Truth is Brutal

One of the most interesting, thought provoking classes I took in college was a philosophy class.  I had no idea what to expect.  It turns out that the topic of the semester was, “What is Truth.”  I almost panicked.  I’m a person who thrives on absolutes, right is right, wrong is wrong.  Truth should always be truth and right.  My perceptions became more confused as I was forced to consider more and broader possibilities. The absolute of truth became muddied and confused by the musings and considerations of great thinkers and philosophers through time.  I felt an inner struggle during the course.  What is true in some cases may not be true in others.  What is true for you may not be true for me.  Surely, in this chaotic world there are absolutes I can cling to and build upon.

About 30 years ago, I took an oath to be honest with my fellow man. Most of the time, this is not a problem.  Every once in a while though, truth with its absolute honesty, can be brutally painful. Is it ethical to be brutally honest? Sometimes, isn’t an innocent omission or a “white lie” kinder?  What’s the right course of action when someone asks a direct, pointed question, especially when you know they would not like or accept the brutally honest answer? Perhaps some people have the ability to be honest gently.  That’s not one of my talents.  My mind loses the ability to think of gentle words because of the brutal truth written in bold letters across my brain.

What do you say to an elderly parent who asked you to promise to never let him tell the same story repeatedly as he begins retelling the same story for the 100^th time?  I can’t bring myself to keep my promise.  I try to listen for something new in the story.  I grasp for a new idea or question I can use to show I’m listening attentively.  I know that one day I will want to hear the story for the 1000^th time.

So what’s the answer to my dilemma with the harshness of absolute truths? On a personal level, I don’t ask questions unless I think I’m ready and willing to accept someone else’s version of their honest truth. I try to temper my version of truth with a bit of mercy because I know, with complete and absolute certainty that truth can hurt.

Road Trip Misadventures

Earlier this week I made a post on Facebook that deserves some further detail. I went on a road trip, some 820 or so miles, to San Antonio, TX with a teen-aged robotics team and their adult coaches, mentors, parents, grandparents, siblings, etc. There were 16 of us in all divided between three vehicles. We were all going to the same destination but with no plans to stick together closely for all the stops along the way. We were using cellphones and text messages to keep in touch from time to time.

It was a cold, dreary, drizzly day from the start. Our van was packed to the gills with suitcases and robotics equipment. We made a quick stop in our state capital to give an impromptu lunch presentation to a state finance committee of some sort or another. Talk about nervous!  The team was saying, "You want us to do WHAT?  NOW?" They were dressed for a comfy road trip, not an official presentation. "Oh well, take a deep breath and just go for it," we told them. They did fine.

On south we drove and the weather deteriorated as we traveled.  By the time we were in Louisiana, the weather was becoming stormy.  We caught up to a squall line as we approached Lake Pontchartrain. Now, I make no bones about telling folks I'm a storm spotter, not a storm chaser.  My point is to spot them and go the other way.  Why is it that storms seem to find me anyway? The rain was coming down like Niagara Falls. I was playing navigator, trying to watch the radar, the map and the road. I was admiring the lovely white line along the edge of the roadway because that was about all I could see.

We got out to of the rain on the south side of the lake. That should have been our first heads up.  We should not have been on the south side of the lake. Worse, after several minutes, I realized we were headed east. I was quite sure San Antonio is not east of New Orleans. We'd missed a turn that would have kept us on the north side of the lake and headed west. Thirty minutes later, we were turned around and back on our route.

As we traveled on into Baton Rouge, we were hearing from our lead car that traffic was at a standstill past one of two available Mississippi River crossing bridges. Decisions, decisions. Should we stay on the interstate or detour off to the second bridge to the north?  There was about 100 miles of gas left in the gas tank and oil refineries were in abundance. Finding a gas station shouldn't be a problem before we got out of town. We made a last minute decision at a split in the road and headed for the north bridge. We passed into the industrial parts of town and crossed on what was surely the 'old' bridge. We turned south again, paralleling the river. There wasn't much on that side of the river. We finally saw a couple of gas stations but since it was getting dark and we were in an area with more tattoo parlors and liquor stores than houses, we decided to find an exit off the interstate.

Well, there's not much west of Baton Rouge on Interstate Highway 10 for a long way.  We were hearing that something still had traffic stopped. With our gas tank running lower and needing a pit stop ourselves, we took the first exit we saw that offered gas, food and lodging. It didn't say exactly where that gas, food and lodging was. We traveled down a seemingly never-ending, winding, two lane road. We kept thinking about turning around but there was that pesky gas gage and we could see a water tower across the fields.  There must be a town over there somewhere. Did you know that a town can be found in the middle of nowhere? It's called Maringouin, Lousiana.  It's one of those towns that are so small that folks notice when a strange car comes through. There's no quick way to get to this town and no quick way to leave. We entered town from the west side and decided to follow the glow of the lights to work our way out of the residential outskirts to the town center and the promised gas, food and lodging establishments. 

It worked. Marginouin has at least one gas station and a Dollar Store. I don't remember seeing any hotels or motels. Our driver of the last several stressful hours got out with the teens to walk inside the store while I pumped gas. She handed me the van keys. Now, in retrospect, I was tired as well and I was breaking my normal gas pump routine. My keys usually go in my pocket or on the seat. I do not close my van door as I pump gas and I stay close to the open door. I have payment in hand before I leave the vehicle. This time I'd gotten out from the passenger side. That was the first change in routine. I reached back into the van to get my wallet so I could pay for the gas. I tapped the lock button since I was in an unfamiliar area. I closed the van door.  Only after I heard the door close did I realize I'd dropped something inside my purse inside the van. I quickly reached for the door handle hoping I'd beat the lock mechanism. Nope, that van was fastened up tight. There I was in a strange town with my phone and purse locked safely away. I just leaned my forehead against the window and listened as the gas was swooshed into the gas tank.  At least that was paid for.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as my companions walked out of the gas station. I asked my fellow driver if by chance she had not actually handed me the keys before she went inside. She, rightly, looked at me like I'd lost my mind. I had to confess what I'd done, feeling a fool the whole time.  She calmly turned around and went back into the store. I just kept listening to the gas filling the tank. Our incredibly good fortune was that a town police officer was there.  He'd seen us drive up. It seems I had managed to lock my keys into one of the only towns around that would actually help you break back into your car. My driving companion asked for the policeman for help. The young officer called a sheriff's deputy who arrived after about 15 minutes. The deputy spent about 5 minutes on paperwork and maybe 10 minutes getting my van open. I'm so thankful for small town country folks.

Now, with our detour and misadventures, we were about 2 hours behind the rest of our travel group. We rolled into Winnie, TX only to learn that those reserved rooms supposed to sleep six only slept 4. We got an extra room and collapsed into bed.

The next day's drive wasn't so bad.  Only 4 or 5 hours. The interstate system through Houston, TX is amazing. There are layers and layers of roadways. They are very clearly marked. It's looks like a confusing mass but is actually well organized. I was feeling good about the rest of the trip. And then....we arrived in San Antonio. Let me just say that San Antonio could learn a lot from Houston. 

We were in San Antonio for three days. Each morning we drove downtown to the convention center area.  I'm not sure we went on the same route twice. I was never quite sure if I was on I-10 upper level or lower level. I-35 north or south. Did I want the turnaround or the exit that was right beside it? We never arrived at the convention center late even with my detours. I'm not sure we went back to our hotel exactly the same way twice. I don't like driving San Antonio's freeway system at all. I find the one way access roads inconvenient and confusing. Once I got off those roads, the city streets were fine. San Antonio, I like your city. I'd like to go back and spend some time when I have time to explore and enjoy the opportunities you have to offer.

There was much less adventure on our trip home. I still managed to miss an exit coming out of Houston. That was quickly fixed. We saw a huge bronze sculpture of Helios and his Chariot of the Sun with all 7 horses in Sealy, TX. It's there at a scrap metal yard off the side of the road. It looks like something from a museum or a grand European city gate. It was all I could do to keep myself from taking the next exit and going back for a closer look. It was magnificent.

