance at the other side of the pretty much deserted dining room---3 other couples fill the window seats as twilight stills the last signs of movement out on Highway 42 with Sister Bay in the distance---and a voice calls out “Sit anywhere you want.”

The voice hits us and we think: this is different. No tourist show now. Just a smattering of tired couples not wanting to cook tonight. As if a voice is saying “We serve food. We serve it quick. That’s it. No show. No North Woods chic. It’s Sunday night. We all want to go home. The broasted chicken is the special tonight. Will that be all?

The next morning we almost jump out the door and back to the White Gull for breakfast. Ripping into a Chicago Tribune like a child clutching for a worn security blanket we’re back ensconced among the last vestiges of real tourists camped out here by the roaring fireplace with knick knacks and sweatshirts for sale in the warmth of what a fancy Inn is supposed to look like up here alongside the frozen bay.

Last nights broasted chicken now a topic of conversation over cream cheese stuffed, French toast smothered in cherries and an endless refill on that coffee.

But the lure of what’s behind the wonderful warmth of the hospitality machine—the chance to go behind the stage and watch the levers being pulled—beckons once again. And we find ourselves so deep inside our walk on the usually well traveled trails of Peninsula State Park; that we realize something else has happened for the very first time. We’ve walked, without knowing it, in a circle. Right here in this clearing, pointing up, here is where we heard the sound of that wind through those winter trees. We just walked by here! And in the unknowing circle of the walk we find another gift: the absence of time. A longer walk. A better walk. A deeper walk. Familiarity and adventure at the very same moment: because we had stopped paying attention to things like trail markers and the walk walked us.

Just the sound of the winter wind in those very same trees that we passed by before.

After that new kind of walk—cartwheels down the middle of our twice walked trail if we had wanted them—we had earned our dinner at home that night. Back with our own fireplace blazing, the wind outside still sweeping through the forest somehow now showing mercy on the faint lights of our little outpost.

As if we actually belonged.

This trip, right before the bridge that spans the frozen Sturgeon Bay delivered us back to the Door Peninsula, we began talking about medical care and where to get it---fixing the locations of the Urgent Care Clinics and hospital in our heads. As we’d drive by the one just south of Sister Bay, an unnamed concern bubbling up in the back of our minds about why it is that we’d need to know where this place was now.

The answer appeared as we woke up the next morning, an angry red splotch of what looked like a burst blood vessel in Maria’s eye. Her first reaction was her standard diagnosis of “No big deal.” But agreement was soon reached on the thought that it might be nice to have an actual doctor or nurse say that. And at the Aurora Urgent Care Center just south of Sister Bay, we found a wise nurse who could immediately confirm Maria’s self diagnosis and shoulder the tougher task of calming me. She suggested that we come back in a little while to see the doctor and seal this deal; so Maria and I we set off to do what we always have done on every trip, in every season over these past many years. We simply set off to wander.

One stop we’ve never made in past years was The Clearing.

Like so much of what is Door County, one can easily know The Clearing before you set foot anywhere near the place simply by reading Door County’s preeminent writer Norbert Blei. That Jens Jensen, a landscape artist of the early 20^th century whose work graces parks all over the world saw a school for the folk arts right here on the shore of Ellison Bay did not come as a surprise. The thought: “Where else?” came easy. The Clearing looked and felt just like Blei said it would.

But right now, in February, as we opened the door to the Visitor’s Center and saw a class going on to our right and a deserted gift shop to our left; once again we received another gift of what it means to belong here in February. We were greeted by perhaps the kindest, tail wagging, soulful eyed back lab that has perhaps ever walked these woods. In the pure joy of that greeting, the dog guiding us into the gift shop, once again another welcome here as if Jens himself had found a way to say hello...

Back then to the doctor, who added a prescription for an antibiotic salve to the diagnosis of “this too will pass,” back again to our warm little place on the edge of the winter forest and we remembered it was Valentine’s Day.

