I posted this blog a year ago, but here it is almost Thanksgiving Dinner again, so I thought I would post it now, for those who might need the information. Also in the last year, I have figured out how to "Label" blogs, which is to say I can get it to work 75 percent of the time, so I will label this one "Cooking," for future easy reference.
Best Turkey: Shot, and Smoked
For the 26th straight Thanksgiving Day, the findings of the Kettner Blvd. College of Turkey Surgeons and Airport Relocation Committee remain unchanged.The surest way to have a moist, flavorful turkey for Thanksgiving is to shoot it and smoke it.
If you are new to the debate, the KBCTSARC was created to research answers to two dilemmas of our time:Is there a way to make turkey moist?Where should San Diego locate its new airport?The first issue is universal, or at least as widespread as those regions on the planet where turkey is cooked and served.
The second issue is local. I was born in Texas, where you can put an airport almost anywhere, but since 1972 I have lived in San Diego, California. Sometime in the 1930s, San Diegans started talking about the need to relocate their airport from Lindbergh Field to some better location.
Three-quarters of a century later, that question is still in the hands of a committee (not the KBCTSARC) which meets regularly to discuss potential locations as disparate as the Imperial Desert (a two-hour drive) and the Pacific Ocean (airport built on piers or pontoons).
The KBCTSARC, meanwhile, goes about its business casually, a pace consistent with our motto: “Not likely to happen in our lifetimes.” Our current airport relocation advice is: leave it where it is.
Regarding the turkey, a fresh bird (not frozen, or previously frozen) is best, about 18 pounds. You will need a large syringe, used originally by large-animal veterinarians but now a popular item in kitchenware stores and catalogues. And you will need a Weber kettle cooker, the 22-inch size, and a bag of charcoal briquets laced with mesquite. With the syringe, inject into the bird’s breasts and thighs a mixture of melted butter, chicken stock, and a couple tablespoons of sherry. In this mixture, saturate a clean dishcloth and place it over the bird.
Build small, 20-briquet fires on either side of the fire grate. Close the kettle and lid vents halfway. Place the bird, unstuffed, in the center of the grille, to create indirect-heat cooking. Moisten the cloth every 45 minutes and tend the fires, adding a few briquets each time. Remove the cloth the last hour of cooking and inject the bird again. Cooking time should be about four hours. When a thigh wiggles freely, he is done. When he is finished, he will come out with a deep mahogany glaze.
But he won’t taste “barbecued.” He will have a smoky essence, but he will be all turkey. Turkey is like hamburger; it remains turkey no matter what you do to it. Thus the usual accompaniments are correct. Roast a big pan of dressing, with oysters and walnuts in it. Make a mess of giblet gravy, and sprinkle a quarter-cup of leftover coffee on the giblets as they are sautéing. Make a big pan of oven-roasted (350 degrees) vegetables: new potatoes, onions, carrots, red and green bell peppers, broccoli stalks, all chunked and tossed with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. When these are starting to get tender, add the broccoli florets and plenty of crimini mushrooms and let it go another 15 minutes.
Have fresh white bread and a full jar of mayonnaise ready for the turkey sandwiches on Friday. Always the best part of Thanksgiving dinner.
November 24, 2008
November 23, 2008
Big heart, bad blisters
It's tough, living with an athlete who has had to go on the disabled list. They rage at themselves.
Karen called me yesterday noon to come pick her up. She was halfway through the 3Day 60-mile walk when she finally agreed with her feet that she couldn't and shouldn't continue.
At the close of the first day's 20 miles, she marched into the 3Day's sprawling pink tent city, pulled off her shoes and socks, and examined blisters the size of brazil nuts, one on each foot, where the deep part of the arch meets her heel. She wears plastic orthotics, to straighten out a natural pronation, and the edge of the device rubbed at that vulnerable arch-heel spot.
She got the blisters lanced and treated and next morning, with "Second Skin" applications and bandaging, she continued. Nine miles out, after a second lancing and treatment at a medical tent, she had to stop. I came and found her and took her home.
The hard part is that she knew she had the 3Day in the bag. She knew it after the first 20 miles. Everything was fine, except for a blister on each foot that truly looked like a brazil nut. At these, she raged and cried. She needed to be out there with her team, and the four thousand other walkers. They were like an army, marching to liberate a people, and residents came out of their houses and businesses along the way to cheer the army and tell how proud they were. Buzzing around the marchers were "spirit people," on bicycles and motorbikes and in cars, wearing whimsical costumes like parade mummers and cheering the walkers on.
