Lift Up Your Hearts!

Heather and Jon gave us a gift certificate for the El Bodegon restaurant, because they know we've been mouring the demise of our favorite tapas restaurant.  We thought we'd celebrate our anniversary again tonight (the first celebration having been in Switzerland) and try it out.

Our intentions to use the gift certificate went by the board, however.  We arrived during tapas happy hour, and learned that we couldn't use both discounts.  We couldn't resist two-for-one tapas, so we'll need to return to use the gift certificate.  This is a good thing.  :)  The meal was thoroughly delightful:

Pimientos del Piquillo Rellenos (Roasted Piquillo peppers stuffed with crab meat in romesco sauce)

Gambas al Ajillo (Spanish Style Shrimp in a garlic and sherry wine sauce)

Patatas Bravas (Wedge potatoes with a Spanish spicy tomato sauce)

Champiñones al Ajillo (Mushrooms sautéed in garlic and Sherry wine)

The meal was accompanied by slices of toasted bread, which served the noble end of soaking up the delicious leftover sauces, making it some of the best garlic bread ever.

We finished the meal by splitting a dessert:

Tarta San Marcos (Homemade Vanilla Cake made with Orange Liqueur) 

Thanks, Heather and Jon!  We'll try again to use the gift certificate another time.... 

Insofar as I care about the Super Bowl, which isn't any distance at all, actually, I did think it would be cool to have an all-Pennsylvania matchup.  Failing that, I'll give condolences to my Philadelphia friends, say congratulations to my Pittsburgh friends, and hope the latter were safely away from downtown last night.  :)

At this moment, the temperature is the same in Orlando and Basel, which means that Orlando is having a "cold snap" and Basel has warmed up a bit since we were there.  Hillsboro, on the other hand....  Stay warm, all you Daleys!

Diplomacy.  It was Henry Kissinger's favorite game.  It was also a significant part of our lives in the early 1980s, back when Porter thought he had time to spend on interminable strategy board games.  He played in person; he played by mail.  He designed and implemented a multi-tiered rope-and-pulley game board system for our basement, so he could keep track of several games at once.  By far his favorite—no doubt because it is all skill, no luck—was Diplomacy.

I doubt the number of games Porter persuaded me to play exceeded two, but that didn't stop the whole family from being sucked into the vortex.  Somewhere in the process of all the conventions, fanzine activity, and of course, game playing, we made some lifelong friends, including two for whom Porter would subsequently be best man at their weddings.  Heather gave Porter his less sinister nickname, Dippy Daddy.  (The other, bestowed by one of his favorite opponents, was Porter the Knife.)  Two of our close friends published their own "Dipzines"—small publications with a few articles that primarly served the purpose of managing play-by-mail games—to which I occasionally submitted an article.  In one of them I even had a short-lived cartoon, which I called Dip City.

  Bill Highfield and Janet

Time, life, and a move brought an end to that era of our lives, but the Internet recently brought it back to mind.  Someone is collecting and posting old Dipzines, which I found through a Google search while looking for something else that I no longer recall.  Lo and behold, there were a few samples of Bill Highfield's The Modern Patriot (scroll down the page to find it) and a good collection of Don Sigwalt's Hoof and Mouth.  Of most interest to me, however, was the inclusion of Hoof and Mouth Issue #27x.

A minor side of the hobby that appealed to me was the creation of fake issues.  That is, someone would publish a Dipzine issue that had the appearance of one of the regular zines, but was not; usually it was a spoof containing clues to its deceptive nature.  As a puzzle-lover, I enjoyed reading the fakes.

I enjoyed even more creating my own.  When Don's typewriter broke down and he came to our house to use ours, I had the final piece for my own puzzle:  access to his mailing list.  I was already familiar with his zine, his style, and his life, not to mention his regular contributors.  Putting together #27x was great fun, and I eagerly awaited the response I was sure it would generate.

That's when I discovered there's such a thing as being too good.  Despite all the clues, to my knowledge no one ever guessed that the issue was a fake.  Even the principals had no idea I was behind it.  We gradually faded away from the hobby and 27x into the mists of time.  Until now.  Because I'm still proud of it.  It won't mean much to anyone not familiar with the real Hoof and Mouth, but if you want you can see it here.  I also can't resist reproducing my favorite part of the issue:

 

Li'l Writer Guy has return from his monastic retreat (we picked him up on our return from The Wedding), but is still experiencing re-entry, so you'll still mostly be getting quick takes and pointers to what others have written.  Probably lots of both, however, as the number of comment-worthy events and posts has multiplied almost out of control.  The most efficient way to deal with them is probably to present them with a simple "here, you might find this interesting."

