How To Be Popeular

What is it about the Pope? This Pope in particular? Maybe it's because he rides around in a Fiat. Or maybe it's that whole Global Warming thing. And poverty. And immigration. In a world where our pop stars are aging or pubescent, I think it's nice to have a real and true Pope Star. He's on the cover of Rolling Stone, after all. And why shouldn't he be? He's brought the Catholic Church, kicking and screaming, into the nineteenth century.
Okay. That may not be exactly fair. Pope Francis is moving and shaking things in his corner of the spiritual plane. That makes some people unhappy. Less than half of the United States Supreme Court attended Francis' address to the joint session of Congress. Maybe they didn't get the engraved message or see the white puff of smoke coming from the Capitol Dome. Three of the five who skipped the papal address are themselves Catholic. Maybe they were jealous of the robes. The other two are Jewish, so maybe it was a religious tolerance thing after all.
Or maybe it's all about these wacky ideas Pope Francis has about saving the planet so that there will be both a heaven and an earth. He wrote an encyclical about "The Care of Our Common Home." If you don't have the stomach for all that Latin and metaphor, he's talking about saving the world for future generations. And get this: He even suggested that consumers boycott certain products to send a message to big business. Don't believe me? Go ahead and read the thing. I'll wait here.
Add this to all the other ways Francis has made the Catholic Church an easier club to join and stick with as you grow older and start to realize that all those hard and fast rules might not be as fast and hard as once imagined. You could even get divorced.
All this moving and shaking must be a sign of some sort. It could be that finally electing a pope from the Southern Hemisphere loosened things up and we might be on the cusp of a miracle of some sort. When it comes time for canonization, I would like to offer up the resignation of John Boehner from the House of Representatives. Coincidence? Maybe. Or perhaps it was divine intervention. Now if we could just roll a boulder in front of that cave we call Donald Trump's mouth.

Space Station

The image was clear enough, even if it cut out from time to time. We could still hear his voice. It came to us across the miles and miles of trackless void that serves as the space between us. We chatted about things both pertinent and, at times, impertinent. This trip would be a long one and we needed to stay in touch if we were going to be the kind of support that would be most useful. Not just supplies: food, clothes, oxygen. From where he was, he looked at the same moon we did, but that seemed impossible.
Then again, the way he sat with his back against the corner of his room with his pillows propping him up just high enough for his chin to rest on his chest, we had a familiar view of our son. In his bed. Surrounded by electronics. Half-lidded eyes and slow smirk on his lips. He told us that he was tired but getting ready to do a little work before he went to sleep.
This wasn't a transmission from a voyage across the solar system. He wasn't stranded on a planet, left behind by the rest of his crew. His roommate came in and started rummaging for a cable he needed desperately for his laptop. He could just pop down to the book store and buy a new one. If it was still open.
This was our first Skype chat with our son from his dorm room. My wife and I felt instant relief seeing his face, and we took turns voicing concerns and affection. It was an act of faith for us both that we didn't overload on either side. The mother ship had been making regular connections with our voyager, but I had been out of radio contact for several cycles. I wanted to make it seem as natural as possible without seeming aloof. I wanted to appear caring without being sappy. I wanted it to seem normal.
It didn't seem normal, as much as it appeared that he was just hanging out in the back room as he had for so very many evenings in the past, this portal gave us a view into the future. Long distance. We promised to talk again, when he had time. He's a busy guy these days. Going to class. Hanging out with his friends. Living his life. On another planet.

Hopelessly Lost But Making Good Time

The lousy teams are good this year.
It ain’t over till it’s over.
It’s deja vu all over again.
I usually take a two-hour nap from one to four.
Why buy good luggage, you only use it when you travel.
Never answer an anonymous letter.
The towels were so thick there I could hardly close my suitcase.
I’m not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did.
You can observe a lot by watching.
The future ain’t what it used to be.
If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.
When you come to a fork in the road, take it.
Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded.
It gets late early out here.
I think Little League is wonderful. It keeps the kids out of the house.
I don’t know (if they were male or female) fans running naked across the field). They had bags over their heads.
Take it with a grin of salt.
It ain’t the heat, it’s the humility.
A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.
We made too many wrong mistakes.
If the people don’t want to come out to the ballpark, nobody’s going to stop them.
Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.
I didn't really say everything I said.
You should always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise, they won’t come to yours.
Aloha, Yogi. Baseball giant and zen philosopher. You stomped on the base paths. 

Walker: Wisconsin Ranger

Okay, Scott Walker. Back in the pool with you. Swim back to Wisconsin where you can continue your uber-badger ways. After polling in the single digits for several months, it was time for Governor Walker to bow to the powers larger than himself: The whims of the Republican Party. After a promising July, the union basher will head home for the chance to lead from the comfort and safety of the sidelines. "Today, I believe that I am being called to lead by helping to clear the field in this race so that a positive, conservative message can rise to the top of the field. With this in mind, I will suspend my campaign immediately," asserted the former candidate from a podium in Madison. "I encourage other Republican presidential candidates to consider doing the same so that the voters can focus on a limited number of candidates who can offer a positive, conservative alternative to the current front-runner." That would be you, your Trumpishness. 
So now we have what seems to be a trend: Taking one for the team. For those of you not familiar with this concept, it is a sports metaphor that has its origins in being hit by a pitch. If you lean into a fastball while in the batter's box, you get hit, and you get a free base. Way back in 1896, Hughie Jennings set the all time record in this statistical category. It should be noted, stretching the metaphor to the point of absurdity, that Hughie spent many years in the majors, playing on National League championship teams three years in a row, but never won a World Series. That was because there was no World Series at the time, but this might be a good time to continue down this wormhole with the additional bit of information that Hughie had to retire from organized baseball because of a nervous breakdown. All those colorful antics from the dugout, the hoots an hollers, may have been part of an undiagnosed issue that just may have been brought on from standing in front of too many fastballs. And wouldn't it be great if I could tell you that this colorful character hailed from America's Dairyland? Scott Walker is not Hughie Jennings. Sorry.
Scott Walker is also not Ben Carson. Ben is in the double digits, still yard behind the Trumpfaloon, but within striking distance of Carly Fiorina. His numbers are probably slightly lower in the Muslim community, since Mister Carson has repeated his claim that no one of that faith should ever be President of the United States. It is his conviction that Sharia law conflicts with the U.S. Constitution, and it makes for a nice bumper sticker: "sworn in on a stack of Bibles, not a Koran." Not that an actual stack of Bibles has ever been used, but it is certainly in line with the hyperbole of his Royal Trumpington. If only Scott Walker could have come up with something equally as inflammatory, then his campaign might still be alive and kicking. 
Alas, for us all, the clown car continues to lose its colorful passengers. Bye, bye, governor Walker. Write when you find work. 

Closeness

Getting in touch and staying in touch is supposed to be getting easier and easier. Access to a host of telecommunications technology for men, women and children across this land and in neighboring hamlets and villages stretching out around the world makes it simple to call just to say, "I love you." Which makes it ever more important that we have the best possible experience as we make these connections. Signal quality and the capacity to send pictures of ourselves enjoying said signal quality is key to this satisfaction. And would it be too much to ask that we don't have to pay an arm and a leg for that experience. Not an actual arm or a leg, though I am assured that there are certain regions in which this transaction might still take place via amputation.
My son moving away to college finally forced our family's collective hand and we surrendered to the now inevitable "Family Plan." Voice, data, texting all for the low, low price of just - well - it doesn't really matter what the price was because it was one that we were willing to pay in order to ensure contact with one another in the event of some cataclysmic event or a new cat video. Gone are the days when I could safely move through a day without having the additional distraction of what was happening to those closest to me, at least in proximity to my contact list. Sure, I could put the thing on silent or turn it off completely, but that means all the value I was hoping to gain by making this pact with my Family to remain close even through cellular transmission would be negated.
I am getting what I paid for, and isn't that really what makes this country great? I can now find my way to the store that will sell me an even better deal using the GPS function on the phone that needs to be replaced because it won't work with the plan that will keep my family together at the lowest possible price.
I bought it. And then I waited. I waited to have my old phone turned into my new phone and waited again to have the old phone carrier hem and haw as they were told the news that I was moving on to a new company that really cared about my family and our ability to stay together in the face of cataclysmic cat videos. Or at least I will be safe, eventually, in the knowledge that when the robot cat overlords descend from the heavens, I will be able to send my son a selfie with a great big cyber-kitty and the dis-integrator ray gun that will make my Family Plan null and void.

Chance Of Showers

I have been to a few baby showers. OI nce upon a time, the idea would have filled me with a sense of dread and, well, cooties. Around the time my son was born, it became vogue to have dads and potential dads hang around the edge of the generally mom-centric activities. I became adept at sipping punch and lingering in the kitchen, luring other men into discussions of sports and manly things to keep the estrogen levels at acceptable levels. It's more of an endurance thing than a social one.
In my line of work, I have had my share of opportunities to practice this mild avoidance. Elementary education has provided me with a great many chances to attend baby showers. It seems like just about once a year, one of the women with whom I work has found themselves in a family way, causing the envelopes to appear in our mailboxes or e-mail invitations to be sent. It is a pretty close-knit community and when the call goes out, it would be difficult to decline. It would be difficult if not impossible if my wife was attached on the invite. She loves an occasion, just about any occasion, and baby showers are near the top of her list. Most of the people with whom I work know this, and understand that I will respond accordingly.
The thing is, just about every time one of my colleagues has left on pregnancy leave, they have not returned. It is a reality with which I am very familiar. We bring our traditional gift to the party, The Pussifier: a stuffed animal with a great many pacifiers sewn to its appendages for easy access. We participate in the ways we know how, playing the games or avoiding them. We share stories about children and childbirth with those who have seen it and those who soon will.
And sooner or later, we find ourselves avoiding the topic: When are you coming back? Six weeks is never enough. Nine weeks? A year? How long would it be before a new mother is ready to leave their baby to return to the halls full of someone else's babies? I have worked with a number of women who have found ways to bridge that gap, but of all the women who have left school to go on pregnancy leave while I have been a teacher, only one has come back to our school.
Maybe it's me. Maybe I should have spent less time in the kitchen and more time in the living room, guessing weights or lengths. Or maybe it's part of the natural scheme of things. There's still so much I don't understand.

Waiting. Watching.

Passing by the local sports field the other night, I spied a group of kids and their coaches practicing football. My immediate memories were of my own experience on the gridiron, and how I was always a better spectator than participant. The kids I was watching ranged in age from nine to thirteen, with the younger, smaller team in one corner of the field while the big guys filled up the rest. The distinction that used to be made was this: lightweights and heavyweights. I never played on the heavyweights. I was strictly a lightweight.
And not because of my stature, necessarily. I was a pretty roly-poly youth. That made me an obvious choice to be a lineman. A blocker. My friends, the fleet of foot and lean of loin, were the ball carriers. Running backs. Receivers. They got to handle the ball. I didn't. My job was to get in the way of the other team so that my buddies could run to daylight.
Then this thought came to me: What I wouldn't give to know then what I know now. I have made a study of the game of football over the last forty years. I understand now the rudimentary physics that would have made my job back then so much easier. How to push. How to pull. When to get down and roll. For that matter, I imagined a past where I could have used my awareness of techniques like the swim move to dodge around would-be blockers if I were to play defense. I might never have been the physical specimen coaches would have allowed to carry the ball, but maybe I could have been the guy tackling the ball carriers. That would have been something.
My sports awareness doesn't begin and end with football. If I had known what a guard did in basketball, I would not have been standing next to the basket, waiting for someone to come and try to make a shot. I had assumed that the name of the position defined my job. I was guarding the hoop from the other team. I had no idea that I should be taking the ball to the other end of the court and trying to score. That seemed antithetical to the program. Not to my elementary school PE teacher. Which might explain why he was screaming at my little round friend Ken and I as we stood alone at one end of the blacktop, waiting for the action to come back out way. I just figured we would be ready when it came time for us to leap into protective mode. Shooting a basket, let alone dribbling the ball. I had not as yet been introduced to the Magic of Johnson or the Round Mound of Rebound. I waited for the game to come to me. This did not make me a very effective point guard.
I wasn't a very effective athlete. I had no idea what I was really supposed to do. To my teammates, I apologize. To my coaches, I can only ask why they didn't show me more videotape. I coulda been someone. i coulda been a contender. Instead of a spectator, which is what I am.