"I feel great," she said. "Everything is fine. Except for two little bleeping blisters." I told her what a little something like a sprained toe can do to a magnificent athlete like Antonio Gates, and how a Cy Young pitcher feels when a finger blister puts him on the bench, but it didn't do much good. She wanted to be out there, part of the experience of thousands of people acting together magnificently in behalf of a cause, breast cancer survivors out there marching, and she couldn't be with those brave sisters because of a couple of lousy feet. "All that training," she fumed. "No blisters then. I'd like to add up the number of miles I walked. A hundred, two hundred."
I would say at least two hundred, probably more, and it wasn't fair for the blisters to wait until game day. Injury never is fair. But, now we know how it happened, and next year she'll get the footwear right. Part of being an athlete is knowing that there's always next year.
She wasn't ready to give up. She thought she might be able to go today. Blisters always harden up when they are exposed to air. We took the patches off and gave them most of the afternoon and overnight to dry out. I was actually optimistic that she could get out there this morning. But the damage underneath was too much and continued to ooze. When she took a little test walk out to get the papers this morning, she could feel how full they were.
Her teammates called her last night to tell her how great she was. We are going to meet them this afternoon for a drink at a bar up the street from PetCo Park, where the walk ends, and then Karen will join them on the field for the closing ceremony. The check that the 3Day writes for the breast cancer fight will include the several thousand that Karen raised, but that won't close the deal. She knows she owes them 30 more miles. She will be fine in 2009.
Karen called me yesterday noon to come pick her up. She was halfway through the 3Day 60-mile walk when she finally agreed with her feet that she couldn't and shouldn't continue.
At the close of the first day's 20 miles, she marched into the 3Day's sprawling pink tent city, pulled off her shoes and socks, and examined blisters the size of brazil nuts, one on each foot, where the deep part of the arch meets her heel. She wears plastic orthotics, to straighten out a natural pronation, and the edge of the device rubbed at that vulnerable arch-heel spot.
She got the blisters lanced and treated and next morning, with "Second Skin" applications and bandaging, she continued. Nine miles out, after a second lancing and treatment at a medical tent, she had to stop. I came and found her and took her home.
The hard part is that she knew she had the 3Day in the bag. She knew it after the first 20 miles. Everything was fine, except for a blister on each foot that truly looked like a brazil nut. At these, she raged and cried. She needed to be out there with her team, and the four thousand other walkers. They were like an army, marching to liberate a people, and residents came out of their houses and businesses along the way to cheer the army and tell how proud they were. Buzzing around the marchers were "spirit people," on bicycles and motorbikes and in cars, wearing whimsical costumes like parade mummers and cheering the walkers on.
"I feel great," she said. "Everything is fine. Except for two little bleeping blisters." I told her what a little something like a sprained toe can do to a magnificent athlete like Antonio Gates, and how a Cy Young pitcher feels when a finger blister puts him on the bench, but it didn't do much good. She wanted to be out there, part of the experience of thousands of people acting together magnificently in behalf of a cause, breast cancer survivors out there marching, and she couldn't be with those brave sisters because of a couple of lousy feet. "All that training," she fumed. "No blisters then. I'd like to add up the number of miles I walked. A hundred, two hundred."
I would say at least two hundred, probably more, and it wasn't fair for the blisters to wait until game day. Injury never is fair. But, now we know how it happened, and next year she'll get the footwear right. Part of being an athlete is knowing that there's always next year.
She wasn't ready to give up. She thought she might be able to go today. Blisters always harden up when they are exposed to air. We took the patches off and gave them most of the afternoon and overnight to dry out. I was actually optimistic that she could get out there this morning. But the damage underneath was too much and continued to ooze. When she took a little test walk out to get the papers this morning, she could feel how full they were.
Her teammates called her last night to tell her how great she was. We are going to meet them this afternoon for a drink at a bar up the street from PetCo Park, where the walk ends, and then Karen will join them on the field for the closing ceremony. The check that the 3Day writes for the breast cancer fight will include the several thousand that Karen raised, but that won't close the deal. She knows she owes them 30 more miles. She will be fine in 2009.
November 20, 2008
I have a 6:30 a.m. assignment for you
Karen is naturally athletic, but she did not become an athlete until about a month ago.
It started in August when one day her brain overheated and took a wrong turn. She decided she was going to sign up for our 3Day Breast Cancer Walk in San Diego. The 3Day starts on a Friday, and the walkers go 20 miles a day until they reach the finish line on Sunday afternoon.
I have had big ideas like that, but they always go away after I lie down for awhile and have a few sips of cool water. Karen did take a cool soak at my suggestion, but when she toweled off, she still had that look in her eyes.
She has connections to breast cancer and the 3Day. Nataly Pluta, her great friend, is a breast cancer survivor and has done the 3Day for the last three years. Each year, Karen and I have driven down to the overnight camp to say "Yay!" to her and give her a bottle of wine to sneak back to the tent. Karen is married to me, and I am a man whose late wife, Meredith, died of breast cancer in July, 2000. Karen has other family, friends and associates who have experienced breast cancer. She made a list of names, 32 when she was finished, and showed it to me.