I'm also working on a restructuring of this blog, so please bear with me as I play around.  For the first time in months I haven't had the immediate pressure of travel/new grandchild/wedding/holidays driving my life, and I'm looking forward to some signficant housecleaning in many areas of my life.  This feeling of reduced pressure is probably a fool's paradise, as there are still major wedding plans to work out (for the U.S. ceremony in the summer), other travel coming up, and the backlog of important work that was set aside for the more urgent (but also important)—but let me enjoy the moment.

Li'l Writer Guy completely understands that what you are all waiting for is the story of our trip and the reason we made it, and plans some serious work on that once his desk is dusted and the piles organized.

With a fair amount of admitted prejudice, I have said that Heather and Jon's wedding was the most perfect, beautiful, and appropriate wedding ever.  Now I must expand that statement:  Janet and Stephan's wedding was totally different, yet equally perfect, beautiful and appropriate.  (I can say this because I had little to do with the planning and execution of either wedding.)

The all-day festivities deserve a much longer post, but the day is very nearly over, so details will have to wait.  But to all you who were praying for and/or thinking of us today, rejoice that from the ceremony in the ancient church to the dinner in the Medieval castle, from the radiant bride to the adorable ring bearer, from the live Medieval music to the lively Renaissance dancing, all crafted and infused with the great love of family and friends, the wedding was a magnificent success.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Stephan Stücklin!

Here in Florida we have our own way of celebrating great events.  It helps to know a Disney big-wig or two.

 

Congratulations, Janet and Stephan!

 

(Click on the link.)

The homeschool group my nephews belong to has been meeting once a week for ice skating, and today I joined them.  I can't tell you how long it has been since I've skated, but I think my ankles can.  Normally I leave the lacing of my skates rather loose for comfort and blood circulation, but today I found I needed a little more support.  Having made that adjustment, however, I had a blast—and so, I believe, did my nephews.  What a great way to get exercise without knowing it, at least until the skating is over.  I'm also reliving my childhood, apparently, having just a few days earlier gone bowling, a sport last attempted even longer ago than skating.

After the skating was over, I made a point of thanking the person in charge of the music that played while we skated.  The music itself was not spectacular, nor even enjoyable.  It did include the obligatory Hokey Pokey, though not, I now realize, the Chicken Dance.  What made the music so unusually delightful was that it was played at less than jet-engine assault volume.  In this it contrasted starkly, not only with most skating rink experiences, but also church services, movie theaters, the above-mentioned bowling alley, and even Yorktown.  (The last has some excuse, there being no volume knob on a cannon.)

Isaac Christopher Daley
November 21, 2002 - November 23, 2002

Six years ago I stumbled through a small speech as our first grandson's ashes were interred, along with a cross made of Legos, a small toy car, and innumerable hopes and dreams.  In honor of what would have been his sixth birthday, I think it's time for me to hear again what I had to say then.  You may eavesdrop if you wish.

There is a picture of Isaac on the wall of my office.  Unlike the pictures of other children, this one will not be replaced, year by year, with the latest documentation of his growth.  I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t much rather have the living, growing Isaac to play with, to hold, and to hug, but his picture is there because there is a sense in which he is more present in my life now than if he were nestled in my arms.

When I am sitting at the computer, doing my genealogy work, typing in the many names of children who died at birth or soon after, Isaac is there, and I remember that our road of suffering is a well-worn path.

When I see any lively, healthy baby or young child, Isaac is there, and he reminds me not to take children, health, or life for granted.

When I am frustrated or unhappy in any of the circumstances of my life, Isaac is there to restore my perspective and remind me of what is important.

When life is good around me, and the world is beautiful, Isaac is there to remind me to be thankful for every good thing, and not to forget those who are suffering.

When I am impatient or upset with myself or other people, Isaac is there to remind me that life is too short and people are too important to waste time and energy on unproductive, negative emotions.

When I consider the pleading of Jesus Christ in Gesthemene, Isaac is there, and I remember that God Himself knows what it is like to have His most desperate prayers remain unanswered.

When I consider the death of Christ on the Cross, Isaac is there to show me that God also suffered the pain of a parent watching his child in agony.