Next time I go on a road trip, I'm not going let myself get stressed out over the driving. It's not worth it. Next time, I want to take time to stop and visit places along the way, places that aren't necessarily in some tourist's guide book. I want take time to enjoy the trip without being rushed to get from point A to point B. Isn't that half the purpose of traveling? Isn't it about meeting the nice folks in Maringouin or seeing an amazing work of art sitting carelessly by the side of the road?

What's a Mother to Do?

Today, I'm feeling a bit out of focus. Lost. The past 2 weeks have been stressful and exciting. The next 14 days promise to be intensifyingly busy, exciting, and stressful. Very little of that stress actually belongs to me but major events for one child or another of my family have come together in a potential collision over just a few days’ time. I don't really know what to do except offer support where I can and then just hang on for the ride.

 

Last week, one child showed me his bloody finger he injured while he was at work. It seems he caught his fingers in a conveyor pulley. He's fortunate, extremely fortunate. It's just badly bruised. I'm left thanking his guardian angel for making sure he didn't lose his finger, or fingers, or hand. All I could do was act nonchalant and take him to the doc to be sure it wasn't broken. I wasn't feeling particularly nonchalant, but what's a mother to do?

I can't make the wheels of bureaucracy move more quickly for another child. My child did her part and has dealt with seemingly endless indecision and foul-ups by others. She persisted in doing her part to push those she could influence. The wheels of bureaucracy, however, have refused to be greased into timely action. There has  been plenty of time to get some reasonably uncomplicated paperwork done. For some reason things are running 5 or 6 days late. Was it the record cold and snow that slowed the work?  Who knows. Can it the process be amped up in the last few days available? I sure hope so but it's out of my hands. What's a mother to do?

 

Then, there's the adventure my two youngest have found for themselves that has us in a tizzy. They joined a new, local robotics team. It's a rookie team in a competition style that's completely new to them all made up of kids with a little computer skills (at least those that they will admit) and a little robotics experience. They were just in it to learn a little and have fun. They weren't supposed to win anything, but they did. What they lacked in a quality robot for that first competition, they made up for in sportsmanship and charisma. They earned a spot in the state level competition. Many, many hours of team and individual work later found them with a much improved robot and skills that made them a more complete package. They weren't supposed to win but once again they earned a spot at the next level involving a 5 day trip out of state.  We only thought the work was intense before. I don't know if anyone's really kept a log of the hours the team has put in on this project now. The robot looks amazing, not at all like the sad little jerry-rigged thing it started out to be 6 weeks ago.  The team members are getting excited. Costumes? I really didn't dream they'd have time to think about costumes but that will be a reality. Team cheers, a tribute song, all signs that they are comfortable with each other and the progress they've made. I can't do the work for them. I can nudge or prod but it's their project, their team and I won't take that from them.  I'm in a support role here as well. What else is a mother to do?

 

Oh, and I've got things I'm supposed to be responsible for as well, plus a husband who deserves my support. Sometimes this role of a mom is overwhelming. It's like I can never do quite enough. What's a mother to do?

 

Choose Your Pen

"I am a pen snob," declared a classmate of mine yesterday as she retreived her favorite writing instrument from our table. Some folks laughed. I understood. I too am a pen snob. 

My favorite writing instrument is a fine point caligraphy pen. The most humble grocery list gains an air of elegance when written with a caligraphy pen. I love the feel of the nib against the paper.  I KNOW, through my sense of touch, that i'm transferring information from one media, my mind, to another. Most of my notes in college were taken using that pen. 

My second choice us an old fashioned fountain pen, a Parker 51 to be exact. It has a smoother feel than the calligraphy pen but the ink flows onto paper in a similar way.  The ink is not uniform. There are darker and lighter places as I slow to think or hurry to get an idea down. This pen belonged to my father. That adds to the attachment I feel for it. 

My third choice is a super fine point Pentel. It has that slight scratchy feel against the paper that the calligraphy pen has but is more reliable. It has an intensly precise feel.

The sense of touch, or connectedness I feel in my favorite pens, is important to me.  I was the child  who HAD to touch everything in the store. I didn't necessarily play with things, I just touched them. I'm still that way. I walk around an elevated track with a railing with vertical metal bars. Some days I can't resist running my fingers across the bars. It makes me smile to feel the rails tap against my fingertips.  I feel a bit like a mischievous child. 

Sometimes it's easy to feel a little disconnected. Life becomes so busy that you end up just making sure you hit the next check point. I'm not so sure that's really living life.   I heard a quote today that appealed to the pen snob in me.

"When writing the story of your own life, don't let someone else hold the pen." 

         Harley Davidson

Go grab your favorite pen and write!

I'll Be Damned

My father used to tell a story about a man who was on a journey along a country road late one evening. (Now, first you must understand that this story takes place before the days of cell phones.) He was dressed in his Sunday best with freshly polished shoes. All seemed well as he drove along and then, he felt an unfamiliar tug on the steering wheel, followed by the unpleasant thump, thump of a flat tire flopping on the road as the wheel turned. He pulled over on the narrow road as far as the wide ditch that ran along beside it would allow him. The tire was useless. It had shredded and no longer held any air.  "At least I have a good spare tire," he thought.

He opened the truck of the car to lift out the spare and then he saw it, or rather he didn't. The jack was missing.  He'd removed it some weeks before and had never returned it to the car. There he was, on the side of a deserted, rural road in the darkening evening without the one tool he desperately needed. He looked around him looking for something, anything he could use. There was nothing but empty fields as far as he could see. Frustration growing, he searched through his car again.  The jack was nowhere to be found.  The man stood up, leaning back against the side of his car trying to think what he could do. Then, just as the dark of evening settled in to night, he saw a light across the field. It looked as if there must be a house that he hadn't noticed in the dusky light.

It would take several minutes to walk to the house since it was at least a half mile away. The man started walking, a bit of hope opening in his mind.  Perhaps the person or family in this house would have a jack he could borrow so he could change his flat tire. As he walked along, a pebble worked it's way into his shoe. Ouch! He came down hard with his heel onto it. He had to stop and remove the tiny tormentor before he could continue toward the little homestead.  

He began rehearsing what he would say once he reached the door. It would be simple enough, he'd just introduce himself and ask to borrow a jack so he could change his tire. But what if they didn't have a jack?  "That's silly", he thought," just about everyone has a jack of some sort." The pebble really had bruised his foot.  Each step hurt. "What if they wouldn't even open the door?  What if they have a jack but it's all jammed tight with rust? I'll have to spend all sorts of time just trying to make it work. These people are so far out in the middle of nowhere, they're probably still riding horses."

He turned up a narrow, dusty driveway that led to the house. He heard a dog begin to bark. "Oh, great, they have a dog. It sounds like a big one. It will probably tear my leg off before I can get to the door." He trudged through the thick dust to the front porch. He could see peeling paint in the warm glow coming from the window. He could see that his shoes were now scuffed and dirty. His pants were dirty and his formerly crisply pressed shirt was sweat soaked. "They probably won't even let me use their rusty, old jack," he grumbled. He stomped up to the screen door and banged on it angrily.

A startled homeowner opened the door a crack to see who might be pounding on his front door. The traveler spotted him quickly and yelled angrily, "I didn't want to borrow your rusty, old jack anyway!" and then he stomped away back down the driveway.

I've been looking over our family schedule for the next few months. It's a bit overwhelming. There are meetings each week.  There will be some sort of club activity or event for my sons almost every Saturday through May. Sometimes I feel like life is managing me instead of me managing my life. Sometimes I find myself looking to borrow a jack. I've been quietly becoming more and more disgruntled as 2014 drew nearer because I knew the respite of autumn was about to be at an end and barely controlled chaos of winter, spring and early summer were about blanket my weeks.  You got a jack?  Well, I DON'T want to borrow it anyway!

I snapped yesterday. I was grumpy and really couldn't hide it any more. It was always just below the surface of a reply that came out a little to sharply or a door that closed a little too hard. That should not happen.

 

I'll be damned if I don't get over this. I'll be damned if I don't see this busy schedule for the blessing of opportunity it really is. It's an opportunity for my sons and me to develop leadership and time management skills. It's an opportunity for us to learn. It's a blessing to be able to participate in activities with other motivated youth and adults. I'll be damned if I don't recognize and accept such blessings with the gratitude they deserve.