"These are the people I will be walking for," she said. To the original names, she had added three more: Caitlin, her granddaughter; Addie, Meredith's granddaughter; and Evie June, my granddaughter. The idea being that what Karen did now might mean these three little girls might go through their whole, deserved lives in a world free of breast cancer.
She started off at three miles. Then we drove to Miramar Lake, where lots of people walk, bicycle and skate the five miles around the lake. Off she went in one direction and 90-odd minutes later, back she came from the other direction. I started getting impressed. I walked, too, all of 30 minutes, and then I waited in the car, drank coffee and read the paper. In fairness, I am just getting back on the trail after hip replacement surgery, but I could have all my original parts and be 30 years younger, and would not voluntarily walk 60 miles in three days, or five miles in 90 minutes.
She bought special shoes and socks; socks with toes in them. Weekends came when she left the house before daylight to meet her team and walk 12 or 14 miles somewhere. She would get back at noon with the classic rode-hard look. One day during the week she dropped me at school at 8 a.m. At 1 p.m. my phone rang. "Just got finished," she said. "Dang," I said. I had taught two classes and eaten lunch. All that time, she had been walking a trail at Lake Murray.
Her body was changing. It was more than weight loss. It showed in her skin, her eyes, her smile, her mood. "Just going out for a short one," she would say at 5:30 a.m. Five miles later, she was back in time to take me to work. She shifted from cotton to a kind of garment that wicks away moisture. She had a waist pack, a special hat, a scarf, an iPod, water, other paraphernalia. She was not just going out the door now, she was carrying gear. She looked like a baseball player getting on the bus. I said to her: "You look like an athlete." And of course she was. I told her she was "dedicated," but an hour later decided I had used the wrong word. "What you are, is distinguished," I said.
About a month ago, she came home from a 15-miler looking like she hadn't done much more than a little gardening. "I feel different," she said. "I feel like I've got 15 miles under my belt." She was in a place most of us don't reach.
Last week, she and her team did back-to-back training, 15 miles on Saturday and 14 on Sunday. Her last week has called for only one three-miler on Tuesday, then rest. But she can't rest. She has dreamed about the 3Day every night. She started getting her gear ready on Monday. Today we double-checked it all. "My mind is doing a million things," she said. She is jumpy. She paces. She's in there right now taking a soak. Nothing special for dinner, she says. I hope she can sleep tonight. Before bed, we are going to watch "Chariots of Fire."
I will drop her off at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Starting-line time is 6:30. At 6:30 California time, if you have read this, I want you to go outside and yell, "Go, Karen!"
It started in August when one day her brain overheated and took a wrong turn. She decided she was going to sign up for our 3Day Breast Cancer Walk in San Diego. The 3Day starts on a Friday, and the walkers go 20 miles a day until they reach the finish line on Sunday afternoon.
I have had big ideas like that, but they always go away after I lie down for awhile and have a few sips of cool water. Karen did take a cool soak at my suggestion, but when she toweled off, she still had that look in her eyes.
She has connections to breast cancer and the 3Day. Nataly Pluta, her great friend, is a breast cancer survivor and has done the 3Day for the last three years. Each year, Karen and I have driven down to the overnight camp to say "Yay!" to her and give her a bottle of wine to sneak back to the tent. Karen is married to me, and I am a man whose late wife, Meredith, died of breast cancer in July, 2000. Karen has other family, friends and associates who have experienced breast cancer. She made a list of names, 32 when she was finished, and showed it to me.
"These are the people I will be walking for," she said. To the original names, she had added three more: Caitlin, her granddaughter; Addie, Meredith's granddaughter; and Evie June, my granddaughter. The idea being that what Karen did now might mean these three little girls might go through their whole, deserved lives in a world free of breast cancer.
She started off at three miles. Then we drove to Miramar Lake, where lots of people walk, bicycle and skate the five miles around the lake. Off she went in one direction and 90-odd minutes later, back she came from the other direction. I started getting impressed. I walked, too, all of 30 minutes, and then I waited in the car, drank coffee and read the paper. In fairness, I am just getting back on the trail after hip replacement surgery, but I could have all my original parts and be 30 years younger, and would not voluntarily walk 60 miles in three days, or five miles in 90 minutes.
She bought special shoes and socks; socks with toes in them. Weekends came when she left the house before daylight to meet her team and walk 12 or 14 miles somewhere. She would get back at noon with the classic rode-hard look. One day during the week she dropped me at school at 8 a.m. At 1 p.m. my phone rang. "Just got finished," she said. "Dang," I said. I had taught two classes and eaten lunch. All that time, she had been walking a trail at Lake Murray.
Her body was changing. It was more than weight loss. It showed in her skin, her eyes, her smile, her mood. "Just going out for a short one," she would say at 5:30 a.m. Five miles later, she was back in time to take me to work. She shifted from cotton to a kind of garment that wicks away moisture. She had a waist pack, a special hat, a scarf, an iPod, water, other paraphernalia. She was not just going out the door now, she was carrying gear. She looked like a baseball player getting on the bus. I said to her: "You look like an athlete." And of course she was. I told her she was "dedicated," but an hour later decided I had used the wrong word. "What you are, is distinguished," I said.
About a month ago, she came home from a 15-miler looking like she hadn't done much more than a little gardening. "I feel different," she said. "I feel like I've got 15 miles under my belt." She was in a place most of us don't reach.
Last week, she and her team did back-to-back training, 15 miles on Saturday and 14 on Sunday. Her last week has called for only one three-miler on Tuesday, then rest. But she can't rest. She has dreamed about the 3Day every night. She started getting her gear ready on Monday. Today we double-checked it all. "My mind is doing a million things," she said. She is jumpy. She paces. She's in there right now taking a soak. Nothing special for dinner, she says. I hope she can sleep tonight. Before bed, we are going to watch "Chariots of Fire."
I will drop her off at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Starting-line time is 6:30. At 6:30 California time, if you have read this, I want you to go outside and yell, "Go, Karen!"
November 18, 2008
Frontiering and elements of style
It is not a bad idea, whenever a person encounters annoying language, to look in Strunk and White’s timeless writer’s booklet, “The Elements of Style,” for clues why the annoyance occurred. It becomes a very good idea when the annoying language threatens to become official and influence thought without challenge.
That prospect of thought without challenge is what bothers me so about “Abilene Frontiering,” the words proposed to become a commercial “brand” to advertise my hometown.
No way to know how “Elements of Style” co-author E.B. White, the famed 20th-century essayist and author of “Charlotte’s Web,” might react to the word “frontiering.” That opportunity is lost, but in matters of words not to use, White has been helpful to me before. So again I go to “Elements.”
White begins the book’s Chapter Five, “An Approach to Style,” with a shot directly to the heart of the matter.
“Up to this point,” he begins, “the book has been concerned with what is correct, or acceptable, in the use of English. In this final chapter, we approach style in its broader meaning: style in the sense of what is distinguished and distinguishing. Here we leave solid ground. Who can confidently say what ignites a certain combination of words, causing them to explode in the mind?”
Such style, White says, is “an increment in writing. When we speak of Fitzgerald’s style, we don’t mean his command of the relative pronoun, we mean the sound his words make on paper.”
Since high school, I have taken the sound that words make on paper to be the goal of selecting the right words to say what I mean. Sound implies effect, some action that relates the word to what is actually happening on the ground. White states it this way: “Young writers often suppose that style is a garnish for the meat of prose, a sauce by which a dull dish is made palatable. Style has no such separate entity; it is nondetachable, unfilterable.” The beginner seeking style, White says, “should begin by turning resolutely away from all devices that are popularly believed to indicate style – all mannerisms, tricks, adornments. The approach to style is by way of plainness, simplicity, orderliness, sincerity.”
I stand the style of “frontiering” against this counsel, and it fails the test. It fails by itself, as a word untouched by style, which is simply annoying. Annoyance turns to alarm when officials propose to use such a word to influence thought about Abilene. The city may lack the style of Paris or Rome, or even San Antonio, but “frontiering” insults the considerable style that Abilene does have. What would be the words that make the right sound on paper for Abilene? Look for a combination that explodes in the mind, or at least ignites, and spreads across the face in a smile, or a glow of pride, Abilene, Texas style.
That prospect of thought without challenge is what bothers me so about “Abilene Frontiering,” the words proposed to become a commercial “brand” to advertise my hometown.
No way to know how “Elements of Style” co-author E.B. White, the famed 20th-century essayist and author of “Charlotte’s Web,” might react to the word “frontiering.” That opportunity is lost, but in matters of words not to use, White has been helpful to me before. So again I go to “Elements.”
White begins the book’s Chapter Five, “An Approach to Style,” with a shot directly to the heart of the matter.
“Up to this point,” he begins, “the book has been concerned with what is correct, or acceptable, in the use of English. In this final chapter, we approach style in its broader meaning: style in the sense of what is distinguished and distinguishing. Here we leave solid ground. Who can confidently say what ignites a certain combination of words, causing them to explode in the mind?”
Such style, White says, is “an increment in writing. When we speak of Fitzgerald’s style, we don’t mean his command of the relative pronoun, we mean the sound his words make on paper.”
Since high school, I have taken the sound that words make on paper to be the goal of selecting the right words to say what I mean. Sound implies effect, some action that relates the word to what is actually happening on the ground. White states it this way: “Young writers often suppose that style is a garnish for the meat of prose, a sauce by which a dull dish is made palatable. Style has no such separate entity; it is nondetachable, unfilterable.” The beginner seeking style, White says, “should begin by turning resolutely away from all devices that are popularly believed to indicate style – all mannerisms, tricks, adornments. The approach to style is by way of plainness, simplicity, orderliness, sincerity.”
I stand the style of “frontiering” against this counsel, and it fails the test. It fails by itself, as a word untouched by style, which is simply annoying. Annoyance turns to alarm when officials propose to use such a word to influence thought about Abilene. The city may lack the style of Paris or Rome, or even San Antonio, but “frontiering” insults the considerable style that Abilene does have. What would be the words that make the right sound on paper for Abilene? Look for a combination that explodes in the mind, or at least ignites, and spreads across the face in a smile, or a glow of pride, Abilene, Texas style.
November 14, 2008
The branding of Abilene, next chapter
The branding saga in Abilene, Texas, my hometown, has entered a remarkable new phase. For background, I will now re-post two blogs first posted in the summer of 2007, at the time the saga began.
The first blog, posted July 26, 2007:
My hometown, Abilene, Texas, is seeking to establish itself as a brand, to better compete in the state, national, and international, public consciousness for the purpose of attracting business and tourism.
A "brand" is a term, phrase, or symbol that makes a product or service unique in the public consciousness ("Xerox," "Google," "Neiman's"). Examples of branded cities are "The Big Apple," "Big D," "Cowtown," "Vegas," and "L.A." Abilene had an original brand, "The Key City of West Texas," and now uses "The Friendly Frontier." The first has lost its scope, and the second is restrictive and not memorable. "Abilene" is the title of a famous song by George Hamilton IV, which rightly describes Abilene as pretty, but lies about the women there, and does not provide any other information.
Abilene has proven attributes which include location, seasons, civic pride and motivation, existing attractions and opportunities, opportunities for new attractions, savvy, future-oriented municipal, civic and business management, a favorable business climate, affordable cost of living, three universities and affiliations with others, strong traditions but no longer straitlaced, and friendliness. Abilene could truthfully adopt a slogan: "America's Home Town." "Abilene" is also a very pretty name, and easy to remember.
I first learned of Abilene's branding effort a few weeks ago in a story in The Abilene Reporter-News. The Abilene Branding Partnership, a consortium of five civic entities, had called for a Statement of Qualifications from five marketing companies. I have affection for Abilene, and the Reporter-News, where I began my career in 1969, and I have interest in how people feel about Abilene. In researching a book about Abilene history three years ago, I had the opportunity to spend time there on several visits, and talk to Abilenians about the city's present strengths and weaknesses.
Thus was I compelled to stick my branding iron into the fire. Three or four days later, I had an idea. On June 21, I emailed the Abilene Branding Partnership, but I was too late. The June 14 deadline for submitting my Statement of Qualifications had passed. I asked to be considered if the search was reopened, and that was agreed to.
Today, the Reporter-News reported that the consortium has agreed to hire North Star Destination Strategies, out of Nashville, Tennessee, to develop an Abilene brand, and a branding strategy, for a fee in the "low six figures," should the money be found locally and a contract signed. North Star was one of only three companies, out of the 11, responding to Abilene's call for a Statement of Qualifications.
So the deal is done, and I can publish my idea. For a penny less than six figures - $99,999.99 – I would have provided Abilene all rights to a three-word brand that co-opts an already global brand, has four distinct applications and one state of mind, and it offers multiple branding strategies.
It would identify a place.
It would identify a thing.
It would identify an event.
It would identify a product.
It would identify a state of mind.
It would be:
"Abilene, Texas Style"
Published, copyrighted, protected. North Star will earn its money and give Abilene something that works better than "Friendly Frontier." And I will always know "Abilene, Texas Style" was good, and came in in an x-way tie for second place.
The second blog, posted Aug. 15, 2007:
I appreciate Jim McDonald's comment on the branding Abilene blog. He is another member of the Abilene High Class of 1961, which is a damn good group if I do say so. Re the fee for the Abilene brand, I waxed sentimental about those roots and briefly considered setting my fee for "Abilene, Texas Style" at $61,616.161, tacking on the tenth of a cent, like the gas pumps do, to preserve symmetry.
Then I decided against it. My fee is firm, $99.999.99, one cent less than the six figures the Abilene authorities are willing to pay North Star Destinations. That name – "North Star Destination" – pops to mind another possibility for the Abilene brand: "Lone Star Destination."
But you can't do as much with that as Abilene, Texas Style. I know the deal is done, but it is still fun to play with the thing. Right, Jim? On a yellow pad, I doodled everything that Abilene, Texas Style, might go with, in setting Abilene apart in the global mind. "Global" includes Tye, Potosi, Hawley, Hamby, View. Global starts at the front door, and it's as vital that "Abilene, Texas Style" means something in Colorado City, as much as it does in London, Paris or Dallas. Imagine, Dallasites driving 180 miles for a weekend of "Abilene, Texas Style." Getting somebody to leave Dallas for a weekend wouldn't take all that much, actually, but that is a direction for another day.
So I doodled.
Thanksgiving, Abilene, Texas Style
Christmas Parade, Abilene, Texas Style
Fourth of July, Abilene, Texas Style
Easter Sunday, Abilene, Texas Style
Education, Abilene, Texas Style
Football Classic, Abilene, Texas Style
Football playoffs, Abilene, Texas Style
Golf tournament, Abilene, Texas Style
Resort Ranch, Abilene, Texas Style
Weekend getaway, Abilene, Texas Style
Corporate retreat, Abilene, Texas Style
Regional Outlet Mall, Abilene, Texas Style
Filming location, Abilene, Texas Style
Senior prom weekend, Abilene, Texas Style
Culture, Arts, Music, Abilene, Texas Style
Broadway road show, Abilene, Texas Style
Concerts, Abilene, Texas Style
Championship rodeo, Abilene, Texas Style
Livestock shows, Abilene, Texas Style
Horse shows, Abilene, Texas Style
Any kind of celebration, Abilene Texas Style
Barbecue championship, Abilene, Texas Style
Premier, Abilene, Texas Style
Partnership, Abilene, Texas Style
Conventions, Abilene, Texas Style
Drag racing, Abilene, Texas Style
NASCAR, Abilene, Texas Style
Worship, Abilene, Texas Style
Leadership, Abilene, Texas Style
Patriotism, Abilene, Texas Style
Business, Abilene, Texas Style
Caring telethon, Abilene, Texas Style
Historical pageant, Abilene, Texas Style
Lifestyle, Abilene, Texas Style
Pride, Abilene, Texas Style
So there are things that can be done with it. The project has not turned out to be a burning issue in the Abilene community. I've counted about a dozen letters to the editor, some in favor, some opposed, most against paying anybody money to create a brand. There were a couple of offers to do it for free, or have a community contest with the winner receiving not much more than recognition and a few free dinners at participating restaurants.
I would never do it for free, and no one else should, either. I do think six figures to Tennessee thinkers is excessive, but there is a thing called "perceived value," which gives a thing value in the public mind simply by placing a value on it. Branding Abilene is something that will have to have value, both in the public mind and the participators' mind. This is a business deal. A brand should prove to be worth millions of dollars to whatever the branded thing is. To a city like Abilene, it should be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, to spend on infrastructure, schools, culture, subsidized water rates, rehabbing the near north side before the wind blows it over. Whoever conceives it, the brand should not be cheap, and it certainly should not be provided free by its creator.
While we're on the subject, does Abilene have a city flag?
Which brings us back to the present day, and the saga's next chapter.
On Wednesday, Abilenian Betty Sims alerted me that North Star Destinations, after 17 months of research and creativity, had revealed its new brand for Abilene at a Tuesday press conference in the historic Paramount Theater.
The brand:
"Abilene Frontiering"
Response was immediate, and furious, and pretty funny. Scores of comments were posted at The Abilene Reporter-News by citizens appalled at the idea of becoming frontieringers. As an Abilenian living in California, I am in total sympathy and will renounce my Perini's club card should this brand go forward. I will give my lettering jacketings to Goodwill. If I saw "Abilene Frontiering" cold, without context, as on a highway billboard, I would think it was an ad for an Abilene travel agency booking tours to Alaska, not for a pretty nice town in West Central Texas.
Of course I remain committed to "Abilene, Texas Style," but the commitment that matters most today is the one against "Abilene Frontiering." For heavening's sake. No comment on the furor from Citying Halling yet.
The first blog, posted July 26, 2007:
My hometown, Abilene, Texas, is seeking to establish itself as a brand, to better compete in the state, national, and international, public consciousness for the purpose of attracting business and tourism.
A "brand" is a term, phrase, or symbol that makes a product or service unique in the public consciousness ("Xerox," "Google," "Neiman's"). Examples of branded cities are "The Big Apple," "Big D," "Cowtown," "Vegas," and "L.A." Abilene had an original brand, "The Key City of West Texas," and now uses "The Friendly Frontier." The first has lost its scope, and the second is restrictive and not memorable. "Abilene" is the title of a famous song by George Hamilton IV, which rightly describes Abilene as pretty, but lies about the women there, and does not provide any other information.
Abilene has proven attributes which include location, seasons, civic pride and motivation, existing attractions and opportunities, opportunities for new attractions, savvy, future-oriented municipal, civic and business management, a favorable business climate, affordable cost of living, three universities and affiliations with others, strong traditions but no longer straitlaced, and friendliness. Abilene could truthfully adopt a slogan: "America's Home Town." "Abilene" is also a very pretty name, and easy to remember.
I first learned of Abilene's branding effort a few weeks ago in a story in The Abilene Reporter-News. The Abilene Branding Partnership, a consortium of five civic entities, had called for a Statement of Qualifications from five marketing companies. I have affection for Abilene, and the Reporter-News, where I began my career in 1969, and I have interest in how people feel about Abilene. In researching a book about Abilene history three years ago, I had the opportunity to spend time there on several visits, and talk to Abilenians about the city's present strengths and weaknesses.
Thus was I compelled to stick my branding iron into the fire. Three or four days later, I had an idea. On June 21, I emailed the Abilene Branding Partnership, but I was too late. The June 14 deadline for submitting my Statement of Qualifications had passed. I asked to be considered if the search was reopened, and that was agreed to.
Today, the Reporter-News reported that the consortium has agreed to hire North Star Destination Strategies, out of Nashville, Tennessee, to develop an Abilene brand, and a branding strategy, for a fee in the "low six figures," should the money be found locally and a contract signed. North Star was one of only three companies, out of the 11, responding to Abilene's call for a Statement of Qualifications.
So the deal is done, and I can publish my idea. For a penny less than six figures - $99,999.99 – I would have provided Abilene all rights to a three-word brand that co-opts an already global brand, has four distinct applications and one state of mind, and it offers multiple branding strategies.
It would identify a place.
It would identify a thing.
It would identify an event.
It would identify a product.
It would identify a state of mind.
It would be:
"Abilene, Texas Style"
Published, copyrighted, protected. North Star will earn its money and give Abilene something that works better than "Friendly Frontier." And I will always know "Abilene, Texas Style" was good, and came in in an x-way tie for second place.
The second blog, posted Aug. 15, 2007:
I appreciate Jim McDonald's comment on the branding Abilene blog. He is another member of the Abilene High Class of 1961, which is a damn good group if I do say so. Re the fee for the Abilene brand, I waxed sentimental about those roots and briefly considered setting my fee for "Abilene, Texas Style" at $61,616.161, tacking on the tenth of a cent, like the gas pumps do, to preserve symmetry.
Then I decided against it. My fee is firm, $99.999.99, one cent less than the six figures the Abilene authorities are willing to pay North Star Destinations. That name – "North Star Destination" – pops to mind another possibility for the Abilene brand: "Lone Star Destination."
But you can't do as much with that as Abilene, Texas Style. I know the deal is done, but it is still fun to play with the thing. Right, Jim? On a yellow pad, I doodled everything that Abilene, Texas Style, might go with, in setting Abilene apart in the global mind. "Global" includes Tye, Potosi, Hawley, Hamby, View. Global starts at the front door, and it's as vital that "Abilene, Texas Style" means something in Colorado City, as much as it does in London, Paris or Dallas. Imagine, Dallasites driving 180 miles for a weekend of "Abilene, Texas Style." Getting somebody to leave Dallas for a weekend wouldn't take all that much, actually, but that is a direction for another day.
So I doodled.
Thanksgiving, Abilene, Texas Style
Christmas Parade, Abilene, Texas Style
Fourth of July, Abilene, Texas Style
Easter Sunday, Abilene, Texas Style
Education, Abilene, Texas Style
Football Classic, Abilene, Texas Style
Football playoffs, Abilene, Texas Style
Golf tournament, Abilene, Texas Style
Resort Ranch, Abilene, Texas Style
Weekend getaway, Abilene, Texas Style
Corporate retreat, Abilene, Texas Style
Regional Outlet Mall, Abilene, Texas Style
Filming location, Abilene, Texas Style
Senior prom weekend, Abilene, Texas Style
Culture, Arts, Music, Abilene, Texas Style
Broadway road show, Abilene, Texas Style
Concerts, Abilene, Texas Style
Championship rodeo, Abilene, Texas Style
Livestock shows, Abilene, Texas Style
Horse shows, Abilene, Texas Style
Any kind of celebration, Abilene Texas Style
Barbecue championship, Abilene, Texas Style
Premier, Abilene, Texas Style
Partnership, Abilene, Texas Style
Conventions, Abilene, Texas Style
Drag racing, Abilene, Texas Style
NASCAR, Abilene, Texas Style
Worship, Abilene, Texas Style
Leadership, Abilene, Texas Style
Patriotism, Abilene, Texas Style
Business, Abilene, Texas Style
Caring telethon, Abilene, Texas Style
Historical pageant, Abilene, Texas Style
Lifestyle, Abilene, Texas Style
Pride, Abilene, Texas Style
So there are things that can be done with it. The project has not turned out to be a burning issue in the Abilene community. I've counted about a dozen letters to the editor, some in favor, some opposed, most against paying anybody money to create a brand. There were a couple of offers to do it for free, or have a community contest with the winner receiving not much more than recognition and a few free dinners at participating restaurants.
I would never do it for free, and no one else should, either. I do think six figures to Tennessee thinkers is excessive, but there is a thing called "perceived value," which gives a thing value in the public mind simply by placing a value on it. Branding Abilene is something that will have to have value, both in the public mind and the participators' mind. This is a business deal. A brand should prove to be worth millions of dollars to whatever the branded thing is. To a city like Abilene, it should be worth hundreds of millions of dollars, to spend on infrastructure, schools, culture, subsidized water rates, rehabbing the near north side before the wind blows it over. Whoever conceives it, the brand should not be cheap, and it certainly should not be provided free by its creator.
While we're on the subject, does Abilene have a city flag?
Which brings us back to the present day, and the saga's next chapter.
On Wednesday, Abilenian Betty Sims alerted me that North Star Destinations, after 17 months of research and creativity, had revealed its new brand for Abilene at a Tuesday press conference in the historic Paramount Theater.
The brand:
"Abilene Frontiering"
Response was immediate, and furious, and pretty funny. Scores of comments were posted at The Abilene Reporter-News by citizens appalled at the idea of becoming frontieringers. As an Abilenian living in California, I am in total sympathy and will renounce my Perini's club card should this brand go forward. I will give my lettering jacketings to Goodwill. If I saw "Abilene Frontiering" cold, without context, as on a highway billboard, I would think it was an ad for an Abilene travel agency booking tours to Alaska, not for a pretty nice town in West Central Texas.
Of course I remain committed to "Abilene, Texas Style," but the commitment that matters most today is the one against "Abilene Frontiering." For heavening's sake. No comment on the furor from Citying Halling yet.
November 11, 2008
A veteran in preparation only
Veterans Day brings far more to me than I can give to it.
In the 1960s, with the Vietnam conflict raging, I prepared for almost three years to become a vet, but then spent all that preparation guarding freedom’s frontier in the kaserns and maneuvers areas of West Germany.
I only did that because I had to. My draft notice arrived on a hot Texas afternoon in August, 1966. The Vietnam thing was far enough along by then to keep college kids in their 20s vigorously trying to cover their butts with what was called the II-S Deferment for students. Graduation in June had taken my cover away, and I was doing my best to get accepted to graduate school when my Local Board decided I would make an excellent soldier, and dropped the letter in the mail.
Instead of the draft, I enlisted for OCS. It seemed like a better use of the time. I took Basic at Ft. Bliss in El Paso, Advanced Individual Training at Ft. Sill in Lawton, Oklahoma, and I was graduated from the Artillery Officer Candidate School in June, 1967. At that time, the School was graduating 170 second lieutenants a week, and all but 30 were receiving orders to report to Vietnam. I was one of the 30. Report to Kitzingen, West Germany, my orders read, and I didn’t argue.
I spent almost two years terrifying the Russians with a dinosaur of a device called the Honest John, a huge, barely mobile, truck-launched rocket whose launch blast could be seen from the Moon. Setting them off was great fun, but fire just one of them in anger, and your position would be slivered into atoms by return fire before you could get the truck started.
We fired nine practice rounds a year and spent the rest of the time scrounging sparkplugs (ALL the supplies went to Vietnam), drinking $5-a-liter Chivas Regal, smoking 13-cents-a-pack cigarettes, and licking clean platters of schnitzel and bratwurst. The exchange rate was 4 marks to the dollar. During that time I met a young Southern California woman touring Europe on the cheap. We were married in November, 1968, dress blues, crossed sabers, and all.
My tour was up in June, 1969, we came home, I was discharged at Ft. Dix, N.J., and that was that. I never fired on anyone, and no one ever fired on me. So I am not the stripe of veteran that we honor today. I still embrace the day. There is within me a certain content that I still use, all the time, which would not be there without my experiences of 1966-69. And Veterans Day symbolizes all the physical circumstances of my life today. No way would I live where I do, and do what I do, if that letter hadn’t been there on that hot afternoon. Veterans Day for me commemorates the absolute first day of the rest of my life.
I was lucky, and I used to feel guilty about that. