First Entry 6/14/04

I have no idea what I'm doing and not much of a notion why I'm doing it, but I suppose sometimes it's better to do anything rather than nothing, so it's perhaps a start. I have been, over the last few years, "Sophmom" on a number of message boards, primarily Princeton Review and Parents Sanctuary/Campus Connection. I am a mother of three sons, 22, 19 and 16. I have started this blog as an extension of my message board alter-ego, sophmom, with the intent of posting pictures to share with my online friends, although, now that I've come this far, it appears that I have to become a premium member before I can upload any pictures to this site. One step at a time. It's here now. I'll come back for more later. :)

Still don't know what I'm doing 6/15/04

My three sons will hereinafter be referred to as One (the oldest), Two (the middle) and Three (the youngest), at least until such time as I have their permission to use their names. One of Two's closest friends was in an automobile accident overnight. He was going 35 mph (according to the accident investigation) and hydroplaned into a tree on a residential street. Both of his legs are broken (one heel is "crushed") and will require surgery. He cannot walk at all and won't walk for quite some time. His clavicle is broken and his lungs are bruised, injuries caused by the seat belt, which also apparently saved his life. Two has just called from the hospital, where some of the friends have gathered. I think they're pretty stunned by the severity of his injuries, given the speed he was driving. I just don't think anyone understands the devastation of "impact" until after experiencing an accident. The injured friend was on my 18U baseball team. He was a pitcher. I'm sorry that he's hurt and have told Three that I will take him to visit in the hospital tomorrow and have called One (who lives in another state) and asked that he send an email (something the hospital offers, nice, huh?). _______________________________________________________________________________________________ Two and his friends visited their Injured Buddy and were quite taken by the seriousness of his injuries. A Dad of a friend, who is also an orthopedic surgeon, visited while they were there, and said that a few years ago, his heel injury could not have been repaired. No one asked what the consequences would have been but I suggested amputation and they were shocked. None of them had thought of that. The Dad Doc also said that his foot would never quite work the same again (he would have no lateral flexibility, but would be able to move his foot up and down). Sometimes I find it hard to believe how blind we are to the carnage of driving and riding in cars. We love our automobiles and look away from the death and destruction because we must drive. It rained all afternoon, and I can still hear the thunder. I was supposed to work 2 Little League Baseball ("LLB") 9 year old tournament (all-star) games (as a LLB district staff volunteer). It's something I do every summer, although it's been quite a while since I've worked a 9 year old tournament (they are so cute!), having had the good fortune to be involved with the 10s, 11s and 12s over recent summers. Another aspect of the younger tournaments, is that the coaches are more likely to have never done this (coach a post-season tournament team) before and less likely to understand the procedures and the pecking order. They are used to batting everyone during their recreational ("rec") season, and must bat nine, within strict guidelines, during the tournaments. It's my job to make sure they do so properly (among other things). Fortunately, I'm not alone and much of the time (certainly for the first days) I have with me another (very senior) district staff member. He's probably 20 years older than I am and really knows how to run a Little League tournament better than anyone in the district. What a resource! He's also a delight to spend time with in the booth and I look forward to my time with him every year. Hopefully, I'll be able to spend some time at the 12 year old tournament this year too (although it's not being hosted by my home park), the first round on The Road to Williamsport and the Little League World Series ("LLWS"). It never ceases to move me, standing in the booth, watching the boys (and and occasional girl) standing on the baselines with their hats over their hearts, singing the Star Spangled Banner and reciting the Little League Pledge (see * below), knowing that all over the world in dozens (hundreds?) of countries, tens of thousands of kids are doing the exact same thing as part of the exact same event, all leading to the LLWS. There is nothing else like it in sports or in the world. Perhaps I will give up being a LLB volunteer one day. My youngest, Three, is 16 and still plays baseball, but hasn't played in an LLB affiliated program since he was 12. Still, somehow, every year, when I swear I'm going to quit and spend my summer doing something more productive, or useful to my family, or financially rewarding, or even just more relaxing and restful, I can't do it, can't make myself stay away, surprised to hear myself saying, "yes," when they call to ask me to work. We're in the third day of this tournament. Tonight would have been Games 6 & 7. The coaches are getting the hang of it and have figured out who is in charge. It's just getting to be fun. I was disappointed about the rain although, when it's not messing up baseball plans, it's my favorite weather. *THE LITTLE LEAGUE PLEDGE: I trust in God. I love my Country and will respect its laws. I will play fair and strive to win. But, win or lose, I will always do my best. Another problem is that if we get one more rain out, I'll miss the finals, because I have to leave with Two for his College Orientation on Sunday morning early. We have a five hundred mile drive and he is to be there by 2:00, although I think it's a *soft* target and that the consequences for arriving between 2 and 5 are minimal. I'm looking forward to my two nights in a nice hotel in a very interesting city. _______________________________________________________________________________________________ It's quiet. Two and his friend are sitting on the front porch with their girlfriends. The rain has turned to something lighter than a drizzle, a mist perhaps, and the sky is lighter in the west, so everything's a rosy glow. I'm inside, enjoying this surprise time, courtesy of the games being rained out. It's been very stressful lately, well, forever, but I think it's fair to say that, over the last six years, we've been in the throes of uniquely stressful circumstances, the very unexpected result of my husband's invention and the patents related to it. The patent process in our country was originally designed to protect inventors and provide the world access to their inventions, but has been corrupted to make it almost impossible for an ordinary individual to obtain and maintain adequate protection of a significant invention. It can't be done with one patent, because large corporations will simply design around one patent, and the USPTO makes certain that it takes a long time and a lot of money to obtain the additional patents neccessary to protect and profit from the invention. Each time the patent office rejects an application, the applicant has to go back, spend more money with their lawyers and re-file the application, paying another filing fee. What motivation could this very profitable government agency have to allow an application? Our latest patent was rejected five times during the prosecution. Our most active pending application, has been rejected four and we're preparing to re-file again, with changes. Most inventors give up, unable to bear inflicting the hardship on their families. The smart, or lucky ones, have someone who can handle the patent-related work and are able to keep their day jobs, and that would be my first advice to anyone starting out on the path to patenting, "Don't quit your day job." It costs too much before it can yield, and is so distracting and so seductive that it's very hard to keep doing what you were doing before the invention, to pay the suddenly escalating bills. So, big companies end up owning most of the important patents. The poor fool who assigns their patents to their mom and pop business in hope of attracting "financing" ultimately loses the intellectual property when the business fails because of the burden of all the professionals (accountants and attorneys) required by the investor to provide meaningless projections on a weekly basis, overwhelming the business owner with skyrocketing costs and not enough focus and energy to actually sell anything, and the "investor" or "vulture capitalist" walks away with the IP. Then there are folks who somehow manage not to assign the patents to the company, but finally just can't take the pain, and after liquidating every other asset to support the invention just a little longer until profit or infringement prosecution is enough to take care of the family, they give up and sell the patents, to have a car and keep the power on and pay the tuition and eat, no doubt to some big company with which they have long been doing battle. It sucks and I'm tired. Good that we had the rain.

Patent notes 6/18/04

Here are the most important things to know: -- It’s probably at least two years from filing, to grant (although a provisional patent can sometimes issue faster, you still need to prosecute the primary application). -- The process is very expensive, and it’s in the USPTO’s best interest to reject your application, because they get additional fees every time they force you to re-file (one of the reasons the PTO is such a revenue generator for our government). -- One patent rarely protects an invention. -- Don’t quit your day job. Try to keep doing what you were already doing. Do not expect any income from the patent for many years. It’s great if you can make money practicing the invention, but be warned, the whole world will copy you if there’s likelihood of profit, and you won’t be able to stop them for years. -- License, don’t assign. Investors will want you to assign your application(s) to your company prior to their investment. In return for their investment they will want strict (and costly) oversight. If the business fails, they will end up with the patents. It’s not worth it (further clarity about investors: It's in their best interest for you to fail and within their power to force expenses on you). -- File a continuation application as well as a PCT (International application). -- Do not trust anyone, especially those who say they want to “invest” in your idea (especially if they drop everything to focus on you). Make everyone sign a Confidentiality Agreement. Most will tell you they *never* sign those things, calling them "worthless". Insist. If they won’t sign one, then walk away. -- Make your claims as broad as possible. In your initial application, claim every aspect of the invention from the mechanics of it’s implementation to the method of it’s use. The PTO will define and restrict the separate “inventions” within your claims and you can prosecute them separately.