In Door County in February one does learn that 6:00 pm can feel like 3 in the morning. So 5:30 seemed like a good time to reserve a table at the White Gull. And walking in to the darkened room, white table clothes and a harpist having somehow miraculously transformed the breakfast place into a special occasion, fancy dinner out wonder that would shine in any city or small town; we celebrated a meal and a bottle of wine that somehow, someway blurred all the lines between all who found themselves blessed by this place. The artists, the merchants, the retirees and maybe even if you look hard enough the fishermen and the farmers.

Joined right here, right now as that food poured out of those swinging doors and on to the tables where women were smiling and the men quietly beamed.

Finishing up that magnificent meal, walking out past the fireplace and in to the lobby of the inn. A look to the right. There on the couch, telling stories surrounded by friends. There on the couch sat Norbert Blei, waiting to go in to eat dinner.

His work having originally told the stories of this place. His work having drawn us here. His work having turned out to be so true.

But he was out for the evening just like we were; so we didn’t stop to pay our respects in person.

Because this time, in February: at was almost as if we belonged here. And when you belong here: you don’t intrude.

So we heard the hostess say, “Your table’s ready Norb.”

So, as the writer walked inside to get his dinner, we zipped up our coats and walked outside under the stars of the Door County winter night

And did cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42.

Epiphany Church Chicago: Advent Message

Wed, 23 Nov 2005 04:37:08 GMT

WHAT IF HE COULD?

What if he could?

That thought flashed across my brain 5 seconds after he answered the announcer on TV the other night. He was smiling of course. He is always smiling. Like there is always a day in July where the wind blows just like a warm summer promise; and the sparkle on the trimmed green grass can send a soul stirring warmth straight into a gray and blustery November. He’s 75 years old now. Still a twinkle in the eye. And the smile’s still there.

“So what,” asks the announcer, “are you up to these days? What are you doing with yourself?”

Here is what he said;

“Well, I’ve got a call into Oprah. See, I’ve got this plan and I’d like to work with her on it. . . . .it’s a plan to end poverty.”

A plan to end poverty.

Five seconds later, I thought “What if he could?”

But it was in those five seconds that I found an Advent Journey.

Type this smiling man’s name in your internet browser and you’ll get back 210,000 entries. If you’re one who both remembers a day and longs, on the most primal perhaps even genetic level—for a time when the Chicago Cubs will again play baseball just like the Chicago White Sox did this past year; you’ll know his name like you know your own heart.

But it’s not his name, or even his number—14—that speaks to Advent here.

Advent’s journey comes from looking off in the distance, down the road, a future scene so vividly alive and colored rainbow joyful: that you simply can’t believe it.

So you don’t.

My five seconds began with an inner sneer I could almost hear—although the thought went unsaid: “Ending poverty? I don’t even know what that means! Who’s poverty? His poverty? How do they measure that? He is just so naïve. What’s he talking about?”

My inner sneer brought up a memory. Another story from when his 2,528 baseball games over 19 years in the big leagues had ended. The triumph of being one of 12 children in 1930’s Dallas; then a 17 year old kid joining the Kansas City Monarchs, then on to become the very first African American to play for the Chicago Cubs. The very first. Then, in 1977, to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

That part I got. He helped shape what heroism meant to me and a lot of other little boys and girls. And even now as I write this, a picture of him is smiling, up on my wall, looking over my shoulder.

I understood all that. Treasured it. So when I heard the story, back right after his playing career had ended, of him working at a local bank, being the guy you go see to open a checking account; my inner sneer, disguised back then as a young man’s veneer of worldliness, my inner sneer came out in full force. “What the heck is THAT? He’s become some kind of bank clerk? What’s the deal there? Why is he doing that? Does he have (I thought, drawing on my newly minted Psychology Degree) Does he have some sort of hidden problem?” Hmmmm. What is this?

Back then I didn’t know that work, jobs and careers don’t just flow effortlessly along from one stage to the next. Even for super star baseball players. I didn’t know about taking what you can get and making the most of it. I didn’t know about still smiling: when it mattered the most. I didn’t know how fulfilling life could be when life had you up against a wall.

But he did. He knew all that.

Maybe 10 years later a guy I worked with mentioned that he had seen the smiling man on an airplane. I asked if he was sure it was him and my friend answered, “I Knew it was him because he was wearing a cap that said “Mr. Cub.”

