AKMA’s Random Thoughts

While I was pioneering through Montana, Jonathan rejoined the Macintosh cosmos, and Liz founded a Social Computing Lab at RIT. Cheers to both, and open offers to lend such assistance as may be helpful (I do think that a Social Computing Lab would benefit from the participation of an online theologian. . .).

And since Nate doesn’t blog, I’ll take this opportunity to link to pages identifying him as a singer with Rochester’s Kairos choral ensemble, and as a friend of Zach’s (for this one, you’ll have to scroll down a ways, but there’s a picture of Nate as a reward).

And Helenann Macleod Hartley, a friend from her days as an exchange student at Princeton Theological Seminary, has a blog of her own (after a long time starring as a supporting player at Mark Goodacre’s blog). Huzzah! Helenann links to news about the sixth Harry Potter novel, bringing a cheer from Pippa (whom Helenann may remember), which reminded me that Micah “The Piano Man” Jackson pointed me to the Classical Greek translation of the first Harry novel, which in turn led me to the translator’s website. All quite wonderful — and they tempt me to teach Greek via Harry Potter. . . .

Our family has developed an odd holiday custom.

Six years ago, when we first moved to Evanston, we bought a Christmas tree. Nate and Si (mostly Nate) called this tree “Bob,” partly because they’re whimsical guys, and partly because it annoyed Pippa. Pippa felt that the tree shouldn’t have to endure the indignity of being named Bob; our Christmas tree should be permitted to stand with its intrinsic anonymous grandeur, or at least bear a more noble monicker. The boys’ usage prevailed, though, and all season we called the tree Bob.

The next year, the Pippa insisted that the tree not be named Bob — which insured that Nate and Si emphatically perpetuated the custom. Pippa’s monitory protestations bore a tinge of intra-sibling humor, and that year her objections seemed more a game than an actual claim on behalf of the beleaguered tree.

Beginning with the third year in Evanston, Pippa referred to the tree as Bob all season. Thus are traditions born.

Today, Pippa and I rolled down to the vacant lot next door to Reconciler, and bought this year’s Bob. He’ll move from the garage into our living room on Christmas Eve, occupying the space that till then will have been occupied by our piano, destined shortly to move to Heather’s place, via Micah’s mediation.

Made it home intact, if a little shaky. Margaret says it’s a virus, not a mischosen entree. I’m going to go to sleep now.

[Looks like I’m not the only one. My sympathies to Jeneane and Jane.]

It was a dark and stormy night, at least in my innards. Something seems to have disagreed with me, and I spent much of the night awake and in a greater or lesser state of discomfort. I was so queasy that I couldn’t eat the cinnamon roll I had brought back from the pot luck, or even — gasp! — drink coffee. I tried to sit absolutely still for the morning, watching SportsCenter over and over at the Youngs’ home while Todd handled some parish business. He then drove me in to Butte for my return trip. I hadn’t remembered that the ride was so bumpy and curvy. . . .

I managed a Coke at the airport, and a cup of coffee and granola bar during my flight to Salt Lake City. Although we landed in broad daylight, the valley has filled with low-hanging clouds and snow, so our approach afforded no view of socks or anything else. It did convey the sense that we were landing in a vast sea of fluffy white foam.

Change in SLC for O’Hare, and I’m just an hour or so away from greeting my beloved, greatly-missed Margaret. I predict that I will not stay up late tonight.

Todd’s New sign

Originally uploaded by AKMA.

I had it easy the rest of the trip; Todd had Sunday services well in hand, so I sat with Joelene (that’s with her proper “e”) through the morning masses in Sheridan and, a mere twenty miles away, Virginia City. This is the same Virginia City that provided the setting for Bonanza, so now you know that I’ve been there. I don’t know if St. Paul’s Episcopal Church appeared in the TV series, but if it didn’t, it was their loss.

Inside St. Paul’s

Originally uploaded by AKMA.

I’d be willing to bet, if I were permitted to bet, that Lorne Greene never used the windshield of his carriage as a device to protect him from low-flying magpies, as we did. Well, not Lorne Greene’s carriage, but the Youngs’ car. One moment I saw a big lump of gray flapping its wings toward the car, and the next I heard a loud whomp and saw feathers going all over the place — luckily (for us — I don’t think the bird cared much any more by that point) only on the exterior of the windshield. We held a learned ornithological debate over what sort of bird it might have been (I lobbied for “quail,” because the underside of the bird, at which I got an especially close look, reminded me of the quail etchings and engravings that my grandfather made), but the indigenous population felt sure it was a magpie, and their word was good enough for me. No damage to the car, but the magpie probably did not have the opportunity to fly into any other vehicles.

Meanwhile, Joelene had arranged for someone to meet us at Virginia City bearing electrical tape, so after the service, I shifted into my boy-electrical-engineer mode and splice together the cell-phone cord, and patched the computer cord, both successfully.

Rev. Ref preached at both services on the text in which the angel instructs Joseph to name the baby Jesus, in order to fulfill a prophecy that he would be called Emmanuel. He did a fine job, even with his New Testament professor sitting in the front row; I, at least, didn’t heckle him the way a certain not-to-be-identified spouse did. Todd stumped me with a question in the middle of the sermon, but then when he asked a question to which I did know the answer, he wouldn’t call on me.

Two masses and an electrical repair did not bring our day’s accomplishments to an end, though. We returned to Sheridan, ate some delicious leftover lasagna, did some odds and ends, and then hopped back into the car to take part in the Lessons and Carols service at St. Paul’s. That very well-attended service (including Fr. Ed, who claimed he was only there for the food) was followed by a lively pot luck dinner, pitching tips for Cece from a retired Little League coach (me), and another drive back to Sheridan. No further collisions.

If you can read this entry, I will have returned safely to Chicago after an exciting, educational cultural exchange trip to rural Montana. If you can’t read this entry, contact Margaret and tell her to post the travel entries that are waiting on my iBook.

Friday, Margaret dropped me off at the Delta terminal at O’Hare, itself an exciting new experience (since we’re steadfast United fliers). My flight took me from Chicago to Salt Lake City, and hence to Butte, Montana. Everything went just fine, except that my flight from SLC to Butte arrived a little late (as both Margaret and Rev. Ref firmly assured me. I didn’t notice; I was happy to get to Butte safely, where you will look in vain for a geological butte (although there’s a gigantic pit, a sort of reverse butte).

Found Sock

Originally uploaded by AKMA.

As my flight from Chicago drifted in toward Salt Lake City, I spotted the home neighborhood of Leta, Jon, Chuck, and dooce. I could tell because, as this photo demonstrates, I saw a single yellow sock on the sidewalk. If you can’t see the yellow sock, you aren’t using enough investigative imagination; a self-proclaimed journalist expounded details of Mary of Nazareth’s life that rested on much less evidence than I offer here — and she was on CNN, the home of Crossfire!

Montana Decor

Originally uploaded by AKMA.

So anyway, I got to Butte satisfactorily; Todd drove me the hour from Butte to Sheridan, and handed me over to a delightful neighbor who sheltered me (in a suite equipped with a bearskin and a first-paperback-edition copy of I, Robot) and fed me breakfast during my visit. I turned in early, and slept like a top.

The good news is that I have a complete sermon that I’m adequately comfortable with, so tomorrow’s service won’t include long, embarrassing pauses, “ummmm”s, aimless digressions, and a wild-eyed, sweaty, manic worship leader — at least, I won’t be doing that. I won’t speak for Todd or the Bishop.

In a few minutes, I’ll head for the airport, whence I fly to Salt Lake City, the land of dooce, and from there on to Montana. By the time I get back from Montana, I’ll be permitted to sleep upstairs again. You should know that Margaret is feeling fine, apart from the awkwardness of being aware of how long one’s sitting how close to whom. We won’t know for a while whether the treatment has had its desired effect.

And I gather from the Ref that Montana is not the nodal point of broadband connectivity, so I may not be posting much till I get back on Monday. No great loss to the world, but I’ll come back with pictures and stories and probably a backlog of random thoughts waiting to be posted, including (I hope) some observations on the questions people have been asking me about ethics and anarchism.

Our household has included a lot of Tintin reading over the years, and at least one Tintin t-shirt that’s been passed down from brother to brother to sister. Thus far, I had never stopped to consider the topic of this research paper. I had wondered why our dog Beatrice resembled Milou/Snowy so much in every way except intelligence, and what might have been done about Captain Haddock’s alcoholism, but Tintin’s stature and sexuality never caught my attention.

I draw no conclusion from the correlation of this research to the fact that both Trevor and James use Tintin as buddy icons for their AIM clients.

Well, I wouldn’t want to sleep downstairs in the study every night, but I did get my rest, and I’m not irradiated, and I’ll be so bold as to give my sweetheart a bear hug this morning.

Yesterday’s treatment was more anticlimactic than uncomfortable. Evidently, the doctor brought the large-ish pill out to her in a lead-lined container that she carried in a lead-lined box, as though it were a scene out of a James Bond movie. Right now, the biggest hitch — apart from having to keep our distance — is that we won’t really know for a few months whether Margaret’s thyroid has given up (as it’s supposed to) or whether she’ll need another go-round of radioactive iodine. (That substance, with the safeguards Margaret has described to me, reminds me not only of James Bond. It further call to mind the original Edmond O’Brien version of D.O.A., in which somebody slips the hero a dose of the mysterious “luminous poison,” “that has no antidote and is 100% fatal within the week.” I wish I had a screen shot of the postscript to the movie that explains that luminous poison really exists! Except in Margaret’s case, of course, the radioactive iodine is doesn’t really glow, and will have salutary effects on her health.)

So Margaret’s feeling just fine, and Dr. de Villa is feeling better too, unless his desire to watch Dr. Phil implies a dangerous decay in his capacity to form good judgments. Don’t tell Dr. Rageboy.

If you add up Seabury students who have taken Greek with those who have expressed an interest in taking Greek next year if they can, and throw in my son who has taken Intro Greek twice, I can think of about twelve students who should be delighted by this link.

This morning, as I write, Margaret is at the local hospital. She’s receiving treatment for her Graves Disease, which was diagnosed a couple of years ago and which has not abated after continuous heavy anti-thyroid; she ingested seventeen millicuries of some radioactive iodine, which is supposed to circulate to her thyroid and stop it dead. Once her thyroid has shut down, she’ll take thyroid hormone supplements to provide the stuff that she no longer produces (or in her present condition, over-produces) on her own.

It’s not a huge medical endeavor, but it’s more dramatic and significant than taking a couple of aspirin. She’s not supposed to spend too much time in close proximity to anyone, not even her spouse. For the next three days, we’re instructed not to hug, sit close, sleep in the same bed, or kiss. Just when we’re reunited at the end of the semester!

It’s all for the good in the long run, but if you have prayers or candles or whatever left over after remembering Joey’s dad, please bear Margaret in mind. I’d take a picture of her, but I’m afraid that the radiation would corrode the sensor in my digital camera, and all the film in the house seems to be fogged. . . . .