Clouds and Wolves

A monster shelf of clouds has been towering over the mountains west of Helena all day. I caught a glimpse of it just minutes ago as the final traces of navy blue sky gave way to black. If there were any real threat within that mass of clouds, I imagine some people around here would be worried. After all, when danger lurks, it's nice to be able to see it. But night has arrived. Day is somewhere else. And I'd be left with nervous speculation for a companion if I believed that those clouds posed any risk.

I think back to the opening events in Jack London's White Fang. During the beginning of the book, London vaults the reader right into a serious struggle (he uses toil or a form of it repeatedly, and it is brilliant use of a verb). Two men are journeying through the frozen, hard north country. Their task is transporting a casket, assisted by their team of sled dogs. A hungry wolf pack begins taking the dogs one by one. Eventually all the men's dogs, and even one of the men, fall prey to the wolves. The second man is rescued, quite literally, at the last possible minute.

What is interesting, however, is how London crafts the pack's presence. Specifically, how the men sense the wolves at night as the pack moves around their camp, just far enough from the glow of the fire to avoid being seen. If you have read the story, then you know full well just how effectively London grabs you and shoves you right into that camp, and how nerve-racking it is to be there. The danger is out there. London's characters know it. Daylight in this part of the book, by virtue of the north's winter season, is scarce. The darkness outside of the fire's glow only serves to amplify the men's fear. Their enemy--the pack--is active, and it is excruciating not to know what the enemy is doing in the darkness.

For various reasons, I've had some discussions with my wife recently about things like danger and safety. I'm the kind of person who wants certainty. I can deal with ambiguity in some areas of my life. In other spaces, however, I want to know what to expect. I want to know what things mean. I want to know why some things I've heard were said, and what I'm supposed to do about them. Some of my questions have turned out to be my nemeses. They have become my wolves. My enemies. And it doesn't matter how mammoth my campfire is, they remain, it seems, just beyond the light. They circle and dance, and when dawn breaks down that firelight wall around the camp, my wolves retreat to the groves of "dark spruce" (to borrow terms from London). They take off to the other side of a nearby hill. But they return with the blackness. They always do.

The good news is that my wolves are quite tame. They do not stop life the way London's wolves did. But there are times when my uncertainties are potent. My wife had some good things to say about those times when I find myself there, listening to the wolves slink around my camp: "You just gotta do whatever you need to do to prepare yourself for whatever might come your way." She's right. And it's right for everyone.

Preparation is the key. It could be learning or training or storing food or loving your kids or any number of things. For London's two men, the key would have been to bring more ammunition. They had a rifle, you see. They had the beginnings of what they needed. But when the wolves started causing problems the men only had three cartridges left. The situation deteriorated quickly. Things clearly would have been far different if they had packed more of what they needed. Many of us have found ourselves situations where we wish we had brought more, or bought more, or studied more, or ventured out into learning something new. My list of those experiences would likely be longer than one page.

Once again, I need to listen to my wife. As I prepare myself in as many ways as I can for whatever may come, my uncertainties will weaken. My wolves will become poodles. And if the looming clouds around Helena ever do pose some kind of threat, I'll be ready.

Dollars and Questions

A dollar really isn't that big of a deal. Sometimes it can seem like it, though. We all seem to have struggles at some point. College. Kids. Furloughs. Kids. Salary reductions. Kids. Layoffs. Unexpected expenses.

I'll never forget one experience I had that was based on a few dollars I had with me. My wife and I had moved from Northern California to the central part of the state. We drove home to Chico fairly regularly. The trip took around four and a half hours. There was a great place to stop about half way through the journey, complete with several gas stations and all of the regular fast food places. During one particular journey, we stopped to fuel up and grab some food at the McDonald's there. That's where I met Billy.

Billy was a scruffy looking guy who approached me in the parking lot. He didn't look too crazy or dirty or scary. He was just a guy who looked tired and down. He asked me if I had any money I could spare. The pivotal moment that so many of us dread. And of course, the thoughts began right away. What are you going to buy? Are you going to go get some beer at that gas station? Do you really need my money? Why don't you go get a job?

We've all been there. Most of us have declined, at some point or another, assisting someone who has asked for help in this manner. It's easy to do. The reasons vary. What if the person waits for me to reach in my pocket and then jumps me while I'm distracted? What if the person is going to just buy some beer with my money? What if the person really has an apartment and is just doing this as an easy way to get money? I've often had these kinds of thoughts over the years. Sometimes I've justified staying my hand. Other times I've liberally shared with the person who asked for money, deciding that it would be on his head--not mine--if he chose to use my money for something like a can of beer or some cigarettes. Occasionally, I've been able to help without judging--just giving money away without thinking about anything more than helping the person. But that's not been the norm for me. Maybe it has been for you, for which you ought to be congratulated. But I need to work on that. I'll admit it. I'm not sure why that's hard. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that that's one way I cope with feeling awkward about a situation.

So there I was, faced with some dude I did not know at all, and he was asking me for money. A thought came to me: I'm going to make him do something for my three dollars. I looked him in the eye and said, "I have three dollars. But you have to answer three questions for me first." He was a bit surprised, I'm sure, by what had to be an odd response to his request. He agreed to my conditions.

My first question was, "What is your name?" "Billy," he said. I do not recall his last name.

My second question: "Where did you grow up?" He told me he grew up in a town near Stockton, California, very close to where we were standing at the time.

Third question: "When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?" I remember that he seemed to light up a bit with this one. "A professional pitcher," he said. He then told me about a game he pitched in high school, during which he did quite well against the opposing team.

I gave him his three dollars.

What is it about things like that that leave lasting impressions? I'd never had an experience like that prior to that day. I've never had one since (which, I think, is a shame). I'm fairly certain that Billy had rarely, if ever, had someone come up with such a scheme when it came to offering him some help. But there we were. Two former high school baseball players, standing in front of a McDonald's. He'd pitched well against a team in high school. I knew what that was like. He had a name. He'd grown up in a smaller, agricultural community. Same for me.

I think most folks like it when someone takes an interest in them. Who doesn't want to talk about his or her dreams? Who doesn't want to talk about him- or herself? Not in an arrogant manner, but simply by way of sharing experiences and thoughts and feelings. I'm willing to bet that Billy got at least a little kick out of my silliness that day. I got a huge kick out of it. How would I have known I was standing next to someone who pitched a great game in high school? How would I have known that this guy who asked for money had once dreamed of becoming a big-league pitcher?

So who else is out there? What do we know about the people around us? They have names and dreams and stories. I imagine that they all, including you and me, have at least one interesting story to tell. Even in the situations where it might seem unlikely to find significance in another person, as in my experience with Billy, there is something valuable to uncover.

I gave Billy three bucks. Three lousy bucks. And I met someone whom I'm sure I'll never see again. But he is someone I will never forget.

My thanks to Billy.

Goblins and Halloween

There's something about a 2-year-old girl dressed as a ninja. Especially when she does ninja moves. She's dressed in black sweat pants and a black, long-sleeve shirt. She wears an orange headband, and she will kick your butt. With cuteness, that is.

Halloween has taken on a completely different meaning. It used to be a silly time for me to go out and get candy and screw around. Now it's all about how Andrea and I can get the kids into the cutest costumes possible. For example, how can you go wrong with a chicken costume that is exceedingly cute and soft? I've never wanted to grab a chicken and squeeze it close until one of our kids was dressed as one. We've had various animals at Halloween time. A tiger, a chicken, a dog, and I'm sure there have been others.

There's no telling what the kids will want to be for Halloween on any given year. They choose something and it lasts for around 4.5 minutes. Somehow, this year, the kids decided they wanted to be ninjas. I wouldn't have had a clue about how to put those costumes together. Leave that to a bright woman who has a knack for finding stuff that, when put together, works very well. The kids tried their costumes last night. They loved them. They are now professional assassins. Very small, professional candy assassins. If you need to 'take care' of any kind of sweet something or other, I 'know people.'

I have been guilty of being a stick in the mud with certain things. I'm not very good at being excited about every little thing that rolls my way. But I'm glad that I'm able to get into Halloween as much as I do. I don't dress up. But I'm happy to get the kids stuff and take them to our church's annual trunk or treat party. They get a big kick out of it, and it brings plenty of smiles. The consumption of candy at rocket thruster speed and the accompanying candy wrapper mess can be a tad frustrating. But those things end. It's all worth it. It's all good. Kudos to Andrea, who never fails to take Halloween by the horns and make it fun for our goblins (and for herself in the process!). I'm very fortunate to have married someone who gets as excited as a little kid about so many things.

So bring it on. We've got 4 ninjas in our family, and someone who knows ninjas well enough to clothe them. I think we all will just sit back and let the 2-year-old just take care of things. She'll kick your butt.

The Reverend

When Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated, the media grabbed hold of a young man who was at the scene, who actually held King as he died from gunshot wounds on a hotel balcony. At least that's what Jesse Jackson told the media.

When King was shot, Jesse Jackson was nowhere near the balcony where King died. Instead, he was in the parking lot below the balcony. He hid for a while, which is understandable. Most people would want to be away from the dangers of gunfire. But then the TV cameras began appearing. Jesse Jackson was born, in a sense, from between the legs of a camera tripod.

Ken Timmerman, author of Shakedown, a Jackson expose, interviewed the people who were actually with King when he was shot. He spoke with the others who, at the time the shots rang out, were in various places around the hotel. As soon as the TV cameras showed up at the hotel, Jackson told others in the group that they should not talk to the press. What did Jackson do next? He went immediately to Chicago, hired a public relations agent, and did an interview on NBC's Today Show. In a bloody shirt.

He'd been there, you see. He had held King in his arms as he died. The only problem was that it was all a lie. There were other interviews that day. A legend was born. A Chicago power rose quickly, and literally, from nowhere.

That's not where the fun stops. The Reverend Jackson never completed any kind of seminary. No one is sure where the title Reverend came from. He has a college degree--an honorary doctorate--from an institution that bestowed Jackson with the degree after Jesse Jackson, Jr., was appointed to the school's board. Other than a phony title and a bogus degree, Jesse Jackson has no credentials.

And now he surfaces again. This time to decry the violence that has so publicly humiliated the city of Chicago. It's not surprising to see community leaders step forward to rally Chicagoans after the pointless death of a sixteen-year-old kid who was near--not in, but near--a gang fight. How did he show his support for finding an end to the gang violence in Chicago? He rode on a bus with some of the teenagers from the deceased student's school. And he made a statement at a news conference (gee, I wonder who called that news conference?). According to several articles, Jackson said, “This is a state of emergency given patterns of violence and patterns of killing." Surely Jackson knows what he's talking about. After all, no one would use the term pattern if he had not studied such things. Using the term pattern implies a familiarity with the issue.

If I were the father of the boy who died at the hands of some of Chicago's finest young men, I would welcome Jackson's efforts to rally the community. I would also do whatever I could to support him and his attempts to reassure the youth of Chicago that it's OK to stand up for what's right, and that gang violence is a fast track to nowhere-ville. I'd embrace Jackson. So long as he promised there wouldn't be any cameras. Then, and only then, might I believe he was sincere.

Angry Thespians

I have yet to find out to whom George Eliot was referring when he (really a she using a nom de plume) wrote, "He was like the cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow." But there are plenty of people in the news media who fit the bill.

I will never forget seeing Katie Couric's appearance on Larry King's show. Larry had lots of questions for Katie. How she felt about her new job as the anchor of CBS's evening newscast. How she felt about being the first female anchor of one of the big three (CBS, NBC, ABC) networks’ nightly newscast. How she planned on signing off (what she would say) at the end of each evening‘s newscast. Very important matters. At least the media was making it out to be important. Therein lies the problem. Anytime the media campaigns to bring attention to the media, it becomes the cock in Eliot’s quote.

The most obvious problem with all of this was that Katie landed the gig far too late in the game. You see, back in the day, there were only three major networks: NBC, ABC, and CBS. Each network offered a nightly newscast. The timing of the newscast was perfect. It was around dinner time, and families were home together (mind you, it was a different world back then). Families welcomed news anchors into their home each day, and relied on them to fill them in on what happened during the day.

I remember watching the news in the evenings. The three networks aired their newscasts at the same time. How was one to choose which network to watch? It came down to whom you liked the best. In my youth, the viewer was faced with choosing Dan Rather (CBS), Tom Brokaw (NBC) or Peter Jennings (ABC). I liked Brokaw. So I watched NBC. (I’m fully aware of the oddity it is for a youngster to watch the news.)

The “so what?” factor that hit so heavily against Couric’s landing the anchor position at one of the big three would have been irrelevant if the 24-hour news outlets had not surfaced with the advent of CNN in 1980. Couric’s biggest challenge was making her new job seem important. It was painfully obvious that it was unimportant because of the fact that CNN and Fox News, not to mention the other 24-hour cable news networks, already had female anchors who had one-hour shows all to themselves. What do you do with a half-hour nightly newscast if you’re CBS’s first female anchor when there is already a Nancy Grace with an entire hour all to herself each evening on Fox News? Or Paula Zahn’s hour-long show on CNN? Suddenly, Couric’s achievement looks like a participation trophy handed out at a Little League banquet.

And how did Couric get the job in the first place? Dan Rather, the quintessentially dramatic news man, decided to retire. The stage was set for an historic transition at CBS. Rather, who had been around CBS news since Moby Dick was a minnow, was retiring from the CBS Evening News, and Couric, who enjoyed monumental popularity on NBC’s The Today Show, was to take Rather’s seat at the storied and legendary news desk. Rather’s retirement was widely advertised and built up. It seemed like a pivotal moment in American history. One of the big three giants was to step down. I did not think I could miss Rather’s final newscast. Even newscasters on other networks were speculating at what Rather would say as he signed off for the final time. I began to wonder myself. What parting words would Dan Rather have for the world?

It turned out that Rather looked stoically into the camera--right into my eyes!--and said, simply, “Courage.” What a let down. And in retrospect, what a joke. What he said was not the joke. Instead, the fact that everyone cared about what he would say was the joke. After all, isn’t the newscaster, or newspaper reporter, simply there to tell the story? Isn’t he or she there to convey facts that have relevance to everyone’s life?

There are far too many people in the media who think that, at the very least, they are the story. The stories they tell are not the story, but they are the story. Or bigger than the stories. They think that people tune in to their shows not to listen to the stories they tell, but to listen to them tell the stories. Big difference.

Sometimes I need a strong stomach to get through the news. Learning about film director Roman Polanski, who fled the United States just before he was to be sentenced for raping a 13-year-old girl, has been eye-opening. It's been over 20 years since he was convicted of the crime, but what has been said about Polanski, directly and indirectly, over the past 12 years, has been extremely upsetting.

Indirect commentary on whether the crime and subsequent skipping out were acceptable came when Polanski won the Oscar for Best Director for The Pianist in 2003. I'm somewhat confused about the message from Hollywood. The Oscars organization, as well as "the Academy," should have ignored Polanski. Actually, they should have told him to return to the United States to face justice.

Whoopi Goldberg, amazing social commentator that she is, came to Polanski's defense recently, saying that his act was not a serious kind of rape (her words were that it was not 'rape rape'). Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen have come to his defense. Why? Why not tell him that he needs to pay the price for what he did to a 13-year-old girl?

Not all of Hollywood backs Polanski. On Jay Leno's show, Leno blasted him during his monologue. Chris Rock took him to task during his appearance on the same episode of Leno's show. Clearly there are plenty of people in Hollywood who know right from wrong. I'm just amazed that there are people and organizations who have come to his defense. Even those closest to him ought to defend the true victim in this story. As the Proverb says, "Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful."