A perfect 10

Dear Blog Friend

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am fine. It is official. I am starting a petition to the powers that be for an extra 4 to 5 hours every weekend. There is just too much fun to pack into 48 hours and get to bed early enough to function on Monday morning. Here it is 9:16 on Sunday night. There is no way that I will finish soon enough to get a good night’s sleep. Four hours would be just enough for writing and editing our time together each week. The fifth hour could productively be used napping each weekend.

Before I go much further, I want to give a shout out to the unidentified one or two faithful readers from Germany. I don't know you by name but you follow closely enough to always be one of the first to read new editions as they come hot off the press.

Wie gehts?

Ich gehts mir gut.

I hope that you are proud of me Mr. Thompson. It has been 32 years since high school German, and I did that unaided.

Last weekend at the Dunes was great. Yet, the pounding of the surf ground the topical ideas for last week’s blog into mental dust. So now, I have ideas for blogs backing up like planes on an O' Hare runway during a snowstorm in January. I have three right now. With each passing day, they grow more dated, old, and stale.

For example, the Olympics should not pass by un-noticed, escaping comment. I love the Olympics. It gives me the illusion of activity while sitting on the couch. It is almost as effective a WII fit. Also it provides me with a wonderful opportunity to ridicule people who are vastly superior to me. I think that Usane Bolt can run faster than I can ride my bike. I compensate by calling him Insane Bolt.  Gabby Douglas is so strong that she could crack walnuts with her toes. Yet, I must confess a bit of smugness when she fell from the balance beam. If you look on Wikipedia, her Olympic experience is footnoted as the first gymnast to win the all around gold but not medal in any of the individual events. That kinda knocks the shine right off that Wheaties box doesn't it?

More superiority? Let's look at water polo. Yes, water polo, a made up sport. I do believe that water polo players take the following trajectory on the road to Olympic greatness. They show up for swimming tryouts on the first night in their speedos, swim goggles hanging from their neck. They have the commitment, the dedication to be at the pool for three hours every day. They have a great human interest story that haunts them. They dream of Bob Costas interviewing them the night after their triumphant medal ceremony. "Sure the news of that devastating hang nail rocked my world, but after the shock of the news, I got back to the pool and rededicated myself to being the best Wheaties eating swimmer I could be." What they don't have is any speed.

So the coach comes along side and encourages them to become involved with the synchronized swim teams. That next evening they show up to practice with nose plugs and vaseline on their teeth "so that smile will shine" only to find that what they lack I speed they have not made up for in grace. Luckily, the water polo coach arrived a few minutes early and noticed that this person has some real talent; a fair amount of buoyancy and no respect for personal space. So after a few minutes of chatting with the water polo coach, the sync coach approaches this new Olympic star, suggests they pick up a funky swim cap with these weird ear things and hang around for practice. Here is a SAT clue for you college wannabees; water polo is to swimming as curling is to . . . .  That’s right C: ice hockey.

I am sure that you are wondering what I believe was the most incredulous moment of these Olympics. For me it was the reporting of these games. I remember vividly that one of the trending articles on Yahoo.com was “Why Doesn’t the Sand Stick Beach Volleyball Players?”. I was incredulous that more people would read that asinine article than will read my blog during the course of a 100 years. Everyone should know why sand doesn’t stick to beach volleyball players. It’s the Olympics people. It is made for TV drama. It is the world of make believe. They undoubtedly have a whole crew of people with little air compressors come out and blow the sand off of these modern day gods and goddesses. It is edited out and we see our heros sandless.

I shouldn’t be incredulous. I know that sex sells. Beach volleyball is all about the sex appeal. Come on, all of the beach volleyball players are past their prime real volleyball players who still look good in swim wear. All of them except Phil Dalhausser, he is a bit homely. (judging those who are infinitely superior to me.) Well in an effort to boost readership, I have decided to start wearing skimpy beachwear when writing each week’s blog offering. Let the blog views begin.

Best reporting of the Olympics? I am glad to say that it is the following sentence by yours truly. “Hope Solo, US Soccer goalkeeper, tweets about Olympic Village sex while keeping the ball out of the goal.” That is not a double but a triple entendre with a brutal ironic twist on the dismount and she stuck the landing. Hah. Most of my family members will say that I went too far for that obscure joke. They are correct, but it tickles my funny bone.

Worst color commentary of the Olympics happened during real volleyball. The US had a spectacular player with the unfortunate name of Destiny Hooker. She is tall, graceful, and a powerful player. After another great spike the color commentator said, and I quote “Hustling Destiny Hooker.” Really? Are you proud of yourself mister announcer guy? Did you get a round of fist bumps from the other color commentators while eating your shepherd’s pie down at the pub later that evening? Hustling Destiny Hooker – unbelievable.

Thank goodness the Olympics are over. A fortnight is enough. It is time for me to get off of the couch and do something while the world is dispersed for the next four years until the world comes together in Rio.

How will I cope? I suppose that I will bask in the knowledge that my teeth are straighter than Michael Phelps. What’s up with that?

 

Take Care.

 

Roger

A day on Indiana Lake?

Dearest Blog Reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. In a general effort to make my adoring public green with envy, I am reporting to you from the shores of Lake Indiana in the Lake Shores national park. No, no, I am sure of our location because I just witnessed a young park ranger discharging her duties on this windy August, Saturday morning. She is walking the beach making friends with every dog she encounters. What a great job! I think that I would turn down any promotion that was offered in order to walk the beach of the largest freshwater lake in the universe for the rest of my adult working life of 75 more years. (see "Launching Pad"). I sometimes worry for your long term memory, and your ability to make subtle connections.)

So I am on the beach at the edge of Lake Indiana (No, I am really sure that I am on the shores of Lake Indiana. I turned right at Gary and have not gotten around to Portage. I am in Indiana. Besides, I refuse to call a Superior Lake after a group of people whose moniker employs the name of the male goose. Michiganders is ridiculous.) So I am sitting on the beach at the edge of Lake Indiana having traveled three hours after enduring a long summer of record heat and drought to Beverly Shores, Indiana only to find winds out of the north at 20 mph, a wind chill of 55 degrees, and a rip tide warning that the young ranger was dutifully warning us about on her dog petting rounds this morning. I do love this beach and this town. I suppose it has the good fortune of a couple of nuclear power plants just down the road, and Chicago's effluent being pushed ashore by northerly winds probably keeps the teeming masses out of this back yard.  It always seems a little sleepy here.

Speaking of sleepy, this surf is like a sleep sound machine on steroids. We left home at 0 dark hundred this morning. When we arrived, a beach contingent of five groups huddled on shore wondering if it is worth it. Then suddenly a couple of kids ran down to the edge of surf only to scamper back out shrieking like gulls witnessing Jared drop a turkey club Subway on the boardwalk. It was decided. Blankets were spread. Chairs were set up. Bags of sand toys were emptied of their bright orange, sharp yellow, lime green accessories. For the next two hours, the pounding surf, accentuated by the distant and muffled joy of children having their world expand and contract in rhythmic undulations pulled me along to rejuvenation.

Every time I have been here it has been a blessing. Once, it was hot and not a breath of air was moving. Bev and I spent the day floating 15 feet offshore, rolling off of our rafts and walking up the shore when the bit of current had taken us out of sight of our beach towels and cooler. Another day was spent on a roller coaster ride of three foot waves knowing that the temperature soared 15 degrees above our balmy 80 a mere 10 miles from where we bobbed up and down on that gently rolling surf.

Even today, with temperatures below my comfort zone and surf that is churning, desperately trying to make my great state a little smaller, I have lounged in my beach shelter tent made for non-sun-worshiping pale people and sold to us in the middle of winter on Amazon. I have watched kids scamper in and out of the surf. I have spent a lovely day with the lovely Beverly at Beverly Shores.

Take care

Roger

Lamentations?

Dearest Blog Reader:

I hope this blog finds you doing well. I am fine. I am doing well during a mini three day vacation here near the end of what I like to call the effective summer. The effective summer is that time before you notice that the days are getting shorter, and sooner than I wish, I will be riding in the dark dodging assassin deer. It is an affliction that I suffer from because I don't live in the present well. It won't be long now before our house starts to empty out. Hillary, the Exodus intern will head back to Texas and then on to Sooner Nation. Exodus is an organization that helps international refugees relocate in the United States. Grace will be heading back to Ball State soon after. She will be there for her junior year. That junior year will culminate with her wedding next June. Times, they are changing.

While I am fine, I have been drawn into a period of lamentation. I have been trying to figure out why. Sure, part of it is emptying of the house. That's not all. I think it is a culmination of many things; Aurora, Colorado, the Presidential Campaign, a general sense that the goodness of the populous may not be enough to carry us through the tough times, tough times that are seeming to continue on and on, the hero worship of the Olympics. All of these things have taken a toll.

To top it off, I have been listening to a Prayer for Owen Meany. Like all of my literary adventures these days, it is an auditory excursion. My drive, a two hour daily commute, uses up all of my curl up with a good book time. But making lemon aide from lemons, I have plenty of time to have someone else read to me. A Prayer for Owen Meany is, pound for pound, the best book in the world for many Sharritts. We have each read it multiple times. In fact, they have multiple copies in the house, except for when we try to proselytize about its goodness, and give those multiple copies, save one, away to other people to read. I and my brood love the book. I think for many reasons. For me, it is the sense of duty; to persevere wherever God may lead you, to count the cost and follow anyway. It is a book about having faith through the veil of mystery. Another plus? It is a book that is been banned in several cities in the United States.

Don't get me wrong. A Prayer for Owen Meany did not cause my lament. It just honed it to the razor's edge. That honing is a good thing. As I have turned this blog over in my mind, it has struck me, that I do not do lamentation well. I do anger well. I start on a lament; pulling this thread, probing that theme and my anger is off to the races. Anger is a good rhetorical tactic. Shakespeare exploited it in Julius Cesar. Marc Antony "I come not to praise Cesar but to bury him." After a couple of times sarcastically calling Brutus an  honorable man, Marc was moving into the palace, and chasing after Cleopatra and Richard Burton was buying Elizabeth a really big diamond; ah, the disjointed cause and effect of history.

No, a lamentation is hard for me to write. I tend to trend toward and hang out with anger in my grieving process. Owen Meany has provided the sharpness, the raw sadness to at least make me consider staying with a lament.

I mentioned earlier that maybe the Aurora, Co. massacre, or the upcoming elections were triggering my mood. No something has been gnawing at me for a while. I have a firm belief the vast majority of people are very decent and kind. They act out of a sense of self-awareness that looks out for the welfare of others. However, recently I have started to doubt that. Something is off. I am full of doubt. As I have let myself drift in and out of the consciousness of this unease, circling in probing it, poking it with my toe, I think that the problem for me is that religion or morality or even goodness is often confused for political philosophy.

It is a confusion that is problematic. It is often couched in terms of what God intended. I think it is more accurately characterized as what I want God to intend. Who wants to be wrong in front of the big guy? I don't. If I can proclaim that we see eye to eye, that God agrees with the political philosophy of my large group of people, God is on our side and not yours, so sorry but you suck. It seems unlikely to me that in a fallen world in our fallen state that we would not divine that intention purely very often. Yet, we go around acting as if we and God are simpatico

I am sure that you have friends who you don't see eye to eye with who have reposted pages declaring "I am a ______." or "Being a ________ means." You fill in the blank  with either political label, and then they have a picture or series of statements claiming the moral high road of all aspects of the topic at hand. In reading or viewing these statements, I do get a sense that the "I'm okay. You're okay." philosophy is in this case abandoned. As I read these iconic tomes, I get the over riding sense that "I'm okay. You're not." is the message being communicated.

About a month ago, I saw a post by a friend proclaiming an affiliation that I don't share. It claimed the moral high ground; leaving people who vote the way that I do with a set of beliefs that are best described as undesirable. The thing that made me saddest was that it was posted by a friend who I have worked side by side with in a difficult situation. I would describe both of us as people of faith with a deep belief in God. It makes me sad.

I think that is at the root cause of my sadness. Not that people have lost their innate goodness, it's that half the political spectrum has condemned the other half to badness. In this political season, the ranks of the finger pointers grow. It's not that people have lost their innate goodness. It's that I have been accused by people I respect that I have no innate goodness within me.

Take care

Roger