Loyola University New Orleans 6/23/04

We are just back from Orientation, and it was terrific. I don't have every single question answered, because I thought of more on the way home, but it was informative and the administrators, faculty and staff were very accessible. Most importantly, my son came back excited and happy with his choice in every way. He likes his classes, and he and his roommate (a friend from home) got a great room assignment (one of the bigger rooms, not too high, overlooking “the quad”). Biever Hall, the dorm that houses all the freshmen men (class of 800, 60% female student body), is quite nice, as dorms go. One interesting feature is that the side walls of the rooms in this dorm are brick, which I suspect is fire safety feature, but it also adds a nice "feel" to the space. The exterior wall is windows from one end to the other, so it’s very light. The beds are “bunkable” and all the furniture (two beds, two desks, two chairs) can be moved. The drawers are fixed in the closets, and the bottom bunk has two drawers underneath. The floors are linoleum, so it will need a rug, but I think it adds a nice touch to the "flavor" of a hall when each room has it's own different rug. It's a co-ed dorm with men and women on alternating floors and community bathrooms (toilets on one side of the wall and showers on the other). There are kitchens on each hall and sprinkler systems in all rooms and halls. He's decided to major in English, although he's also considering their combined BA/JD program. They have two tracks of English majors: Literature and Creative Writing, and he's chosen the writing track. I couldn't be happier. If I could go to graduate school, that's what I would study. He loves his schedule, which includes numerous "intro" courses. He laughed on the way home that they were great classes to make him better at trivia. He was on the Academic Team (Quiz Bowl) at his HS, and would love to continue this interest in college. I can't find evidence of an "Academic Team" at Loyola on their website, and need to research to determine if such a thing exists anywhere. There is an image that displays, alternating with other images, on the home page of their website (www.loyno.edu), which shows a boy wearing a sweatshirt that says "Social Justice University" followed by the words: "Our rich Jesuit tradition is not a passive one. Challenge status quo. Live meaningfully. Engage. After all, the people who are bold enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do." This theme of "learning in context" and "challenge status quo" seemed to run through many aspects of Orientation. I hope it's real, rather than just Catholic lip service (something of which I've had too much for one lifetime). I'm going to go in, believing they mean it because it seems real. The Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, Dr. Frank Scully, talked about education "in context" and emphasized the Jesuit mission of "educating to prepare women and men with and for others." He also stressed their commitment to "imbue students with values that transcend the goals of money, fame and success," and quoted the Superior General of the Jesuits, Peter-Hans Kolvenback, who said, "We've learned that appropriation of knowledge does not humanize." As we were riding back, my dear son reached up and gently fingered the newly-acquired Mardi Gras beads that hung around his HS graduation tassel, dangling together from the rear view mirror of the car, and laughed, "I've gone from a conservative Republican HS where I was in the minority as a liberal, to a college where I'm not liberal *enough*!" There also seems to be an emphasis on interactive learning within the classical environment. We were told that the student teacher ration is 14:1, the average class size is 20, and that he would never be in a class of more than 40. He thoroughly enjoyed the "discussion groups" in which he participated, with one about university life and the other about their assigned reading, Jonathan Kozol's "Savage Inequalities". The latter was led by an English professor whom he particularly liked. I'm sure that, like everyone else, they're looking for the well-rounded class, and they allocate substantial dollars to providing merit aid. Many parents, with whom I spoke, mentioned their students have received some kind of scholarship, and much of it was straight merit aid. My son's aid package was generous, as were those of his friends. I commend the school on their aggressive use of merit aid to attract the students they want, and suspect that this is made possible by their healthy endowment ($266,000,000). On the morning of day three, prior to everyone’s departure, they held a ninety-minute (come-and-go) breakfast at which many of the staff, administrators and some faculty were available for questions. It was helpful, because questions come to mind after the sessions, and this provided an informal setting in which to ask them. It's an interesting juxtaposition, but you can't separate the University from its home, New Orleans, LA. WOW! I can see how some might not be comfortable in the Big Easy. There are drunks walking the streets even in the mornings (giving new meaning to the term "breakfast bar") and there is lots of trash, but it is a richly textured and beautiful city, and although some very poor areas are just a few blocks away, the Uptown (Garden District) neighborhood in which the school is set, is, quite simply, gorgeous. It's Victorian mansion after Victorian mansion, interspersed with Bed & Breakfast Inns and law offices, small hotels and small apartment buildings, all different and interesting. There are little restaurants, coffee shops and bars dotted along each street and there are gnarled ancient oaks, sometimes roofing the street below, punctuated with palms. I can't wait to explore further. Although the legal age at which one can "purchase" alcohol is 21 (due to Federal requirements for highway funding), it appears to be widely disregarded, and it is legal to enter bars and possess alcohol in one's private residence (including dorm rooms), at 18. There were kids who went to the French Quarter the first night of Orientation and the University does not ban drinking in the dorm rooms. There were also kids who went to the Uptown bars (closer to school) both nights. From what we heard, no one had difficulty getting served (without any kind of fake ID). I can see how this environment might cause problems for some students and hope and pray (with confidence) that my son will use good judgment and find balance between the allure of such flavorful night life and the discipline of academic effort. A final thought about Loyola’s main campus (with the law school and one dorm are on a second campus up the street, which I have yet to see). I was struck upon our first visit by how "not beautiful" the campus was. I admit I am spoiled. Our oldest son's campus at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington (UNCW) is quite lovely. They have 700 plus acres, which include a centerpiece wildflower preserve, and are nicely insulated from the surrounding community by well-defined borders and lots of land. Loyola's campus is very small (26 acres), surrounded overwhelmingly on two sides by Tulane, with the other two sides "in" the Garden District. There is a Catholic Elementary school essentially "on" campus. The architecture is "mixed" and includes the older and original buildings (a Gothic/Tudor blend), one "modern" (60's I'm guessing) building, that is, without question, the single ugliest building I've ever seen (although it has an oddly pleasant interior feng shui), and a few in between (including one quite noble effort to tie the ugly building with the original centerpiece, Marquette Hall). All of that said, I have to admit, it's "growing on me" and I'm very sure they think they have something "special" going on there. They may very well be right.

New Orleans notes: food and lodging 6/24/04

This trip, we discovered the Magazine Street area and had dinner at Frankie and Johnny's on Tchoupitoulas Street (from the current Nissan commercial... "Go past the smokin' dawg... to the best darn crawfish in l'weez-i-ana"). Their folding sign out front said "last day for crawfish" and we went late, so they were out of crawfish, but I had some pretty amazing fried shrimp and some of the freshest fish I've ever eaten. I'm not even sure what kind of fish it was, as my son's generous friend didn't want the fish on his seafood platter, but it was a light white fish, thicker than catfish but thinner than grouper (maybe flounder or tilapia?). Their homemade salad dressings were incredible and I found myself dipping the fish (and the onion rings) in the bleu cheese dressing for an extraordinary treat. We also ordered and shared the alligator soup and it was *lively* and delicious. Don’t expect any frills. It's a dive but wonderful. I have one (fairly significant) note regarding Frankie & Johnny's: I left my camera hanging from the back of my chair and called them immediately upon arriving back at my hotel. By the time we left, there were more staff than patrons in the restaurant, and our table had been near the very back. They said they didn't find it, but I feel certain that a member of their staff ended up with my camera. I'll go back, but it will always have this ding in my opinion. We've stayed in two different hotels on our two trips. Our most recent stay was at the Pontchartrain Hotel (http://www.pontchartrainhotel.com/), and I doubt I'll try that again. It is old and crumbling, and it's former splendor, architectural beauty and interesting antiques were cold comfort when both ice machines appeared to have been long broken, judging by the condition of their "out of order" signs, and my bed was essentially collapsed into itself. There was no coffee service in my room, no complimentary coffee anywhere in the hotel, and the Cafe (which appears to be affiliated in some way with Starbucks) didn't open until 7:00, with my poor caffeine-deprived head on Eastern Time. Fortunately, there was plenty of coffee close by and I somehow managed to put myself together enough to stumble out into the street and find an adequate dose, before coming back to shower and get ready for the day. I really want my coffee as soon as I awaken, before I have to dress. We didn't have much free time, so by the end of day two, I was still trying to get my G4 PowerBook online, and, frustrated, I called the Front Desk. He said it was virtually impossible, because the historic wiring was not capable of handling even a dial-up connection, and that although I might briefly establish one, it's not likely I could maintain it. I very nicely said, "Well, darn, I'll never be able to stay here again." We both laughed. The staff at the Pontchartrain was fabulous. Everyone at the front desk, the housekeeping staff (whom I pestered), the bartenders and, most particularly, the valet parkers were accommodating, very pleasant, and welcoming. Calvin has been parking cars at the hotel for sixteen years and was a complete, heavily accented delight of New Orleans flavor as he let me ride along while he parked a car so that I could get something out of mine, and we walked back together. When I remarked that the hotel was falling apart, he, without any apparent judgment, agreed, "Yes, I s'pose they needs to fix one thing at a time, but there's lots o' things broken." I asked him about the new management, as we had heard from a local that it had been a better hotel before being recently taken over, and he tried to be a good *company man* without lying. It was a commendable effort. The only member of the staff with whom I had contact that wasn't entirely pleasant was the property’s manager. I happened by the open door of the Executive Office, which was between the elevator and my room (on the second floor). I literally poked my head in, not seeing anyone there, just to get an idea of the layout of the front suites that must lie above it in the higher floors of the hotel. A very attractive, although overly self-conscious, young man stopped me, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that I had done something *wrong* and excused myself hurriedly. Calvin was very careful not to say anything bad about the Hotel's new management, but as a customer, my one little contact with the new manager was markedly unpleasant, and lacked any of the grace and welcome I've found everywhere else in New Orleans. In retrospect, with everything in such a stage of disrepair, I would think it would have been better for him to be out in the property seeing that things were being handled. The Pontchartrain's location is perfect, close enough to the school, but we won't be going back. Our first trip, we stayed at Le Cirque (http://www.hotellecirqueneworleans.com/). Le Cirque is bit farther "down" St. Charles Avenue, towards the French Quarter (maybe not quite half way from Loyola and Tulane to the FQ). Both hotels are right on the streetcar line, and the hotel sits on the curb of Lee Circle with the monument to Robert E. Lee, quite literally, in the middle of the intersection directly in front of the hotel, a hill of a park in the center of the traffic circle, providing a place to sleep for the night (or day) to numerous "residents". Le Cirque was the complete opposite of the Pontchartrain, and although there were aspects of it that I did not like during our stay, it looked better by comparison. It's also an older hotel, although it's been fairly extensively remodeled. Its overall design is modern and the very small lobby is dominated by its open restaurant, which is highly regarded. Our room was very small but well placed on the second floor with a window that opened onto a lovely outdoor terrace that we could easily reach from the hall just outside our door. Good mattresses. Good sheets. The bathroom was interesting, although I felt it particularly exampled what was evident in the whole building: "form for form's sake" without enough regard for function. The bathroom was tile and marble with a big open built-in shower and a showerhead that blasted a knockdown volume of water upon the occupant. It was glorious, although the shower curtain couldn't really handle it and was prone to blowing all over the place in the water-driven wind. It was a heavenly shower, but a little too much of a liquid event, and I would have liked to be able to secure the curtain. The bathroom door was etched glass. It was interesting, but not particularly practical when sharing a room with one's son, as I was. On the first trip we were splitting our time between the scheduled events at Loyola's President's Open House (odd name, considering they were without a President at the moment, but that's what they call their accepted student visitation), and sightseeing in an effort to get to know the city. We didn't spend much time in the room. After a long day in the French Quarter, we stumbled into Irene's hoping for an early dinner before heading back to the hotel to catch our local college team's advance in March Madness on television. Irene's, which had been highly recommended, appeared mostly empty, but we were told we couldn't get a table for two for an hour. When I turned to rush out after saying we couldn't wait that long, not rude but just hurried, the maitre d' said, "Whoa now darlin', this is N'awlin's, it's time to slow down," so I playfully humored him while he gave us careful directions to another restaurant, walking us all the way to the corner to do so. We found a beer to go (yes, they have beer to go in New Orleans) and easily hailed a cab back to Le Cirque where we splurged on a room service from its Lee Circle Restaurant, while watching NCAA basketball. We had steak and shrimp and a very wonderful bisque, thick with cream and just the right hint of tomato, and topped with an ample portion of delicious fresh local crabmeat. It was heavenly. At both hotels, parking is a pain, to the tune of $18/night for automobile "storage" off-site, but I think that's common in New Orleans. Both had convenience shopping close by and streetcar stops right outside the front door. The staff at Le Cirque was every bit as delightful as that at the Pontchartrain, but Le Cirque is an Internet hot spot. They charge each guest $4 per night for wireless Internet and $4 per night for unlimited long distance, whether or not either is used. It was glorious. All I had to do was open my wireless-enabled laptop and I was connected. It was great. It was fast. I'll go back.

Integrity 6/26/04

I like the third definition offered by Dictionary.com: The quality or condition of being whole or undivided; completeness. My personal belief is that integrity is about having appearances match how things really are. I know that no one ever really achieves it, that everyone has *some* dark secret, perhaps for some just a little one, but to live for a long time looking one way while being another is almost impossible. I think that the pervasiveness of this dynamic has contributed to the explosion of online communities (message boards) and blogging. People reach out, wanting to be seen or heard, needing interaction with others. Today, I've worked on my resume and sent it in response to a job posting in our local newspaper. There were two or three ads for jobs that might be decent fits for my skills, but they'll require some further re-working of the resume, which I will finish tomorrow. My goal is to respond to at least one more ad tomorrow (by Monday morning) with my revised resume. I will find a way.

City streets and car crashes 6/29/04

She had to call me three times in the wee hours this morning, before I finally struggled to enough consciousness to realize that the phone that was ringing in my dream was, in fact, ringing beside me. Looking back, I was surprisingly calm when I finally made out the caller ID, designating our town's big downtown urban trauma hospital. After a ridiculous attempt to call back the number that had called me, and of course only reaching a switchboard, I thought to listen to messages and heard the voice of Three's best friend's mom, assuring me that they were both going to be okay, but that there had been an accident. I dressed and headed downtown, leaving the house in the dark sometime after 4:00. Three is 16. His friend is 17. Friend had told his mother that they were staying here. They came by here late (and Friend called his mom from here), and got my sleepy permission to go stay at Friend's house, all the while, in fact, heading to the home of a buddy, whose recently divorced mother is out of the country. We got lazy (or sleepy), but, in retrospect, she and I should have spoken with each other, and, normally, we would have. They went to drink beer with some older boys, and Friend, who is a beautiful and high-spirited young lefty who will go far if he survives his youth, decided he was hungry and nothing in the fridge would do. Supposedly, Three tried to talk him out of hitting the rain-slicked streets after a six pack each, but after failing, "couldn't" let him go alone. Neither of them is sure exactly how the accident happened. They both remember going too fast down a hill and losing control. The officer told me they hit a pole, probably rolled and landed in some residential woods downhill from the road. Three doesn't remember how he got out of the car, but he feels certain he was wearing his seat belt, although judging by the bumps, cuts, scratches, bruises and abrasions that cover him from head to toe (he was somehow separated from his shoes, chockos), he could have been thrown. I want to write as many times today as I possibly can, what I've said over and over in my internal dialogue since the moment of hearing from the mom that they were going to be alright, "Thank you, God, for these two young men sill being with us today." Friend was not so lucky. It is not quite 3:30 in the afternoon and when I spoke with his mom an hour ago, he was still in Trauma Room 1 of the Big Urban Hospital, waiting for a bed in the Trauma ICU, at which time his mom can go bond him out at the police precinct housed inside the hospital, so that they can uncuff his ankle from the bed and let the nice officer who stands by his side, go on to more important duties. I have not yet heard his blood alcohol level but he is in police custody in the hospital. There were 4 Trauma Rooms (really one big room with four beds), and we could glimpse one or another of them as the staff came in and out of the two doors. Three was one of tens of patients lined along the halls as part of the imperfect triage system of this overcrowded, under-funded institution where angels work to tend the poor and the lost and the naughty. I observed at least three patients who had police attendants. His friend does not appear to be permanently injured, although the bruising to his lungs is causing him breathing difficulty and they are going to keep him for some days because of the risk of swelling of the lungs that is posed by his three broken ribs. As the Trauma Room doors opened and closed we saw the resident stitching his leg, his forehead and his ear, his face masked and bagged in an effort to keep him oxygenated without intubation. I was there for about five hours, I think. After the 7:00 shift change, this being a teaching hospital, the little crowd of residents came upon us making rounds (I was allowed to stay with him only because I was his mother and he was a minor), and only then did anyone realize that Three had not yet been "seen". He was released sometime after 9:00. We have slept and he has now eaten, sore and sorry and grateful. I woke up to watch the noon news with a cup of coffee while checking my email (ah, there is still a real world of unclear work with questionable possibilities), and, sometime in the wee hours, less than a mile from where they wrecked, another young man lost control of his mustang on the wet streets, but was not so lucky. He was 23. He died. May God grant peace to those who love him. Again. Thank you, God, for blessing us last night and protecting our boys from themselves.

Worse than it appeared 7/1/04

I think that as we experience a traumatic event, in this case, the boys in the car as it went off the road, or Friend's Mom and I, as we heard the news and met in the trauma center, time seems suspended and we become so focused on each moment that the moments become stills stored like single frames of film, which only begin to make sense over time. As it turns out, Friend's neck is broken. He's expected to fully recover, thank God, but, in retrospect, he was badly mishandled by the emergency officials at the scene as well as in transport. Neither Three nor Friend have any recollection of how they got out of the car. Three can only remember seeing Friend, sitting on the ground, with his knees raised and his arms folded across his legs, his head resting on his arms. The police officers at the scene were telling him to produce his wallet from his back pocket, and, according to Three, Friend would lift first one hip and then the other and then say, "I can't." Of course it makes sense now, but the officers at the scene may have been mistaking the symptoms of his fractured second vertebrae for extreme drunkenness. In fact, at no time prior to being in the emergency room, was Friend's neck stabilized nor was he placed on a body board, and the paramedics in the ambulance were rolling him over and sat him up to cut his shirt off from behind. Now he's wearing a halo, bolted into his newly-shaved skull above his ears and twice on his forehead. The back is open so that he can lie down. He was bonded out yesterday morning, after finally being moved to an ICU unit, but it took the entire day for the paperwork to make it's way from one part of the building to another so his ankle cuff could be removed and his personal officer released. In all honesty, I understand police procedure, but this seems more than a little ridiculous to me. This kid was lying there with a broken neck, on a morphine drip. Both his father, back from out of town, and his mother were with him yesterday and will be again this morning, then Dad has to go back out of town mid-day today, and I think Three and I will go down there to be with his mom this afternoon. Three is doing well, although he's a little sore and scratched up, with some bruising still coming to the surface, and a particularly ugly bruise has grown beneath the smile of a cut on his right cheek. He's essentially back to normal. It's all so damn random sometimes. The concrete pole that they severed, impacted the car on the passenger side, but somehow the driver was more seriously injured. Three seems quite certain that no airbags deployed, although given the big gaps in his memory, I'll wait to hear from someone who has seen the car. I'd like to get a chance to see it myself. Today is Thursday, and, for some reason, it's hard to keep track of what day it is this week. Other than that oddity, a preoccupation with Friend, and trying to piece together the snapshots we have into some kind of whole that makes sense, things are pretty normal around here, which is not necessarily a good thing. This group of business men (and I'm using that term as loosely as is possible), who brought my husband in as a consultant on first two initiatives and now a third, continue to find a way not to pay him, while taking turns falling out with each other, making up, passing him around through their internal moneyless melodrama. Now, he's no stranger to working on spec, or working with or for scoundrels for that matter, but these comedic oafs are perhaps his professional low point. At this moment, he *is* working on spec with another man, a black professional who is an independent like he is and as poor as we are, who has brought him into a highly speculative but potentially very exciting (ground-breaking and innovative as well as potentially lucrative) opportunity. He has no problem working without knowing if he'll get paid on that project. On the other ones, the folks who brought him in have a corporate entity (actually a few of them), and they have been funded. They fly around the country, with offices in major cities on both coasts and in the heartland, and jaunt to Europe for meetings. They lack his expertise and continue to rely on it, but no clear path to getting paid has emerged, although we continue to be told it is imminent. He's put so much time into these projects (which are, in fact, very promising on their own merits, aside from the lowlifes who are developing them), that there is nothing else that holds much promise for any short-term payment, so we have to play this out until we either walk away (taking at least one of the deals with us, in all likelihood) or establish a manner and method in which he can get paid. I would love to believe that I could, over time, put in place systems that would prevent this from ever happening again, but I know better. He's a lone operator who doesn't like plans, but shoots from the hip, called by the almost romantic lure of each deal, separately, without regard to minor matters, like the quality of the characters involved or the possibility, or lack thereof, of getting paid. I can't change that.

Hospital visits and halos 7/2/04

Well, I am just back. After seeing our dear friend, and it was hard, I went to a little league (11 year old district semi-final) game where my presence was expected. At the hospital, both boys started crying as soon as they saw each other. It was the first time either of them have cried (as far as we moms know). She and I stopped ourselves, and I sat through the game with a lump in my throat, unable to think about anything but this beautiful young man in such pain. We had a nice visit, an hour, and are going back tomorrow from 1-2 so that his mom can keep a previous lunch engagement, then she's joining us at the hospital and we're going to go look at the car. He's on a bipap machine to help him breathe, and he hasn't been eating much because of the mask. He just needed a little nudging though, and we managed to get some tomato soup and some sprite in him. He's asked for banana popsicles and sour patch kids, which we're taking tomorrow. When his chest x-rays improve enough to take him off of the bipap, he'll be moved out of ICU and perhaps to another hospital. He has apparent complete use of his arms and we did much hand-holding. He has stitches everywhere (arm, legs, ear, head), and of course, the halo bolted into his skull in four places, over his ears and his eyebrows. It's a formidable device, with cranks and levers and posts, and it's holding his head sort of cocked back, haltered to his shoulders with hard plastic padded by lambswool. He had a terrifying blood-crusted butterfly bandage covering a cut on his throat which moved with his visibly beating pulse. His mom says that the car impacted the pole on the passenger side right behind the front seat, driving the exterior wall 4 ft. into the car. I can't believe we still have these boys. I'm pretty shaken. I remain astonished that these two boys were in the same accident, that my son is walking around barely scathed and his friend is so seriously injured, especially considering that the primary impact was on the passenger side of the car. I feel blessed, and lucky and grateful and amazed. Again I give thanks to God.

It's all so random 7/2/04

We saw the car today and it looked like a cartoon tire iron wielded as a weapon that takes the form of it's victim, with the impression of the concrete pole they hit, bent into the the back seat so that the right rear door was popped out and the roof and wall pushed all the way up against the left rear door. The gas tank was bubbled up where the back seat used to be. The boys had paint on them from the box of vacation bible school crafts materials that had been stored in the trunk and although the passenger's side of the front seat was considerably more violated than the driver's side, which was completely intact, Friend's little brother's GoPed had been in the back seat, and as the handlebar portion of the GoPed got smashed into the rear seat metal sandwich, the lower platform of the scooter twisted into the front seat and, apparently, hit Friend in the back of the head, most likely causing his serious injury. It's still there, suspended in the air, exactly where Friend's head would have been. The banana popsicles were a hit.

Seriously Stuck 7/5/04

The Monday holiday is a blessing, posing as an extra weekend day so that I can relax a little about not getting anything done, under the illusion that I'm not supposed to, when I know that the sad fact is that I can't. We will visit Friend this afternoon, and not have to contend with crowded parking or workday traffic downtown. I will do some laundry and a few chores, not too many, and cook, and, hopefully, write. Two is a couple of hours up the road, visiting his girlfriend at our flagship state U. Three is still sleeping. I continue to feel the need for a plan, but my husband, and business partner, is a mak-it-up-as-you-go-along and shoot from the hip kind kind of guy and that's not going to change. I hope we can use today to talk some and get a bit of clarity about what the next steps should be. Maybe some of his associates will be willing to work today (we don't seem to stop for holidays or weekends, for that matter) and somehow, this will all inch forward. I continue to hope for a breakthrough within the crazy group with which he's currently involved. They have a couple of very lucrative projects on the table that they cannot do without him and I have to think that if we hold out, they'll come up with some up-front $$ for his services. They sure keep sending him work via email, and he's ignoring it to try to force some open communication. They're a fairly dysfunctional lot. Although I know the highest yield possibilities on my plate lie within his initiatives, which require my support to develop, I don't see any of them having much short-term promise and remain drawn to the security of a job (something where I don't have to think too much, at least not away from the work). The boys' accident sort of took me off the job search task last week, and I haven't heard anything further from either of the ads I answered. I stopped perusing the ads too. Maybe today could be used to take that back up again, although I hesitate to begin, because I fear that it will end up like the last search, and I'll only be able to find full-time permanent work that wouldn't enable me to keep doing what I'm doing with him, leaving me having to live with getting offered a good job and not taking it. It does seem that when I get really far along in a job search, he has some breakthrough in the "consulting practice" which combines a surge of need for my services here with and abatement of the desperate need for regular income. Maybe I should start the search in hopes of that happening again. I guess I've already done that. The laundry is going and there are pleasant, although not fancy, options for lunch. We had fun yesterday, as dinner guests in the home of some very close friends with in-laws visiting. It was a large rowdy bunch, and we excused ourselves when the time came to walk up to "the biggest fireworks display in the Region" because my Vietnam combat veteran spouse is not particularly fond of fireworks. We came home and watched them on tv, all the while able to hear them, for real, in the distance. Later: I went to visit Friend in the hospital and he's much better, catheter gone, only one IV, and he'd been up for a while. It was good to see and we had a nice, quiet visit. I took my computer and showed him the pictures of the car. When I got back, I found an email from an HR person at the college to which I sent the resume and writing samples. It was "formish" but I think someone typed it (an auto-reply would have come a week ago). It said they were evaluating my materials and would be back with me later. I thought that was better than "Good luck with your job search." :)

More Patent Thoughts 7/20/04

Many (most?) inventions don't come about because someone sets out to "invent" something, but are more likely created in the course of practicing an art. Often an inventor only realizes that they have invented something after the fact, and even then, it's not likely that they will grasp the full scope of the invention until later, perhaps years later. If the invention is important, and the inventor is a small business or an individual practicing the invention, then be certain that predators will come from everywhere, big and small ones, and it will become difficult to practice the art, distracted by the feverish frenzy that builds around the IP. If no one tries to steal your invention, and if large companies aren't working to design around it, then your invention is not likely of much commercial value. The process was originally put in place to encourage and reward invention, if only for a little while. The sacrifices made prior to the reward are often great. It's very unlikely that one can obtain the multiple patents necessary to protect any invention, while practicing the invention, before a large corporation attempts to profit from the invention. The PTO is neither set up nor motivated to allow claims easily or quickly, because every time rejected claims are resubmitted, they carry another fee. The US fees are steep but the international fees are overwhelming, and international infringement is difficult if not impossible to monitor. "Inventor" is not a career. One is called, often reluctantly. It's not a game for individuals or small companies, unless they have a high pain threshold. Started to protect individual inventors, the patent process has been distorted over time, to insure that large companies and venture capitalists end up with the most and best patents. I think it's very unusual for an individual "inventor" to realize wealth from an invention until long after they and their family have paid a very high price for their gain.

Kerry accepts his party's nomination 7/30/04

By the time Max Cleland was finished, and the nominee took the podium, saluted and proclaimed that he was "Reporting for duty," my combat-hardened veteran had tears rolling down his cheeks. I wonder if Bush can imagine how it feels to be gravely in harm's way on the other side of the globe, unable to tell "friend from foe" as Kerry so perceptively described? There was a great deal of talk about "integrity" at last night's Democratic Convention, and it's a subject I've recently explored in this forum. Integrity is about personal consistence, having thoughts and actions and words and deeds fully integrated and governed by one set of moral criteria. Lack of integrity is about having ongoing conflict between how things look and how they really are, or, worse, utilizing only instinctive self-serving reactive criteria, which vary depending on one's personal interests in any given situation. I think when Kerry talks about "...telling the truth to the America people," and pledges that he "...will be a Commander in Chief who will "...never mislead us into war," he is weaving an argument of evidence of Bush's lack of integrity. What Bush says is not consistent with what he does. He talks of honoring those in service of the country, but Kerry mentions the suffering of the families of reservists and guard members caught in the "back door draft" and so rightly says, "It's time for those who talk about family values to start valuing families." When he ultimately asked, "Where is the conscience of our country," I felt quite certain that the conscience of our country, that which was best and good in us before we became hated by most of the world, is embodied in John Kerry, and that he believes into his soul, having learned from experience, that "...we are all in the same boat." It's a global boat now, and that cannot be ignored. In closing, he quoted Lincoln, saying, "I don't want to claim that God is on our side; I want to pray humbly that we are on God's side." It is not an easy road, living with integrity, trying every day to do what is dictated by a moral code, looking for "God's side" even when it may not be what we want to see. We may never know what Bush wanted to do in Iraq, but from a distance it looks like an impulsive child or even an addict, focused only on immediate self-gratification and aggrandizement, rationalized by ever-changing lies. There were no weapons of mass destruction to seize, no clear link to Al Quaeda to sever, and only a fool would believe that Bush's actions have made the world safer for Americans. No matter how good war is for business, this war won't be enough to save Haliburton. Bush saw what he wanted to see, with little regard for Truth, and a very high price has been paid, in dollars, as well as blood. Finally, quietly, on July 28th, Doctors Without Borders left Afghanistan after 24 years of operation there, because it had finally become too dangerous to remain. We have no more time to waste, no room for further damage. Our leadership and policies must change now, back to the leadership style of the past, governed by principles rather than principals. It is time to seek the help of our historical allies to clean up this mess and to choose integrity over impulsivity. We need a new President. Now.

Happy Anniversary 8/1/04

I'm glad to say that Three got home safely last night, driving through rain (riding with a friend), after his three-week stint as an assistant camp counselor. He looked thinner and taller and beautiful, and he stayed for about ten minutes before heading out with his "home" friends. I am so glad that he continues to go to camp in the summer, getting out of this city, at least for a little while. It's a wonderful camp, associated with the YMCA, a huge gift, given the nature of this pressure-cooker that is our home. One is also on the way, driving in from another direction. I pray that God is with him as he travels, and I'm watching the weather as he weaves his way in and out of storms. I'm happy that all three boys will be home tonight. It's been a while. I have no idea if anyone but me knows that their father and I got married twenty-three years ago today, and I wish there was some way to avoid the subject altogether. I suspect that Dad has figured it out, because we watched ABC News this morning and "anniversary" was repeatedly mentioned relative to the Edwards celebrating their 27th, the day after the convention. I almost saw his well-contained "Ahah!" moment. So far he's not speaking. We don't speak much, really, even when we should. We've been asked, this weekend, by one of our associates, to please communicate with each other. I have been waiting since yesterday morning for his input regarding my revisions to a client letter I'm writing and editing for the associate, who is representing our product to a major national packaged goods company (think VERY BIG BRAND). Now, this associate is as flaky as it gets, having been brain-injured a few years back, and has *some nerve* suggesting *we* communicate better, when I am writing letters for him because his babble makes mine look cohesive, but, sitll.... he may have a little point. I'm sure, before today is over, "the boss" will let me know what additional changes he wants me to make in the letter. I think it might be best to ignore this anniversary. I don't want to be negative, but I cannot pretend. Happy Anniversary? That feels like a lie. I'm grateful that our sons will be home, but I'm really scared about how insecure our situation has become, or has always been. I want a job, but am afraid to leave him alone everyday with our business, because every time I do, something terrible happens. This is the perfect moment for One to be coming home. It would be the perfect moment for him to really come home, and work with us. As it stands now, he's registered to take a full load away at college this coming semester, and he's made all of his living arrangements. Still, his presence, working everyday, would make a big difference to us now, although he would be an explosive addition to an already volatile dynamic. Maybe it would be good, to shake things up a bit. Maybe I could slip out the back, so to speak, while he and Dad are dueling, and find other work to pay the bills, or at least make some pots to sell. Fresh troops, or reinforcements (at least one), so to speak. Happy Anniversary. We went to pre-marital counseling, mandated by his church, which has since become my church, then not, again. We talked in depth, in small and large groups about the meaning of marriage, and what was important and what was not. He said all the right things, and so did I. I believed what I was saying. I remember how smart about relationships I thought I was. I believed that love was a choice and that, with commitment and determination and kindness, I could make anything work. I was wrong. I have received his chages to the letter via email, from downstairs. _______________________________________________________________________________ I sent a message to a friend from another forum, informing him of my blog. When I started this blog, it was to discuss the difficult things I couldn't talk about in real life, or in any internet forum in which I was participating. I haven't really done that, and have a large number of entries that have been saved in draft because they are too personal, and too negative to publish. I don't want to speak ill of my husband, but to go through life pretending like he is normal, is deceptive. In response to my invitation, I got a note back from my friend, in which he mentioned admiration for my energy in doing this. It's really quite the other way around. This is such a relief. It takes far more energy to hold this stuff in and hide it, than it does to just let it out.

Do the math 8/4/04

Here's an interesting article from yesterday's Washington Post by respected journalist, Michael Kinsley, in which he compared the actual numbers over the last fifty years relative to deficits, spending, taxes, unemployment and inflation. He evaluated the data by which party held the Presidency, and as it turns out, according to Kinsley's research, that the Democrats are the party that has provided us with the greatest fiscal responsibility and general economic prosperity over the last fifty years. http://www.washingtonpost.com/ac2/wp-dyn/A29205-2004Jul30?language=printer

LOTR Musings 8/2/04

I've found myself writing about Tolkien's themes from time to time in various fora and in email correspondence with other Tolkien enthusiasts. I've discussed the obvious themes of folks who would otherwise be enemies banding together to oppose a common foe and of ordinary folk called to heroic deeds. We've talked about entire wars for the simple sake of diversion so that the smallest among them could creep deep into the enemy's stronghold and capitalize on his one true vulnerability: his inability to comprehend that others might think differently and seek to destroy him by destroying his prize rather than wielding it. I've always been drawn to the notion that it, by definition, was the smallest and weakest among them who could achieve the goal, that their very insignificance provided them advantage, that appearances can be deceptive, and that even the jolliest folk, fond of the simplest pleasures can be formidable foes when stirred to action in a righteous cause. There is an accidental nature to heroism, and a strong moral conviction to do what is right can lead good but ordinary people into events for which they are wholly unprepared. Sam's speech in The Two Towers says it beautifully: "And we shouldn't be here at all, if we'd known more about it when we started. But I suppose it's often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things that the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that's not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folks seem to have been just landed in them, usually--their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back only they didn't. And if they had, we shouldn't know, because they'd have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on--and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folks inside a story and not outside it call a good end. ...But those aren't always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?" Through readings and partial readings over many years, I’ve found inspiration in Tolkien’s story and was a little taken aback when Frodo’s inability to return to his former life, forever changed by his experience, so resonated with me after seeing the third film. I was left feeling uneasy, if not unpleasant, as if, somehow the ending wasn’t quite as happy as I’d remembered. In "Tolkien: A Biography" Michael White so beautifully described what I was feeling when he wrote: "And it is this, more than any other aspect of the legend, that was derived most obviously from Tolkien's experiences of war. The sense that there is never a complete victory and that all triumph is always tarnished with loss is a powerful element in Tolkien's universe. Throughout the entire epic cycle, victory is always gained at a grievous price, success is always at least partly tempered with failure. A tinge of sadness, of fragility and impermanence underlies everything about Middle-earth." Of course, it is the same “fragility and impermanence” that underlies all life, and Tolkien was right, great gain often requires great loss. White touches on what seems to be the most consistent criticism of Tolkien’s epic, and that is his treatment, or lack thereof, of women and romantic matters. I suggest that the minimal romanticism in the story is less because of Tolkien’s Catholic propriety and a resulting lack of familiarity or comfort with romantic interaction (although this is clearly a part of it), and more central to the theme of ordinary matters of life becoming secondary to facing compelling overwhelming events. War was the domain of men and Tolkien’s few women excel, each in their moments, and some as equals rather than counterparts, from the powerful and wise rule of Galadriel to Eowyn’s Dernhelm, determined to fight along side her brother and her father. The thread of loss is woven through this theme of romance deferred or achieved at great price, notably in Arwen’s sacrifice of immortality for love of Aragorn, but most clearly in the sad consequences of the ents, ultimately defined by the loss of their entwives, left eventually almost without life and not even remembering why. Tolkien’s characters, for the most part, choose an intimacy of enduring great hardship or sacrifice together that transcends gender and sexuality, and although there is not much room for romance in his tale, it is, at it’s core, about love.

Freshman Move-In 8/28/04

We are still working on the Big Deal with the Big Company. Sometimes it looks dead. Sometimes it looks alive. Sometimes we work on other things. I'm disgusted with it all, but knew this would happen going in, having dealt with them too many times. It continues to play out. I did get Two moved in at Loyola. The best part of the packing process was the protracted negotiation between Two and Three, over what went to school and what stayed home. These boys have, for the most part, shared clothes since they were about 6 and 3, although Three has gotten much bigger than his older brother, and there are some things that they don’t share. Still, the negotiation extended to video games, DVDs, tote bags, and, ultimately, toiletries. We pulled out of the house with much fanfare (including taking pictures) and drove away, both deeply moved, listening to Bella Fleck and the Flecktones (Live at the Quick). We had a nice drive to New Orleans, dodging thunderstorms (for the most part), and dear son is well settled in his dorm. It was exceptionally hot and humid. After move-in we went to lunch with his roommate (close friend from home), roommate's parents, aunt (who was in town visiting her parents) and little sister, at a wonderful itsy bitsy po-boy shop called Domilise's. The food was yummy, the beer was cold and the bulletin board sported photos of local celebrities, including many snapshots of Mannings, many of the younger Mannings when they were very, very young, and many of them signed. It poured rain while we were eating lunch and stopped just when we were done, and we went back out into the cooler, but steamier town, the kids back to school for a scheduled event and the adults off to errands and maybe some rest. So far, I’ve done New Orleans on a tight budget. Now, that might not have been my first choice, but it’s a good town for it, with abundant interesting food and lodging at all price levels. I love where I stayed this trip: the Prytania Park Hotel, at the corner of Prytania Street and Terpsichore. It’s an older building. Behind the free-standing lobby, the hotel is two small buildings which are essentially parallel to each other, sharing a central narrow balconied and paved courtyard interspersed with zigzagging raised beds of mature tropical growth. The building is more like concrete than stucco, and takes some twists and turns, but the twelve-paned room windows are dark wood, with four-paned transoms and the room doors beside them, a single tiled step up from the walkway, are solid dark wood, also trimmed and also with four-paned transoms. It’s lovely! The rooms are small, but clean and nice, with dark wood trim and ceiling fans. All of the basics: Cable TV with remote, good mattress and sheets, paper and pen, fridge and microwave, everything works (dial-up internet although they say they are working on wireless – stay tuned), coffee service in-room and in the courtyard (with muffins and fruit). There is a 24 hour expanded vending/convenience area in the lobby with a nice variety of snacks. Here and there in the outdoor, yet interior, hallways, are weathered teak benches, tables and chairs to stop, sit and sip. The Prytania Park is located a block off of St. Charles Avenue in the Coliseum Square neighborhood in the Lower Garden District. While this section of St. Charles is lively and interesting, dotted with "finer" hotels, and The Prytania Park is just a short block off of, and visible from, St. Charles, the properties directly around the hotel are transitional, even sketchy. The first night, they didn't have room in the main hotel, so we were placed at the Queen Anne, the upscale B & B owned by the same owners, the Halpern Family, who also own the large retail store in front of the Prytania on St. Charles. We had a beautiful room, more like a suite, on the third floor of the hotel and I asked to be moved after we got him settled in the dorm because I didn't want to run in and out all the way to the third floor and I wasn't comfortable walking alone at night from the parking lot (at the hotel) to the Queen Anne. These accommodations were bargain-priced, almost beyond belief. I'm sure at other times, they are more expensive, but I am thrilled to have found this wonderful small, family-owned hotel in New Orleans and very, very pleased that my dear son has chosen to go away to college in such an interesting town.

More Freshman move in tales 8/31/04

The biggest snafu we had was related to the recently washed "down" (as in down and feathers) items in the linen "space bag" (you know, the ones you suck the air out of with the vacuum cleaner 'til they shrink up to a fraction of their original size!). It seems that despite letting them tumble all night and hanging them in 90 degree heat and bright sun for 5 hours, there was still wet down deep inside two down comforters (one throw with fleece backing that Gramma gave him last Christmas), when I sealed them in the linens space bag before we left. Needless to say they smelled like wet dog (everything in there did, but the other items were fine after a quick airing) when we opened them up over 24 hours later. Fortunately, we were able to open a window and I quickly removed the offending items. I returned them fresh as a daisy the next afternoon after spending a delightful morning at the Prytania Street Washateria, which I adored (I know you don't believe me but I swear it's true!). It was decrepit in some respects and definitely in an interesting "transitional" neighborhood (Coliseum Square in the Lower Garden District), but it was newly painted, with new clean ceramic tile floors and all new machines. A delightful elderly black proprieter who was taking turns sweeping the sidewalk out front with changing a tire on his car at the curb (an activity that seemed to me to be suspended pending cooler evening temperatures) said they were renovating. Fortunately, it was right around the corner from my hotel, so I could come and go while I was getting ready to check out. I will say that there's no need to worry about hot flashes in NO. They're not discernable from just the way it is. From the washateria, which gave new meaning to the term "hot spot", to schlepping gear from the car to the room, it was akin to being steamed. The university had a tent with pizza and drinks outside the dorm and cookies and drinks inside, which was nice. Parking was relatively close, and there were hand trucks available but we didn't really have enough to need one. I was the last parent to leave in our little group and we needed a second trip to the new Super Wal-Mart on Tchoupitoulas Street (Chop-i-tool-us, as best as I can tell), down by the river in the Warehouse District. It had just opened on the 25th and Xavier, New Orleans University and Loyno were moving in (Tulane was a week ahead and started classes last Wednesday), so, after breakfast for lunch with son, we picked up roommate and other friend from home (whose parents had all left), and made one last run into chaos. It was wild. We came back and unloaded, assembled and deployed the *stuff*. I handed over his PowerBook that I'd been using on the trip, got him hooked up to the school network, took a few pictures and said good-bye. He's set to go and the guys directly across the hall, who they also hung out with at Orientation, already feel like old friends. Darling boys. One said to me, "Mrs. X, I think I'm going to be homesick." I had just met him. I said, "Darlin', I *know* you are. It's ok. *Everybody* will be at one time or another." It was so sweet. His parents had dropped him off Friday then headed to the beach near Pass Christian, LA. The came back through on their way home Sunday and took him out to dinner. I like the way they think.

Hypnotized by a TV Hurricane 9/1/04

Is it a mind-trick in an effort to ignore the Republican Convention? I watched the prime time coverage last night. I couldn't bring myself to watch the expanded cable coverage, and still flipped back and forth to Frances, wondering which way she will go. I thought Arnold gave a great speech, although it was generic, and could have just as easily been given by a Democrat. I admit to being shocked by his confession that he *became* Republican before he could speak or understand English, newly immigrated, while watching the Nixon-Humphrey debates on a public television, when the stranger next to him translated what the men on television were saying, and what he was told Humphey had said reminded him of encroaching socialism in his beloved native Austria. Then the President's daughters, Barbara and Jenna, took the podium, and a dumbfounded pall infected the hall. I cannot believe that their material was professionally-written. It was awkward, inappropriate and badly-delivered (could anyone else hear one of them constantly clearing her throat?). I *almost* felt sorry for them. It made me cringe and I thought the discomfort of the squirming audience, particularly the senior Bushes, was visible. So I flipped back and forth to the spinning saw-blade vacuum of water and wind that is Frances, traversing the Caribbean on it's way to the US, wondering which way it will go, thinking of my friends and family in its possible paths, chatting with one of them online, talking to another on the phone, considering the various evacuation possibilities. I finally gave into my inner geek and to the impulse to visit the NOAA website and look at satellite images, infrared and false color, and to read the discussion and analyze the strike probabilities (why do they keep dismissing the model that shows the subtropical ridge weakening and the storm taking a sharp turn to the north?). There is clearly no good place for this monster to go. I guess I could say the same thing about the convention.

Week End 9/3/04

We worked hard this week but I don't know that we got anywhere with it. We still haven't been paid for the next phase of the commercial website we're building, and they've avoided us all week. Does every small business owner have trouble getting paid for their work? It's amazing how this happens over and over, and we put as many hours into collecting payment as we put in actually doing the job. So we head into the holiday weekend, broke, and discouraged that there will be nothing we can do about it until Tuesday. The Great Big Company chugs forward very slowly and we continue to answer all of their requests. They at least seem to be taking our proposal seriously and are finally asking smart questions about our methodology as supported by our intellectual property. I know better than to get my hopes up though, having been down this road before, not just with them but with a variety of Great Big Companies who love to bleed independents of innovation without compensation. Still, somehow this evening, I have new hope that they are indeed serious about working with us. This morning, for a while, I really wanted to just sell the damn patents, because the personal price that we've paid and continue to pay, is just too high, particularly for the children. I look at us, at our family, and realize that the invention has consumed us, has defined our existence and I don't like the way it feels. Then I talked to (son number) One and he convinced me that we are almost there, and that it will be worth it. He's younger and braver and has far greater stamina than I (that's why they send young men into battle instead of old women). So I find myself, on a Friday evening, resolved to carry on after a brief collapse, oddly unhappy to have a holiday weekend, because the work will stop progressing for these next days and I just want to get it done and get paid. I envy people with real jobs and continue to yearn for the security of one myself, but I can't quite figure out how to quit the job I have.

Moving forward 9/4/04

I am pleased that we haven't stopped for the weekend as we've gotten feedback on yesterday's work and woke up this morning to a request for the same material in a different format, a matrix vs. the narrative. He did much of the heavy lifting, and I spent the morning adding the patent-related copy, making it pretty and making the two documents work together. I am so pleased at the information the client is requesting! They are asking all the right, informed questions. If we don't get this work, it will be because our tactics don't fit their plan, rather than that they just never "got" it. That pleases me. Apparently our contact, the consultant who is representing our product and services to the client, has the close ear of someone near the inside, and that person is willing to work some over the holiday weekend, as a favor, to evaluate our documents so that they will be customized and ready to go to the client on Tuesday morning. I'm just glad to maintain at least an illusion of moving forward. I wonder if that's why I'm so fond of long drives in the car, because they are an opportunity for some really concentrated forward movement? It's my nature, perhaps human nature, to want to advance, progress, avoid being stalled or stuck. Many, if not most, games have the concept at their center, running or dribbling or kicking the ball down the field or the court toward the goal, hitting it with a club hundreds or yards or gentle precise putts towards each hole, advancing the runner trying to reach home. Like all Americans who are not Native Americans, I'm descended from folks who picked up and left their homes, often taking unknown and dangerous paths to reach a new land and a new life, so the need to move and change is in my genes, and feeling stuck or standing still for too long makes me uncomfortable. I suppose that's one of the reasons I come here to the Internet to write about where I am and what I'm feeling in some hope that it will help me figure out how to keep moving forward and which way to go next. Even if it's not actual movement, my mind is whizzing forward when I'm stuck and writing about those thoughts is action which leads to interaction and community, and it's healing.

A most unusual party 9/10/04

We inch along with our venture into the wilds of the Great Big Company, impatient (and hungry) as they attempt to turn with the speed and grace of a barge. I remain pleased that we seem to have their attention and their legal department is evaluating our intellectual property portfolio. That's all I can ask. Wednesday night, we went to the strangest, saddest party I've ever attended. We were told by our invitation to report to my husband's sister's house dressed in "military attire" at 1900 hours. As it turns out, the third of her four sons, a product of private schooling with a university degree, after amost a decade working in new media in New York City, has enlisted in the army and will leave soon for ranger training, in his bid to join the special forces. The catered party at their multi-million dollar mansion was fully adorned with military-themed decorations and was heavily attended by wildly combat-attired Republicans who never for a moment considered serving. One woman actually made a dramatic fashionably late entrance literally wrapped in a gigantic antique guaze-like US flag, proudly bearing the Swift Boat tome "Unfit For Command" in her ourstretched hands. Of course, I accompanied the only actual combat veteran in attendance, who eschewed the requested costumes for slacks, a collared shirt and a jacket, but wore the "Vietnam Veteran" baseball cap that his brother gave him years ago. My heart aches for our nephew because he's been sold a bill of goods about a noble war for a noble cause and has no idea what lies ahead of him. I am sure his intentions are honorable and he claims to be motivated by the loss of a close friend on September 11th. He knows that we do not love Bush as he does, but I took a few moments to tell him that we were proud of him. I specifically told him that there are a few moments in our lives when we make big decisions and big choices and that I wanted him to know that regardless of the differences in our views, we solildy support his choice and the bravery it required to make it. May God be with him in every way. May he be safe and wise and humane.

Interactive Connectivity 9/12/04

No stroll down the street to church or long drive to a country buffet for me today. I'm indulging once again in an electronic journey through cyberspace, reading blogs and dropping in on message boards, following links that make me think. Cross-legged on the bed, with "This Week" providing the dull, nearly-conscious background hum of the tired pseudo-mediated volley between partisan pundits, my head is bursting with interactive connectivity! Breathe! Breathe! There are so many places to go and so much to read. There are so many people! Inside my computer I find the usual, infuriating and often hilarious volleys of email among the weary participants of our Great Big Company fiasco. The Team Leader drives the rest of us crazy, but he initiated the effort, leveraging his relationships. Unfortunately, he's inept and jealously unable to hand over any client interface to any team member whose expertise might apply, so what we're showing the client, the good work that we do, collaboratively, gets distorted as it travels through the kaleidescopic bottleneck that is Leader's inability to write, spell, punctuate, attach a document, open an attached document, or get a joke. It's really gotten tiresome. His ignorance is overshadowed only by his arrogance and he sends these horribly-composed hysterically abusive email tirades to the team, blaming us each in our turn for his mistakes. He actually has endearing moments (it's impossible to take his ridiculous rants too seriously), and he has very loyal old friends in high places. He graduated from a top business school, but we didn't know him before his brain injury, which resulted in a three month coma, causing him some strange and subtle loss of function and impulse control (No, I am *not* making this up!). Only a miracle, or some critically compelling intellectual property, could make this work. George Stephanopoulous is finished and another hurricane is buzzing in the televised background. I should get up and clean but am tempted by the promise of someone to talk with, waiting somewhere online with a story to tell, a question to ask, or a crisis in need of aid, holding on to the notion that they will make me think and write, and that in the course of interacting with them, maybe there waits an "AhHa!" moment of clarity for me, just the tiniest flash of intellectual light that could influence or generate a new idea or a next step. Connectivity brings a kind of relationship grazing that fits nicely into the little moments "in between" and gives me momentary semblences of sane interaction amidst the uncomfortable chaos that is my current circumstance, an electronic life preserver. My home hasn't been this quiet since our oldest was born.

Hurricane stories, fact and fiction 9/13/04

I started following hurricanes when my oldest child moved to coastal North Carolina a few years ago, and have discovered that these uber-storms are habit-forming. Even way far inland as I am, with the help of The Weather Channel, Wunderground and the amazing availability of data at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association's website, it's very easy to get sucked into the vortices of the mamouth liquid vacuums. My first real binge hurricane was Isabel, last fall, which I was quite certain was aiming directly at my beloved first-born. Pretty soon I realized it was time to stop downloading sattelite images and time to start trying to convince my adrenaline-addicted child (so what if he's in his twenties - he's still my child!) to evacuate! No avail. It was, "I'm coming home..... I'm coming home..... I'm coming home..... Oops! I'm staying and hosting a Hurricane Party!" I worried myself sick, and he survived unscathed. This season, I've sought moderation. I might keep the TV on TWC in the background, but with the volume down. I might check into NOAA's site a couple of times a day, but am proud to say I haven't downloaded a single ariel view of the storm (yet). I kept a close eye on Bonnie, so to speak, because she was also headed in his direction. I also abandoned myself to watching Charley come ashore because of the drama in his last-moment strengthening and sudden change of direction. I watched Frances worried about friends in her path, and then I watched her remnants rip through my home and lost power to her for 24 hours. I also, indirectly, lost my car battery to her, because I used the car to keep my laptop charged that day and night, and now it's dead as a doornail. It was irresistable. The phone lines were good and it was our only source of news. I've watched Ivan's path, concerned for friends in harm's way in the Caribbean, always keeping one eye on the possibility he could turn west and take aim and my (son number) Two in New Orleans. Well, I am here to say, it's happening. Tulane has already suspended classes and there are dorm meetings tonight at Loyola. But the worst is what the computer models have been showing all day and the fact that it's not what's being projected by TWC. In this morning's 5:00 "discussion" on the NOAA site, it was noted that 3 of the 5 computer models predicted a LA or MS landfall, with the following text: "MOST OF THE GLOBAL TRACK GUIDANCE MODELS HAVE SHIFTED TO THE LEFT FROM THE PREVIOUS MODEL RUNS... EXCEPT THE GFDL WHICH HAS SHIFTED A LITTLE TO THE RIGHT. THE OFFICIAL FORECAST TRACK IS SHIFTED ABOUT 60 N MI LEFT OF THE PREVIOUS ADVISORY AT 72 HOURS AND IS STILL TO THE RIGHT OF ALL GUIDANCE EXCEPT FOR THE GFS. IF I DID NOT HAVE A PREVIOUS FORECAST TO MAINTAIN SOME CONTINUITY WITH... I WOULD HAVE SHIFTED THE TRACK EVEN FURTHER TO THE LEFT." So, wait... everything told him to change the projected track but he didn't, because it was too far off of their previous predictions? WHAT???? So the panhandle has been boarded up for days and the poor folks in LA have 48 hours to board up and/or get out of town? Does this mean that the interstates in and out will be turned around and made all exit lanes? What if I need to go get him?? I will update after his dorm meeting. There is nothing on the school's website, but the kids have heard it won't be updated until after the dorm meetings. I may go get him tonight, but first I'll have to buy a car battery to replace the one I lost to Frances. *sigh* Update: Well, they haven't had the dorm meetings yet, but the word is out. NO CLASSES the rest of this week at UNO, Xavier, Tulane or Loyola. He and his roommate are looking for rides home. If they can't both find a ride, I will go get them tomorrow. He is excited about his surprise visit and hoping to head up to our big U to visit his girlfriend. This is the first news I've gotten of his missing her (although I'm not at all surprised). :-) Yeee Haaa! New Update: They're waiting until tomorrow morning to decide. I bet that they didn't want Hurricane Parties going on tonight in the dorms (with the kids knowing they don't have classes) but the value would have been for those folks who would leave tonight, lessening the possible chaos tomorrow. I'm not pleased. :-(

New Orleans braces for Ivan 9/14/04

Well, Hurricane Ivan's saga continues. After rumors and more rumors floating around all afternoon and evening, Tulane announced last night at about 9:00 that they were suspending classes for the rest of the week and closing the dorms by Wednesday morning, giving the students today to find some place, some way, to go. Loyola waited, and suspended classes after the 11:00 PM predictions came out of the National Hurricane Center (at NOAA). I think the universities hesitated to announce earlier that there would be no classes today as they wanted to avoid big parties last night, and that it was probably the right thing to do. After deciding to just get up early and show up for the morning train (which is only $60 one way!), my (son number) Two and his Roommate got lucky, and were offered a ride, along with one of their high school classmates (and musical collaborator) from Tulane, by a Tulane girl who also went to their high school. It was very nice of her. I don't think they know the girl that well and am guessing she's older, as I don't think Tulane allows freshman to have cars (I know Loyola doesn't). They're supposed to be leaving at about 10:00 CDT, for the 500 mile drive, and I imagine they will face intense traffic on the Interstate highways that connect their college town to their home. His laptop will fit nicely in with his clothes. He doesn't know what kind of car she has, but remembers that she drove a Volvo in high school. He's hoping she can make room for his mandolin, knowing that, on the second floor, his room will flood should they sustain a direct hit. Roommate, a music major, is hoping to bring one guitar but will have to leave the rest of his instruments behind. They just informed me (via AIM) that they intended to store them on the top bunk and I have suggested they try to find a friend on a higher floor and ask to store the valuable instruments they're leaving behind, somewhere safer. New Orleans is extremely, perhaps uniquely, vulnerable to hurricanes, and it was presented to us matter-of-factly during Orientation. The city sits, quite simply, below sea level, wedged between the Mississippi River, Lake Pontchartrain and the Gulf of Mexico, and is kept *dry* by a system of levies that could not hold up against a major hurricane. The level of damage that the storm surge associated with a direct hit would cause to this unusual and wonderous city would be devastating in a way that really doesn't exist anywhere else in the US. So, this morning, I pray that God is riding with these young people on their drive, and ask for His blessing for all those who evacuate and especially those who remain behind, for whatever reason, to face Ivan. Finally, I pray that God keeps a protective watch over the city of New Orleans, so that these young people, once safely home (and, yes, Ivan could make his way up here eventually!), will have universities and a town to return to after this storm has passed.

My Baseball Team 9/20/04

I can't remember the last time the air was so clean. It's like Ivan power-washed the eastern United States! It's unseasonably cool and unusually, perhaps uniquely, clear. I'm happy to report that our middle son arrived safely back in New Orleans after his unexpected but delightful hurricane-related visit home. I have a baseball team. Now, that’s not something everybody can say, and I wouldn’t be prouder or more filled with gratitude for my good fortune if my baseball team was a Major League franchise (well, maybe). I’ve been active in youth baseball at various levels for a long time, and have written about it a few times in this forum, but this will be the first time I’ve talked here about my baseball team. I didn’t come by my baseball team easily, but rather it is the result of the latest in what I’m beginning to realize is a long list of Bad Catholic Experiences to which I’ve referred in my header, but somehow haven’t been able to bring myself to discuss. Most of those Bad Catholic Experiences, which I believe have caused me and those I love some real harm, came to me through my husband and reach back into his childhood and to his three years in Seminary (they were merely exacerbated by his combat experience). The latest in this long line of Bad Catholic Experiences, the details of which I will save for another (braver) time, resulted in my youngest son, a promising catcher, attending an alternative private high school, one with no baseball team. It was a hard choice to make, and in retrospect it might not have been the right one, but it was a very unstable time for our family and I felt that this school could offer this child some protection and insulation, and that he needed it. His oldest brother had gone there for his last two years of high school, so I knew they had basketball and golf and had a good relationship with the Athletic Director. In the fall of 2002, when my youngest enrolled there as a freshman, I leveraged all of the baseball community equity I had accrued, and organized a team that was half kids from the alternative school. The local 18U league, of which I am a director, provided me with a group from another small school and we played in their fall recreational league, which was comprised of travel teams, high school JV and freshman teams, with a judicious sprinkling of varsity and varsity-caliber players. I started this project in 2002 and have continued to field my alternative school boys, with the help of the school’s administration, through teams in the spring and fall of ‘03, until now. By last spring, I had a team of all kids from the alternative school. Now, the path to this school is different for every child, but it’s rarely an easy one, and one might say that this particular “population” is, for lack of a better term, high-maintenance. Last spring, I had an odd mishmash of real ball players who would be playing baseball if they attended a mainstream high school and knew how to comport themselves in the dugout and on the field, and good athletes who hadn’t played much or hadn’t played for a while but just wanted to be out there, playing baseball. Up against JV teams coming out of their regular spring high school season, I told my boys at the beginning of last spring’s season that, for us, every game was a practice until the playoffs, and that if we could just not come in dead last, and avoid having to play the best team in the league in the opening round of the playoffs, I would promise them a run at the Championship. They believed me and we finished our regular season 4-9, one game out of dead last. We went from a complete disaster area of not showing up for games (or worse, arriving “impaired”), losing uniforms and not having equipment, to coming early for batting practice and found ourselves, with a little luck along the way, arriving through the winner’s bracket at the Championship game. Now, we didn’t win that Championship game last spring, and this isn’t sanctioned (*real*) high school baseball, but don’t tell my players that. It’s the only baseball these guys have and they played their hearts out for me. This past weekend couldn’t have been a more beautiful weekend for baseball, and our fall season opened, with a loss and a win. Now, my seven returning players were not in full playoff form (for that matter, neither was I), but the change in these young men from the start of last spring’s season is substantial, and I am proud of them. We’ve been joined by some old friends from Little League and travel ball, and two boys from other small private schools to fill out our fall roster. Some of them play varsity baseball, while some may be headed back to JV and are using this fall to try to improve. I think we’re going to be pretty good, but most importantly, I think we have a great combination of personalities and a good chance to have a positive dugout. I think we are going to have fun. It’s strange sometimes how things turn out differently than we expect. I would have loved seeing my youngest son play regular high school baseball, but if he had, I wouldn’t have a baseball team.

SNAFU OR FUBAR 9/24/04

We are still wrangling with the Great Big Company (hereinafter "GBC") in our sales effort. We've worked on this for over six months now (without compensation), and have been through so many divisions and departments and affiliates, I cannot remember all of them. Unfortunately, a couple of weeks ago, we were asked to compare and contrast our solution to one provided by a company with which the GBC has an existing relationship. Up until now, we have had little or no direct interface with the GBC, as this is maintained by the Crazy Consultant with whom my husband has a relationship, sort of (exactly) like being a consultant to a consultant. Unfortunately, our Crazy Consultant can't communicate effectively, either in writing or verbally, and I believe it's becoming evident that he is likely to give information based more on what suits his purposes at any given moment than on what is true and actual (I think I've mentioned before that he is brain injured and once spent three months in a coma). Recently, a friend on a message board mentioned "SNAFU" and "FUBAR", the military acronyms for "Situation normal, all f****d up," and "F****d up beyond all repair." I think we have moved from a six-year adrenaline soaked SNAFU into an advanced stage of FUBAR. This company that provides the GBC with a solution similar to ours (the one with which we were asked to compare ourselves), has sent us legal letters, demanding that we cease and desist our efforts with the GBC and suggesting that we are tortiously interfering with their business. WHAT? Now, although some might consider this company, which I'll call eJerks for purposes of this blog, a competitor, I don't really, at least as far as the GBC is concerned (there's plenty of room for all of us). They have chosen to pursue the business aspects of my husband's invention, craftily designing around his patents and developing some interesting associated technology, making some hay while the sun shines, while we've chosen to focus on growing the portfolio of intellectual property for purposes of licensing it to others. I'm assuming that they have full knowledge that everything they do will infringe on claims we have in the pipeline that have not yet issued (because I've told them this), and am hopeful that once our next new claims issue (or the next, or the next), they will graciously leave the dark side, come into the light and we'll gladly make an honest licensee out of them. It all takes time. The GBC has so many solution providers, and I honestly believe that although we might, on occasion, take from one another an order here or an order there, eJerks provides something for the GBC that is complementary to what we bring to the party. We've been working closely with two other (larger than eJerks) solution-providers who are retained by the GBC and both of these organizations have been friendly and welcoming and helpful in our sales efforts, excited about executing their parts in our solution. So why in the world would eJerks have such a tizzy and call in the lawyers? All I can think is that we must have struck a nerve (or gotten close to a big order), but it has made this a nightmarish week. The Crazy Consultant has been more problematic than ever, failing to understand the legal implications of the fact that each of us got this letter, not just his little consulting firm, but also my husband and I (MOI???), and he appears to have bailed on us in favor of covering his ass. Now, I'm pretty sure he's been deceiving us relative to the input he's getting from the GBC, but it's not important, because we are now interfacing directly with the GBC, relative to this matter. We're trying to get the GBC to gently entice eJerks to call off their dogs (since they are The Client and eJerks will do whatever they ask), while also preparing to answer the legal letter(s) for myself and my husband, within the demanded time period. More power to you, if you're still reading this. I wish I could just move on and read another blog, but I'm stuck in this one, for better or for worse (waiting for the "for better" part). I'm held hostage in a job I'm beginning to loathe and cannot quit, certain that somehow I'll know when I see the first light on the path out of this, constantly searching for it on the horizon. I had relaxed into the fact that this was one six year long professional SNAFU, but it seems this week to have advanced into being FUBAR, and I remain sure I've found a demanding (24/7) career with no pay, no time off and no benefits, that generates more legal expenses than it does total revenue. I think I have the most convoluted, complex (and hopeless?) exit strategy ever devised. FUBAR.

Going Yard 9/26/04

There is nothing in the world quite like the homerun. The pitcher and the batter face off, with the rules forcing the pitcher to give the batter something to hit, and obligating the batter to at least swing the bat if the pitch is in the strike zone. Every now and then, a good hitter gets a sweet fat pitch in the zone, which is different for every hitter, and gets all of it, so the ball sails off the bat and flies for hundreds of feet through the air and over the fence. It's glorious to see, and the batter trots around the bases while the team leaves the dugout and gathers around home plate to welcome the conqueror home. I almost missed my first homerun as a baseball parent. My oldest son was a very good hitter, and an even better defensive middle infielder, but he hit for average and, with a very unorthodox knock-kneed stance (think Julio Franco), he never went yard in a game. Although my middle son played recreational baseball through the age of fourteen, he was slight and in his heart was a musician and not an athlete. He never came close. We always knew that number three had the strength, though, and although I rarely missed a game, when he was eleven years old playing Little League Baseball, I had to make a choice and went to Two's spring band concert instead of baseball. Bless my Mama's heart, she (always the good Gramma) went with me, and after the middle school band in which my Two played the French Horn was finished, I realized I could still make the very end of Three's game, which was right around the corner, so I slipped out, leaving Gramma there representing the family. I arrived at the park in a dress, to gasps and stares, and instead of standing in the dugout with a clipboard and scorebook, I stood high on the hill above the field as I walked into the park while my youngest was stepping up to the plate with the game on the line. I only saw one pitch and when I saw the ball rise above the fence and leave the field, I jumped up and down and screamed with joy. I almost cried because I'd come so close to missing it. He's hit a few more since then, enough that I'm not sure of the count. Nine? Maybe ten? Few enough that it's always a surprise, but so frequently that I never forget it's possible, and always sort of expect it, or at least hope for it. He hit one last night, 330 feet over the center field fence, but in a moment of amazing wisdom after the game, he confessed to me his disappointment. We didn't win. He struck out twice with one homerun in his three at bats. He said, "Mom, if I'd hit three doubles we might have won. I would rather have had three doubles." "Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, and the lesson afterwards." - Vernon Law, Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher