May 25: Control Consoles, Han Solo, Hyperspace

Zaphod and company are trying to avoid being blasted out of the Galaxy by missiles launched from the planet of Magrathea . . .

Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane:  these controls had never been used before.

Zaphod stared at them wildly.

"Okay, Ford," he said, "full retro thrust and ten degrees starboard.  Or something . . ."

"Good luck, guys," chirped the computer, "impact minus thirty seconds . . ."

Ford leaped to the controls--only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those.  The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocket jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously.  He released half of them and the ship spun round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight toward the oncoming missiles.

Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them.  For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move.  Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever that formed part of the guidance system.

The lever snapped off.  The ship twisted sharply and rocketed upward.  The crew hurled violently back across the cabin.  Ford's copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy smashed into another section of the control console with the combined result that the Guide started to explain to anyone who cared to listen about the best ways of smuggling Antarean parakeet glands out of Antares (an Antarean parakeet gland stuck on a small stick is a revolting but much-sought-after cocktail delicacy and very large sums of money are often paid for them by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots), and the ship suddenly dropped out of the sky like a stone.

You know, sometimes I get reminders that much of life is completely out of my control, despite all that I do to avoid problems and disasters.  I frequently feel as though I'm trying to steer a spaceship that's warping and twisting frantically as I push buttons and levers.  To quote Han Solo:  "Travelling through hyperspace ain't like dusting crops, boy!  Without precise calculations we could fly right through a star or bounce too close to a supernova and that'd end your trip real quick, wouldn't it?"

Yes, I'm mixing my science fiction universe metaphors here, but you get what I mean.  Even with precise calculations, you could still end up heading directly into the path of nuclear warheads or through a blazing star.  Control is an illusion.  It's something that makes you feel safe and calm, allows you to sleep at night.  Make no mistake, though.  There's very little in life that you can control.

As a parent, I've tried to control and minimize the nuclear warheads in my children's lives.  Shield them from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  (Yes, I am now throwing in a Shakespeare metaphor, too.  Get over yourself.)  That's the job of being a parent.  Protection.  Yet, life has a way of getting around all the barriers.  I can't be on the school playground with my son when kids start teasing him.  I can't be sitting next to my daughter in a classroom to provide Yoda advice to her.

I try to arm my children with skills to deal with life's detours.  I think that's another parenting job.  My daughter has witnessed the struggles my wife and I have gone through over the years.  She's seen us work through a lot of problems.  So has my son.  My hope is that they have learned how to cope with difficulties in healthy ways.  My son is still learning.  My daughter, on the cusp of high school graduation, is about ready to make the jump to hyperspace with all her careful calculations in place.

One of the things I'm struggling with is the idea that my little girl will soon have to deal with big, real-life adult problems without my help.  She's got a good head on her shoulders.  Knows how to deal with difficult people and situations gracefully and compassionately.  I think I had a little part in teaching her that.  However, my parent-side is freaking out a little.  I still want to make decisions for her.  Still want to use my father deflector shield for her.  But that time is quickly coming to a close.

Instead, I have to step away from the controls of her Millennium Falcon.  Let her sit down in the pilot's seat.  She's Han Solo now.  I'm Chewbacca, sort of co-piloting, but mostly just sitting beside her, grunting, growling, and watching the stars fly past.  In my hairy mind, I'm wondering on what planet she's eventually going to land.

I hope it's a place that's green and warm and full of wonder, inhabited by aliens who treat her with kindness and love.  That's what she deserves, and so much more.

Saint Marty leaves the last words of this post to Yoda:  "To be Jedi is to face the truth, and choose.  Give off light, or darkness, Padawan.  Be a candle, or the night."

January 3: The Barn, My House, Fairy Tale Friday

The barn was very large.  It was very old.  It smelled of hay and it smelled of manure.  It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows.  It often had a sort of peaceful smell--as though nothing bad could happen ever again in the world.  It smelled of grain and of harness dressing and of axle grease and of rubber boots and of new rope.  And whenever the cat was given a fish-head to eat, the barn would smell of fish.  But mostly it smelled of hay, for there was always hay in the great loft up overhead.  And there was always hay being pitched down to the cows and the horses and the sheep.

That is E. B. White's description of Homer Zuckerman's barn.  Wilbur's home.   Although I'm not a big fan of farm animals (I avoid the livestock and chicken exhibits at the State Fair), I must say that White makes the barn sound almost pleasant.  Homey.  As if "nothing bad could happen ever again in the world."

Of course, that's the key passage in that paragraph.  We all know that bad things happen in the barn.  Bad things will happen to Wilbur in the barn.  From the day Wilbur arrives at the Zuckerman barn, his days are numbered.  Come winter time, Wilbur has a date to be Christmas dinner.  That's the reality of farm life.

I live in an old barn.  Not literally, but it's an old house.  The original portion of the house was erected over 100 years ago.  An addition was built when indoor plumbing became more than just a novelty.  The wiring is old.  The bathroom is smaller than a broom closet.  But it's home.  It's a place where I can turn on the lights on a cold winter night, lock the doors, and keep the wolves of the world at bay for a little while.

I'm not saying my house is perfect.  I would trade it in a heartbeat for something with a couple of bathrooms, a few more bedrooms, and a kitchen that doesn't seem like an afterthought.  But, for what it is, it's my home.  It's where my daughter and son have grown up.  It holds a lot of very happy memories for me.  It also holds quite a few painful memories for me, as well.  But that's what a home is.   It's a safe haven, in good times and bad.  And I'm lucky to have it.

This morning, my daughter had minor surgery on her ear.  It took the doctor all of 15 minutes to cut and stitch.  She was jumpy and nervous as a hummingbird all last night.  When she went to bed, she said, "I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep tonight."  Then she disappeared into her bedroom.  Within ten minutes, she was burrowed under her quilt, snoring away.  That's what a home does.  It makes you feel safe, secure, protected from the slings and arrows of the world.

Everybody should have a place like that.  A home.

Once upon a time, a farmer named Garth lived in a small farmhouse in the kingdom of Arable.  Garth had grown up in the farmhouse, as had his father before him.  Garth was the third generation of his family to work the fields and woods surrounding the farmhouse.

One day, Garth bought a pig from his niece, Fern, for six dollars.  It was a small spring pig, but it was quickly putting on weight.  Fern had raised the pig herself, feeding it milk and scraps of pancake and French toast.  The pig's name was Willy.

All summer long, Willy slept in the manure pile, ate his slop, and grew as big as a buffalo.  When the cold weather came, Garth slipped a rope around Willy's neck and walked him to the smokehouse.  In the smokehouse, Garth killed Willy and hung him up to bleed and cure.

That Christmas Eve, Garth, Fern, and their families sat down to a huge baked ham dinner, with bacon and mashed potatoes.  As Fern took her first bite, she smiled at Garth and said, "That Willy was some pig!"

Moral of the story:  pig is good eatin'.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Pass the fork