That memory came back and I thought, “Imagine making a job out of being who you are?”

“Yes I know” I tell my “Inner Sneer” it’s a “Personal Services” contract. But it’s also making a job out of being who you are. Not many of us could do that.

My five seconds of disbelief were near a close.

“I have this plan to end poverty” he says again. My Inner Sneer starts to speak: but before I can think the cynical thought, the announcer says to the smiling man: “I understand your Mother is still with us. She is what, 95 years old? Does she still have advice for you?”

Then the man with that smile says, “She sure does Bob. She calls me up and she always says the same thing to me. She always tells me, “Ernie? You just pray, pray and pray!”

And that’s when my five seconds of wrestling with my faith just snaps closed and done. I hear the smiling man paint a picture of what he sees down the road. “I have this plan to end poverty.” And I think:

“What if he could?”

And that takes me straight to Advent. Right here. Right now. In the polished wood pews of our church.

Now at Advent we anticipate:

Peace on earth. Good will to All. Christ is born.

What if he could?

Karen Hughes Crafts the Blame Game

Mon, 12 Sep 2005 14:06:01 GMT

Karen Hughes Crafts “The Blame Game:” A Story of the Bleeding Phone

Woe to those who go to great depths

To hide their plans from the Lord,

Who do their work in darkness and think,

"Who sees us? Who will know?"

Isaiah 29:15 (NIV)

President Coolidge come down, in a railroad train
With his little fat man with a note pad in his hand
President say little fat man, oh isn't it a shame,
What the river has done to this poor cracker’s land

Randy Newman

“Louisiana 1927”

She punched in my call on the very first ring. “This is Karen”

“Karen, let me guess. You’re on the way to pick up little Condi at her ballet lesson or

you’re in the drive thru at Wendy’s grabbing dinner for you and the kids. Right?”

It was how we said hello. We only talked on cell phones, and she was always moving,

so I liked to guess.

I was also usually wrong.

“Roger it’s 1:30 in the morning. The kids have been asleep for hours.

So has their father.

“What are you doing driving around Dallas in the dark?”

“It’s never dark in Dallas Roger. Besides, I’m headed towards Houston. Taken the back roads.

Needed to just keep moving. To get away from all the lights. ”

“Houston? Why Houston? That’s 240 miles from Dallas! Karen what are you doing? Is there a call going on?

That’s why I’m checking in. It looks bad Karen. Real bad.”

“Yeah the call has been going on all night. I’ve got it coming up on my second line

on the speakerphone right now. Rummy just said something about how we couldn’t put this on

the folks left behind in the storm and that just sent Karl over the edge.

He’s been yelling for the last five minutes—so I just muted the thing and kept driving.

Kept moving. Something about all this is different. I just couldn’t stand still. Had to move.”

That was Karen. How many times had I seen her prepare for a TV shot?

Who would believe that seconds before the TV lights came up; she had been in a pitch black room,

her eyes closed, pacing back and forth? Then as if she was somebody

who could just snap her fingers and suddenly take the shape of everybody’s

door neighbor holding out a steaming apple pie fresh from the oven.

That neighbor who always had whatever it was you wanted to borrow.

The Karen I knew liked the dark. And she liked to keep moving.

“I’m up next,” she told me. The lines were so clear I could even here her take a puff of a cigarette.

“Right after Karl gets done with Rummy. So I might have to put you on hold.”

Karen’s giant black Lexus SUV had a communication system fit for a billion dollar nuclear submarine.

I don’t think she even knew how many wireless voice and data lines she had.

A sophisticated code scrambling system. Seven levels of security.

The same plastic they put on the space shuttle to protect the thing.

Some kind of plastic amour wrapped the whole mighty fortress up like an invisible cocoon.

Three times the weight of the SUV’s driven by all the other soccer Moms.

I told her once that she’d be in trouble if she had to actually pay for gas.

“No problem,” I told her. “I’ll wait.”

Just then I heard Karl’s “snarl voice” screech through the speakerphone of her second line.

That was the voice Karl used with us whenever the Chief was off bike riding or clearing brush

on the farm and things started getting dicey.. Rummy came up with the name.