And when I consider the unexpected, earth-shattering resurrection of Jesus Christ, and His victory over death, Isaac is there, too, telling me that this grave is not the end of his story, and that one day my first grandchild and I will embrace, and will play together in a world where no sorrow mars the beauty, peace, and joy.

Isaac’s accomplishments in this world are not proportional to the length of his stay in it.  God willing, I will have many other grandchildren to play with, to hold, and to hug, whose ever-changing pictures will grace my office wall.  But Isaac will always have his own vital place in our lives, reminding us that in the midst of life we are in death, and in the midst of death we are in life.

Once when we were visiting Pittsburgh, we had the pleasure of attending a Stephen Foster festival at the cemetery where he is buried.  While there, we heard the group Home Front, and bought their CD, Parlor to Campfire.  It was somewhat amusing (better to laugh than to cry) to hear our stereo system, which randomly plays tracks from a rather large collection of music, wail forth with Hard Times Come Again No More—right after I had sneaked a look at the rapidly plunging (again! still!) stock market.

As I said to the clerk at the post office—in response to his, "What?  You're here again?"—I'm doing my part to support the economy.  The world is apparently falling down around me, yet life goes on as usual.  I think that's not an unreasonable attitude at the moment, but I also sometimes wonder if there's not a bit of Madame Ranevskaya in me.

Games are a traditional part of our family gatherings.  On any given occasion you are likely to find games in process as varied as Lord of the Rings Risk, Settlers of Catan, pinochle, Quiddler, and n-tuple sol, and a long-time family favorite, Boggle (the 5x5 version, of course).  Because one of our number is the perennial, unassailable Boggle champion, I need to stay in practice to be any kind of competitor at all.  To this end I occasionally indulge in an Internet version of the came, called WordSplay.

There's some fierce competition out there, and I'm usually happy when I find myself around the 50% mark at the end of a game.  Once I almost made it into the top 10 and was elated.  (It helps to play at odd hours, such as early on a Saturday morning, when the number of opponents I face is much smaller.)  This morning I saw my name in third place, only one point shy of the top score, and can't resist reporting the accomplishment.

This is how I know that our own Boggle Champion wasn't playing the game. 

I don't expect my resolve to last long, but I'm going to attempt to put a gag on Li'l Writer Guy.  I love to write, and there's always a large backlog of issues, large and small, on which my mind is constantly spewing forth essay fragments.  Crafting them into some coherent form and publishing the result usually offers some relief, but recent political and philosophical discussions (of which what is published is but the tip of the iceberg) have instead left me enervated.

When I consider the long hours it takes to get my thoughts into shareable form, hours that have much more pressing needs tugging insistently at their sleeves, I'm thinking Li'l Writer Guy needs to spend some time with the Carthusian monks.

Yesterday we capped a busy day (at church till mid-afternoon for a special event, followed by—oh, joy!—flu shots) with our second Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra concert of the year.  I'm greatly enjoying Chris Wilkins' approach to concert programming:  he chooses a good blend of old and new, familiar and unknown, comfortable and challenging.  Well, just barely challenging, but that's okay; I prefer my musical challenges on a smaller scale and with explanation, as with Bernard Rands' Memo 8, which came to mind when I was pondering "challenging."  That was one of my favorite Eastman concert experiences, and I would love to hear it performed again, but I don't see that happening; even a Google search nets little, and my favorite oboist has gone Medieval—not that I mind that!  Ah, well—I have my recording.  But I digress greatly.

Last night's concert showed Wilkins' programming strengths and his willingness to venture into non-traditional concert territory. The theme was Abraham Lincoln, and the program a collaboration with the Orange County History Center.

First I must say that there were several oboe solos during the evening, and I am much encouraged about our new Principal Oboe, Jamie Strefeler.  I wasn't particularly impressed at the opening concert, in addition to being shocked at the loss of Jared Houser, whose sound I love.  But last night was pleasing indeed.

The program opened with seven movements from Ernst Bacon's Ford's Theatre; A Few Glimpses of Easter Week 1865.  Bacon was a contemporary of Virgil Thompson and Aaron Copland; both the composer and the work were unknown to me, but the music was enjoyable and worth hearing again.  Speaking of repetition, I wasn't looking forward that much to hearing the second work, Beethoven's Symphony No. 5.  Not that I don't love Beethoven's Fifth, but it is heard so frequently that one tends to have only the best performances in one's mind, and thus it's too easy to be critical.  Nonetheless, the OPO did a creditable job, and it really was enjoyable.  Are you wondering what Beethoven has to do with Abraham Lincoln?  So was I.  It turns out that this symphony was born just a few months before Lincoln, and its themes are appropriate to the struggles and turmoil of Lincoln's time.

Side note:  Although the volume was sometimes impressive, as it should be for such a piece, it was not painful, so I don't know what was going on with my ears at the last concert.

Did I mention pain?  Alas, that was my first impression of the second half of the program, which is sad because it was a very cool production, and most of it was great.  They performed four works in succession, as movements of a single piece (i.e. no applause in between):  Jay Ungar's Ashokan Farewell, Stella Sung's Lincoln's Battle (commissioned by the OPO for this concert), the CIVIL warS: Interlude No. 1 by Philip Glass, and Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait.  The last two works were accompanied by large-screen photographs of the era arranged by photochoreographer James Westwater.  Porter was distracted a bit by being pretty certain some of the photos were Matthew Brady's fakes, and I spent more time thinking about my own 19th century ancestors than Lincoln, but the music/art combination was still effective.

Back to the pain.  I've loved Ashokan Farewell since I first heard it on Ken Burns' Civil War PBS production, I loved it when Janet performed it on violin back in her Suzuki days, and I love it every time my mp3 player randomly chooses to play the free download I found too long ago to remember.  I was not able to find that source again, but you can hear part of the original Ashokan Farewell here, and some of the lovely Harpsong version here.  In each case, click on the arrow to the left of the title.  This is the melody I—and I daresay most of the audience—know and love; this is what Porter was expecting, (albeit in an orchestral version) when he leaned over to me, just prior to the first notes, and whispered how much he was looking forward to hearing it.

Alas.  That is not what we heard.  I was surprised, even shocked, by the intensity of my reaction.  Normally I'm pretty easy to please in a concert, tend not to notice any but the most blatant flaws, and dislike criticism of a performance because it diminishes my own enjoyment.  But this hurt.  It set my teeth on edge and formed a tight knot in my stomach that wasn't eased until several notes into the next piece.  I'm not saying that concertmaster Tamas Kocsis was wrong in his interpretation.  Ungar describes Ashokan Farewell as "in the style of a Scottish lament," and I know that part of the art and musicianship of Celtic music is in the ornamentation and in taking a tune and doing different things with it.  I may be totally wrong in my objections.  But to me, this felt like bait and switch.  As if I went to a concert expecting Handel's Messiah and found it set to a salsa rhythm.  It just felt wrong; the style didn't fit with the sense I have of the piece.  Things got better when the orchestra joined in, but that was not sufficient to dispel the shock.

Fortunately, Stella Sung never disappoints.  I first encountered her music when the Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra played her Orlando Suite in 1997 and am always excited when I see one of her compositions on the program.  Because of the subject matter, Lincoln's Battle is darker and more difficult, but was still a relief after Ashokan Farewell.  The Philip Glass piece was also new to me, but definitely a pleasure to listen to, and Copland's Lincoln Portrait is always powerful.

And thanks to the return of Standard Time, we were able to attend the concert and still get to bed by 10:00.  :)

I've been an adotive Red Sox fan for more than 30 years now, and duly celebrated when they won their long-awaited World Series title, and when they did it again.  But I'm from Philadelphia (among other places), and the only major league game I've ever seen live and in person was with the Philadelphia Phillies.  That was back in the Connie Mack Stadium days, which incidentally makes it fun for me that one of Florida's Congressmen is also Connie Mack, grandson of the original Philadelphia manager.  I wonder if he suffered conflicting loyalties in the recent World Series.

Had it been a Red Sox - Phillies battle, loyalties here—and in at least one other household in our family—would, indeed, have been conflicted.  But it wasn't, and my identity with Florida is not enough to extend to Tampa Bay if they're going against the Phillies.  Not that I watched any of the games myself, though I read that the final game so was exciting I almost wish I had.

Congratulations, Phillies, and our favorite Phillies fans!  Enjoy the moment!

To all those following and praying for Heather, Jon, and Judy Wilson:  Judy's trial resumes this afternoon.  I'm no longer there to continue my blow-by-blow commentary, but I'll pass on the news as I am able.  Jon is now scheduled to appear as a defense witness, so prayers for him and his testimony would be appreciated.   (I find it bizaare that he was ping-ponged that way—he was originally scheduled, like Heather, as a witness for the prosecution—but my prosecuting attorney friends don't.  Facts are facts, and you use whomever you need to establish them.)

There may even be a verdict today, so prayers for the judge would also be a very good thing!