Revolution in the Air! Again.

After spending the past few days in Colonial Williamsburg I’m convinced the whole experience is a combination of The Truman Show and Groundhog Day. A new day? Revolution’s in the air. Again! And I’m not sure whether all of the “colonists” know they’re just play-acting. Some of them take their roles so seriously I swear I was getting looks like we were the ones oddly out-of-place with our cameras and t-shirts and soft drinks.

Don’t get me wrong. We had a great time down there — hanging out with our friends Harry, Andrea, and their daughter Madeleine (Harry’s an old Army buddy). And I’d always wanted to spend over $40 on replica muskets. At least we were all well protected on our walks down Duke of Gloucester Street.

One of the most intriguing things about the whole Williamsburg experience is the “real” Episcopal church — Bruton Parish — right in the heart of the colonial district. I went to a mid-week service and sat in John Marshall’s pew. Pretty heady stuff but I can imagine tourists wandering into the liturgy and thinking the whole thing is part of the theme park. “Oh, Bea, look at that priest — his robes make him look so authentic!”

There’s also a slightly cult-like feel to the whole place. Or at least the conspiracy theorist in me felt it. It takes a special person to dress up in knickers and wander around in the hot sun all day. One morning on the way to Aromas Coffee Shop in Market Square, I saw a young professionally-dressed woman driving an SUV. In the passenger seat was a man, presumably her husband, dressed up like a colonist. She was obviously driving him to work. “Have a great day, honey; give the Royal Governor hell.” Then I went for a quick run around five o’clock the next day and all of the 9 to 5 colonists started walking out of the historic district at the same time. I think they instruct them to walk alone — don’t want to hear them complaining about the tourists. Seeing them all slowly walking out of the various shops — the gunsmith, the printer, the cooper — it looked to me like the Day of the Dead. But that’s just me.

One day we’ll go back — you can’t possibly learn all the history in one trip. Plus, I need to get myself a musket. And if I ever need to enter the witness protection program, I’ll hide myself in colonial America somewhere in Williamsburg. Check out the blacksmith shop.

Round ‘Em Up

Greetings from Grimes County, Texas. I’m down here for the Episcopal Communicators conference at Camp Allen, located 45 minutes from Houston. I have no idea in what direction.

Besides some engaging workshops and catching up with friends and colleagues from across the country, I’ve been experiencing a bit of Texas culture.  Some might argue that “Texas culture” is an oxymoron. “Flavor” might be a better word. I am at a communicators conference after all so word usage is important.

Last night we were treated to a “chuck wagon dinner” out by a lake. There was a genuine (gen-U-ine) chuck wagon and what I was assured were “real” cowboys cooking up the chow. This was no Euro Disney cowboy experience; this was serious stuff. If I’d asked for tofu I might have had my head blown off with a 12-gauge shotgun. The head chef may well have been the original Marlboro Man — though, as I think about it, I believe he died of lung cancer at some point. So perhaps it was his brother. But I ate the largest steak I’ve ever seen. It was huge! I mean this thing would be enough to make a vegan crawl into the fetal position and weep. And it was delicious.

This morning I went out for a pre-dawn run (had to do something to atone for that hunk of meat) and I saw more stars out in the Texas sky than I ever knew existed. It was stunning and one of those unique encounters with the divine through the beauty of creation. As the sun rose, I encountered various pieces of that Texas flavor. I passed a property raising llamas (not sure what you do with them and, actually, maybe they were alpacas. Not sure what you do with those either); set off a whole string of angry dogs barking as I passed through a neighborhood of trailer homes; passed a bunch of horses eating breakfast; and saw a sign that read: “Fourclosure (sic) — Double Wide — $14,800).”

After 13 miles I came back in and had cheese grits with black coffee. A perfect way to start a day somewhere in the Lone Star State.

Up-To-Date

I’m sitting at Kansas City International Airport on a rainy afternoon waiting for my flight to take off. I have a sneaking suspician it’ll be late since it hasn’t yet arrived at the gate and it’s due to leave in 30 minutes. I’ve spent the last two days here for an Episcopal Life Board of Governor’s meeting. In between a heavy dose of meetings I was able to get in a nice dose of barbecue at the famous Jack Stack Barbecue restaurant. I’m not sure if everything is up-to-date in Kansas City (certainly not my flight), but the BBQ is delicious.

Unfortunately the small bottle of barbecue sauce I had in my carry-on bag was confiscated by the TSA gestapo. Sorry, Bryna, I’ll be arriving home empty-handed. They did let me keep my tube of toothpaste after rifling unceremoniously through my bag so you’re welcome to that.

One of the reasons I’m carrying on my bag (aside from time-saving convenience) is because Midwest Express now charges $15 to check a bag. That’s the fee for the first one; the second is $25. I understand USAir is now charging $20 for a blanket/pillow combination. Of course you get to keep it which will certainly get you through a long, cold winter. Or at least your lap. In a climate controlled, pressurized environment. I’m almost used to the fact that many airlines charge for snacks and the formerly complementary soft drinks. But some airlines are even charging extra for window and aisle seats.

Stop nickel and diming us! I’m happy to chip in for things like, oh, jet fuel but what’s next? Charging a fee for the drop down mask in case there’s a drop in cabin pressure? A lavatory fee? A barf bag surcharge?

I realize I’m just cranky because my plane’s delayed and they confiscated my BBQ sauce. I’ll go ask for a discount at the ticket counter.

Mississippi Burning

I can cross Mississippi off the list. It was one of the few states I had never been to but I write this from the Credo Conference being held in Canton, MS at the Gray Conference Center. So it’s off the list. I realize getting to Mississippi before you die generally doesn’t make anybody’s top ten list. But it did make me reflect upon which of the United States I still haven’t gotten to.

Alaska’s the big one — though listening to Sarah Palin makes me feel like I’ve been there. Or at least that I can see Russia from here. But there are others: South Carolina, Montana, South Dakota, Oregon, New Mexico, and Idaho. I knocked off the state of Washington in the spring by attending an Episcopal Communicator’s conference out there. I do hope to get to every state before I kick the bucket. Not for any particular reason, but just because they’re there. 

In the spirit of “when in Rome” I had grits for breakfast this morning. I used to eat grits in Army chow halls but I now realize they were pretty lousy as far as grits go. I remember choking them down because I had a commanding officer from Alabama and he basically ordered us to eat the grits. This morning was the real deal — and, with a touch of brown sugar, they were delicious.

The grits were followed by crawdad etouffe for lunch and topped off with broiled catfish and turnip greens for dinner. Incredible. And not a bad culinary introduction to this much-maligned state. I might have to move here just for the food and southern hospitality. Just don’t tell Bryna.

The Way Life Should Be

That’s what the sign says when you drive in on I-95. “Maine: The way life should be.” I’m not sure if that’s true during the bleak mid-winter, but in late August it seems about right. Definitely some undertones of the Kingdom on earth.

We started yesterday as we do most of our time up here — with good coffee. And ended it as we usually do — with good seafood. We discovered the Portland Roasting Companyand kicked things off with a steaming mug of Tanzania coffee. Then up the coast to Wiscasset which bills itself as “The prettiest village in Maine.” Not sure about that but we get up there every summer to visit our good friend Ann Johnson. Ann’s another seminary friend from Seabury-Western who’s the rector of St. Philip’s, Wiscasset.

Ben and Zack love her dog Schooner, an enthusiastic black lab but the best part this year was meeting Ann’s recently adopted two-year old daughter Azalach from Ethiopia. She is a beautiful and amazing little girl and after spending a bit of time with her Zack dubbed her “the smartest two-year old I’ve ever met.” High praise indeed.

After hot dogs for the boys, crab cakes for Bryna, and a lobster roll for me we drove back to Portland to watch the Portland Sea Dogstake on the New Britain Rock Cats in a Double A minor league game. The three boys had a blast, Bryna froze, and the Sea Dogs took the game 6-4. Ben and Zack look quite fetching in their new Sea Dogs hats.

The day ended with a quick post-game meal at Gilbert’s Chowder House in Portland. Incredible clam chowder. Of course what else would you order at a chowder house? Unless you’re Ben and Zack for whom it may as well have been Nathan’s — hot dogs all around!

Good Day

Any day that begins with coffee at your favorite coffee shop in New Hampshire and ends with eating a lobster in Maine is a good day. We woke up in Portsmouth and met our good friends the Stevens at Breaking New Grounds in the heart of the historic district. We’ve known Rob and Jennifer since our seminary days and nothing beats hanging out with old friends — we had dinner with them at Rye beach the evening before as our kids frollicked together in the surf. Rob’s the rector of St. John’s in Portsmouth, a thriving parish in a great town.

After breakfast (and letting the boys blow off some steam in the hotel pool) we headed up to Portland, Maine. This included a stop at the outlets in Kittery. Stopping at outlets always makes me want to both cringe and hide my wallet. Though it’s not mywallet I really need to worry about. Fortunately we were able to get out of there relatively unscathed and ironically I was the only one that bought anything — they happened to have a pair of the shoes I run in, the Nike Air Structure Triax, at the Nike outlet. And I saved $20! Okay enough of the shopping mania.

Back to the beach in Scarborough, Maine with our friends the Mazzolas who are renting a house for the week. Then lobster and fried clams at Ken’s Place. Not a bad way to spend a summer day.

Immortal, Invisible

We went to mecca this past weekend. No, not Graceland but Cooperstown. We took the boys on a pilgrimmage to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame and stayed with some friends who actually live up there. I always thought Cooperstown was inhabited only by the ghosts of ballplayers past — like Shoeless Joe Jackson and Honus Wagner. But evidently you can live there even if you’re still among the living.

Bryna commented that she’d never seen the three of us (me, Ben, and Zack) so equally enraptured as we wondered around the HOF. This was actually my third visit to Cooperstown but I hadn’t been there since I was in high school. It’s still as magical a place as ever, full of “holy” relics like Jackie Robinson’s spikes and the bat used by Babe Ruth to hit his famed “called shot” World Series homer.

I may (sort of) joke about making a holy pilgrimage to Cooperstown but it’s amazing how much of our language surrounding sports revolves around religious imagery. Baseball greats are “enshrined” in the Hall of Fame and we refer to our baseball heroes as “immortals.” Just a few idolatrous touches but nothing really harmful as long as it’s all kept in perspective. If we save our true worship for God we’ll stay in pretty good spiritual shape. I have a special place in my heart for both Jesus Christ and Cal Ripken. The one was the messiah, the other a darn good baseball player. So slightly different job descriptions.

But you can mix the two. The day after spending the morning at the Hall of Fame I snuck in for an 8 am service at Christ Church, Cooperstown. Many writers have waxed poetic about the “liturgy” of baseball (thank you George Will). I’ll stick to the liturgy of the church but will always reserve the right to occasionally worship at the ballpark.

Day at the Museum

I spent yesterday with Ben’s third grade class at the Museum of Natural History. It’s great to still be at that stage in life when your kids aren’t mortified by your presence. Though I do look forward to being the mortifi-er rather than the mortifie-ee. I assume it’s much more fun.

When I told Bryna I had signed up for this trip she just laughed at me. And I admit my expectations and the reality were slightly different. I thought I’d be hanging out with Ben and a few of his buddies while taking in the ancient bones of t-rex, stegosaurus, and the rest. No, I didn’t read the fine print. I had inadvertently signed up for chaperone duty. And while that may have different connotations for a high school dance, chaperoning third graders is mentally and physically exhausting.

I was assigned a group of five kids. My only charge? Don’t lose one. So I spent all morning counting to five over and over again. In between the counting were split seconds of terror when I momentarily couldn’t find one. When I got back to Todd School, someone asked me how the museum was. I really have no idea – all I saw were the backs of five heads.

What I really wanted was to get five leashes and hook ‘em all up. I’d look just like one of those professional dog walkers you see in Central Park, minus the plastic baggies. I also considered duct taping them together and wheeling them around in a shopping cart. Either method would have been much more humane – for the chaperone.

After shepherding all five of them back onto the yellow bus, I felt an extraordinary sense of relief. Of course this quickly turned to nausea as the bus pulled out and I realized I hadn’t ridden on a school bus for about 25 years. They really are horribly uncomfortable. But Ben and the rest of our group had a great time and no one got lost. I think I’ll stick to shepherding my congregation.

Ride the Duck!

We had a great weekend visiting family in Baltimore. It’s rare these days that we can get all six cousins together. Part of it is geography — New York, Virginia, Michigan. And part of it is the pesky fact that I have to work on weekends — I couldn’t seem to negotiate this out of my contract. We met our newest niece, Rowan (no relationship to Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams), for the first time this weekend and she’s already eight months old!  

One of the highlights was to “Ride The Duck.” Oh, alright, I’ll explain. The Duck is a sightseeing operation that tours around Baltimore. When you buy the tickets they give everybody bright yellow quackers so you can quack at people as you pass by. Whoever dreamed this up obviously never had kids. Or maybe they had a bitter childhood and determined to torture other parents for a living. Needless to say my ears are still ringing. Or quacking to be precise.

The amazing thing about The Duck is that it is both a bus and a boat. So after pointing out a few highlights, like Edgar Allen Poe’s grave, it suddenly went down a ramp and motored around the Inner Harbor. Pretty nifty. I’m looking into converting my Honda CRV into an SUV/boat. That way I could offer someone a ride, pretend to lose control, and drive into the Hudson River. Oh, the hilarity!

Finally, a few Highlights and Lowlights of our weekend in Baltimore:

Highlight: 3 and a 1/2 hour trip down on Friday morning was the first long car ride without needing to stop.

Lowlight: Trip back took 5 hours thanks to construction in Delaware and the George Washington Bridge.

Highlight: Great Sunday brunch at the Renaissance Hotel with a view overlooking the Inner Harbor.

Lowlight: Missed getting to church.

Highlight: Could see Ravens Stadium from the hotel room.

Lowlight:  The Orioles were out of town, losing in Anaheim.

Highlight: All the cousins got along famously.

Lowlight: Having to pull them apart made our boys cranky for the ride home.

Highlight: Crab and bacon omelet for brunch on Sunday.

Lowlight: Cheddar cheese Combos and water for lunch on the long drive home.

Highlight: A great weekend away.

Lowlight: Next weekend off isn’t until August.

Flight Time

I’m a compassionate guy. A caring person. Perhaps even sensitive. Okay, not sensitive but definitely compassionate. I said a prayer when I heard that someone on my flight from Seattle to New York was ill and we needed to make an emergency medical landing in Minneapolis. And when the EMTs arrived and wheeled her off the plane I gave her a surreptitious blessing as she went past my seat. She looked like she would be fine — I think it was a diabetic issue with her blood-sugar level.

But boy did she wreak havoc on my travel plans. After landing, the good folks at American Airlines (they had a rough week didn’t they?) detected a maintenance issue with the plane. Shocking. Which led to an unplanned four-hour layover in Minneapolis while they flew in the part from Chicago.

There’s nothing like 13 hours of travel culminating in a late-night arrival at JFK to prepare you for the 8 o’clock service the next morning. You try saying things like “rendering unto Thee most hearty thanks for the innumberable benefits procured unto us by the same” while you’re mind’s still in another time zone.  

I also discovered something else about myself. When the flight attendants made the announcement calling for any passengers with medical expertise I realized I was utterly useless. Unless they needed someone to pronounce last rites.