Said it reminded him of what the cats sounded like

back when he was a kid in Winnetka and him and his

young chums liked to play some game they called “Veterinarian”

“Karen!” Karl hissed. “Front and Center!”

“Seeya” she said and clicked me over to hold.

Immediately I got the hold music.

Some great tracks Karen had programmed down from either her

IPOD or some new toy from the top secret Halliburton research labs.

Cheney loved toys. Sometimes we all got a little scared

when he would bring in something like an exploding yoga mat---grin that crooked grin of his,

tilt his head and say, “So we can git um when they least expect it!

Just when they get all relaxed and everything!”

One of my favorite tracks, an old Grateful Dead tune kept me company:

I lit out from Reno

I was trailed by 20 hounds

Didn’t get to sleep last night

Till the morning came around. . .

Something about that song I always liked. Not sure what it was.

But before I could think about it, the song faded and just like I thought might happen:

I could hear everything going on in the conference call.

I suppose I should have told Karen that her phone bled.

That sometimes I could hear every single word said on the other lines.

Not always. But enough.That even with all that double secret security, the

engineers hadn’t quite got all the kinks out of the system. And maybe someday I would tell her.

But everybody had to have their secrets. Right?

As Karen drove through the dark, empty and sad

Texas night; I could hear Karl in full bore “Snarl Voice.”

“Do I have to do EVERYTHING for you people? Am I alone here?

When it comes right down to it: will it be just the Chief and I? Because you know that could happen.

You know it can. You know it will if I don’t get some action and some results here.

I tell you people. Heads will roll!”

I could almost picture everybody on the call,

Rummy, Cheney, Karen, Wolfowitz, Andy Card, probably

one or two of our Saudi friends---all of them with hang dog looks on their faces.

Scuffing their feet and looking at the ground in shame. Karl went on.

“Am I the only one here who knew that we had to move quick to find the bad guys?

How many times have I told you? At the very first sign of a problem: find the divide!

And if there isn’t one: make one---you useless morons!

Whoever that was from my office who tried to make the Governor of Louisiana the problem---

well, good instinct but very very, very, bad research!

Maybe 5 minutes of research and you would have seen that

she did ask us for help in writing before we blew her off. In writing people.

In writing! Even I can’t work with that!

Cheney piped up, “Karl, I . . . . .”

“Stop it Dick. We didn’t even know where you were, . . . .Dick. “

“But I. . . .”

“Enough Dick. You’d be useless to me going after the Mayor of New Orleans anyway.

Oh make no mistake. We haven’t forgotten about him.

He’ll get his turn. But it will be later. When it’s quiet. No, you all know how it works: when we

can’t find the bad guy on the outside---we give them one of ours.”

“Brownie?,” said I voice I couldn’t place.

“Of course Brownie. We pull him out. Put him in charge of hurricanes that haven’t happened yet.

Then we turn his head into a football. And we watch the games begin.”

“But Karl, piped up another voice that might have been Wolfowitz.. . . .”What if. . . .”

“What if NOTHING Paul! Perhaps there is a lesson here you might want to pay attention to.

Better hope all those terrorists don’t go away Paul.

Because that would leave only YOU!”

“Yes Karl” came the nods of assent throughout the virtual room.”

“Now. Hughes. It’s your turn. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that I must

have your genius here. We can’t do this without you, Hughes.

Now here’s what I need. In the months,

oh in the years that follow: this just might prove to be our last

and most noble stand.

The enemy, and you have seen the enemy in the faces of all those people left

behind, all those poor people. Poor people I tell you.

The enemy will cite facts, social theories, a religion different than

the one we’ve made for them. Lord help us, maybe even more than one religion.

And we must have our very first opening shot back at this enemy,

our opening salvo if you will. And it must be so simple, so bloody simple,

that you can say it all in---oh I don’t know—two words.

You know that he’s at his best when we give him two words to say.

Now Karen, dear sweet and innocent looking soccer Mom Karen:

o you have those two words for us? Hmmm?

“Karl, I’ve been trying. Really I have. You know I. . . .

oh, just a minute Karl, I have a Code Red call coming in on one of my other lines,

something about something Barbara Bush said about people in the Astrodome. One second. . . .”

Karen clicked back to me and said, “Roger, I got NOTHING!

And he wants me to name our first shot. And he said I could only

have two words to do it! Two words Roger! Even I. . . .just a second. . .Roger.

I’ve got to take this other call. I’m gonna put you on hold. Think Roger. Think.

We only have a few seconds and Karl is waiting!”

Karen clicked into the other call and the song that came on the hold music was one I

hadn’t heard in years. An obscure novelty song from 1965.

Sung by a black woman named Shirley Ellis.

The name game!

Shirley!

Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley

Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley!

No way anybody would get the connection. I knew it would work.

In an hour, there’d be Power Point “Talking Points” spinning out to every

news outlet in the world. When the Chief came in for his morning briefing,

he’d see it too. When Karl liked a phrase, he’d set standards of the phrase

having to be used a minimum of once every 20 seconds. And I had the phrase!

Karen would pick up on it immediately.

I listened to the song, waiting to once again come thru for Karen:

Come on everybody!

I say now let's play a game

I betcha I can make a rhyme out of anybody's name

The first letter of the name, I treat it like it wasn't there

But a B or an F or an M will appear

And then I say bo add a B then I say the name and Bonana fanna and a

And then I say the name again with an F very plain

and a fee fy and a mo

And then I say the name again with an M this time

and there isn't any name that I can't rhyme

I tried my own name:

Roger, Roger bo bodger

Bo nana nana fo foger

Fe fi fo foger

Roger

I was about to do “Chuck” when she came back on the line.

“Roger, I got about 5 seconds or I’m sunk. What do I do?

What do I call our first shot? How can I possible do this with two words?”

“Karen, do you remember a song called “The Name Game?”

“Of COURSE not! And what does THAT have to do with . . . and can’t you see?

Don’t you understand? I. . . .wait a minute. The “Name Game”

“Yep.”

“The Name Game, Name Game. . . .the BLAME GAME!!!!!!! THAT”S IT!!!!

I got it!!!! We call it THE BLAME GAME!!!!!

They’ll love it! Roger, you are a GENIUS! How can I ever thank you!”

“Don’t worry Karen. That’s what friends are for,” I told her.

And as I did---she clicked off and drove even deeper into the darkness

of the empty Texas night.

Sun, 11 Sep 2005 23:50:21 GMT

Mon, 29 Aug 2005 04:04:10 GMT

Ray Nordstrand and the Peace Mom at the 7-11

“I remembered my songs in the night.
My heart mused and my spirit inquired,”

Psalm 77:6

“Oh yeah. . .

That’s the Midnight Special.”

Huddie Ledbetter

Round about the time to welcome in Ray Nordstrand. . .

Bob Gibson and Steve Goodman, both with beaming smiles, their big guitars ringing out like heaven’s golden trumpets, and a very large crowd of old Chicagoans begin to sing in just the same way Norm and Ray would welcome in each year.

If we only have love

Then tomorrow will dawn

And the days of our year

Will rise on that morn

If we only have love

To embrace without fears

We will kiss with our eyes

We will sleep without tears

Somebody in the crowd tosses out a line about the Gates of Heaven looking a lot like the Gate of Horn. Fred Holstein, strolling up to the stage, says , “I believe the punch line would be ‘one has a much higher cover charge’ but the set up to the joke needs work.”

A gentle laugh rolls across the room as Holstein brings the whole crowd right into the song

Well, you wake up in the morning

You hear the work bell ring

And the march you to the table

You see the same damn thing

Huddie Ledbetter himself stands up and the crowd is now way beyond that group of old Chicagoans. Because in welcoming Ray, it’s a crowd of everyone whoever heard the music played on radio station WFMT. A crowd the stretches world wide. Streaming world wide now. It might just be a crowd too big to count.

Too big to count till Ray gets here.

So the crowd just sings of that long gone lonely Texas train. Sings right along with Leadbelly;

Let the Midnight Special, shine a light on me

Oh let the Midnight Special,

Shine a ever lovin light on me.

And as the crowd becomes one voice blessed by countless tones and rainbow colors of diversity---a voice that sounds of praising God and a diversity that welcomes all: Leadbelly changes the name of the Texas town in his song.

You can do that with folk music.

Because folk music really can be about exactly what is happening right here and now. Especially now. When we are here to sing for Ray. So Leadbelly leads the world wide chorus with:

If you ever go to Crawford

Well you better walk right

And you better not gamble

And you better not fight.

And then just when he gets to that word fight----we can also see this scene:

In the half light quiet dawn still shaking off the chill of the open Texas night, Cindy the Peace Mom, in jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt pulled up tight around her head, pushes thru the door of the Crawford 7/11: pretty much the only store in town.

That countless crowd that’s joined together to celebrate Ray Nordstrand goes still for a moment to watch what happens next.

A young man in a t-shirt that says “Cowboys Rule” stands smirking behind the counter. The Peace Mom walks in just as the smirk turns into a big yawn at a young and empty looking woman wearing flip flops on her feet and a diamond ring on her finger that throws off a jagged sparkle every time she hits her fist on the counter’s lottery machine. As if the woman's voice were the diamond's sparkle. The sparkle punctuates the syllables as the woman says,

“THAT’S NOT FAIR!’ It’s just not fair!

The t-shirt boy behind the counter itches his nose and says, “Lady I don’t own this place. So I am just doin what my boss told me to do. If you want paper cups, you got to pay for them.”

“But the price you are charging me is twice what I would usually pay! You are taking advantage because you know I need those cups and there is no where else to buy them!” I got several hundred people waking up real soon. And they all will want their coffee.”

“Lady, I am just doing business here.” The boy throws up his hands in that universal gesture of “what can I do?”

So the woman the diamond says, “Maybe I just wasn’t clear. I’m with the good guys here. I’m on your side. I believe in the war. I drove all the way from Dallas. Brought my friends. I’m with you. I am here for the President. I support our troops."

“Lady, we are all here for the President,” the boy answered back. He’s the reason we’re in business. And when that other lady came here to talk to the President to ask him why he killed her boy. Why my boss saw the opportunity. And this week alone we gonna make our sales numbers for the year! Now, lady don't that make you just loveAmerica?”

"But everybody needs water. And most folks would like some coffee. And without the cups. . . .none of us real American’s can drink! People might start leaving if they can’t get their drinks. And then where would the President be? Who would stand behind him and be the ones to say that we must stay the course in the war!”

“Lady, the only think I can tell you. How’s this. You buy ALL my cups. You buy everything I got. That’s 100,000 paper cups---and I will let you have them for the regular price.

But I can’t do that, said the women now beginning to cry. We only got a few hundred here. What are we gonna do with 100,000 paper cups? I think I am just out of luck here. Maybe I just should have stayed in Dallas!”

And as she buried her face in her hands with a sobbing that she learned on the stage of her junior high, the Peace Mom stepped forward and said: “Listen. If we do this together we can buy all 100,000 of those cups.”

The diamond woman turned and looked at the Peace Mom and said, “Hey, you’re her You mean that we’d be buying cups for everyone? The cups for all of you who are against the President? All of you who want to stop the war?””

And Cindy answered back, “Honey, I’m just a Mom who lost my son. And I’ve never really had a business. Never even been that good at math.

I don’t even know where that idea came from. It's like it came right out of nowhere..

I don’t even know if I can get the money. But I just had this idea. I just had this idea.

That together maybe everyone could have a drink of water or nice cup of coffee in the morning.”

The diamond woman looked at the Peace Mom. She said, “Well, alright.”

And as the two woman shook hands in the Crawford Texas 7/11: Ray Nordstrand saw that the deal was a good one. So he spun this song for eternity to hear.

If we only have love

We can melt all the guns

And then give the new world

To our daughters and sons

Then with nothing at all

But the little we are

We’ll have conquered all time

All space, the sun, and the stars.

The deal was a good one.

So as Ray spun the song.

All eternity could hear.

Like a song for all the good people who touched up my life.

People I'm thanking my stars for tonight.

Wed, 24 Aug 2005 22:03:32 GMT

Sun, 21 Aug 2005 23:50:29 GMT

BEFORE THE SOUNDS OF THE FIGHTER JETS

And these are but the outer fringe of his works; how faint the whisper we hear of him! Who then can understand the thunder of his power?"

Job 26:14

In Chicago on the night before the annual “Air Show” brought the F-!6’s to skim screaming across the city streets, set off the parking alarms and make frightened dogs howl: we’re downtown. And it’s calm.

You stand a few blocks west of the sprawling new Pritzker Pavilion and it looks like some sort of silver space junk. A giant shredded tin can defeated in a galactic battle of the titans by a monster can opener. Left dizzy and sprawled up into the sky.

But walk into the park and the very world you live in changes.

First, you’re in Paris on a hot August night. Fountains and flowers. And in the lovingly crafted symmetry of the landscaping; somewhere Edith Piaf is singing, Jacque Brel is drinking, Picasso is scribbling and maybe if you walked just a few blocks from here there’d be this little dark place where Coleman Hawkins comes after the gig when it’s just about him and the saxophone.

Then Paris folds into Chicago as you approach the pavilion. And as you stand and look up through Frank Gehry’s silver diamond lattice work that somehow manages to pull together the stage, the seats, the sloping green lawn and the very sky itself---you begin to really sense the wonder in what looked like silver space junk from far away. A stage surrounded by a superstructure that’s like an actor or singer popping the palms of their hands out to the audience—holding their palms way above their head and singing out--- from this place we will do the art that talks with God. From this place we will listen for those whispers.

Families of all shapes and sizes strolling the paths of the park. People linger on the benches. You stop on the side of the big stage to listen and watch. The orchestra in shorts and t- shirts. A leisurely rehearsal.

A curly grey haired man who even from a distance seems to just radiate some sort of musical glow---sits down at the piano. Around the orchestra---the musicians’ shoulders slump at ease. Daniel Barenboim—is just goofing around. It’s a break in the rehearsal. A few musicians get up and leave the stage.

Then a nondescript woman in jeans and a blue summer top walks over and leans on the piano. Barenboim ---with one finger—hits the same note eight times—Duke Ellington’s “C-Jam Blues”---and the woman lets go with a laugh that one just might be able to hear across the lake in Michigan, Barenboim—still on a break—plays the first 2 bars of Ellington’s “Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.”

And then the woman, opera diva Rene Fleming, recognizable instantly by her voice, on a break this Thursday night, opens up the floodgates to sing. It is a voice as grand as the whole of our piece of the summer night sky. A voice that on a regular work night would be tossing off Puccini or Verdi on the stages of the world.

But tonight, on this break, on the night before the weapons of war come to parade across our horizon---this voice blending with Barenboim's solo piano and the Ellington tune

Do nothing till you hear from me

Pay no attention to what’s said

Why people tear the seams of anyone’s dreams

Is over my head.

Daniel Barenboim, Argentinean born, maestro citizen of the world takes the interlude. From back in the orchestra, a bass jumps in to give a bottom. Renee Fleming moves her shoulders to Barenboim’s gentle swing.

That’s when the real miracle begins. From the far side of the stage, something you didn’t see before. This old, old man in a red checkered shirt plants his cane to get rise from his chair and steadies himself. Rene Fleming sees the man get up, laughs again like a star had just lit up the night and says: “Ah, our host! Studs Terkel ladies and gentlemen!” The orchestra applauds. And Renee sings to Studs:

Do nothing till you hear from me,

At least consider our romance,

If you should take the words of others you’ve heard

I haven’t a chance.

And even off on the side in the distance, the sparkle in Studs Terkel’s 93 year old eyes matches Fleming’s grace—and as Barenboim takes the song around for one last quiet turn---Studs Terkel joins him, places one foot in front of the other, then shows an old slide step. A gentle soft shoe. Renee Fleming spreads her arms out in joy. Whispering memories of dancing in an old soft shoe that comes forth in the swaying of his shoulders while his feet still feel that they can keep the time. How faint the whisper of that memory of dancing: while the old man’s eyes still shine.

Some kiss may cloud my memories

And other arms may hold a thrill

But please do nothing till you hear in from me

And you never will.

A whispering memory of the dance. Tapped out perfectly in time. As if it were a prayer of thanks.

Thanks.---before the manufactured thunder of the jets.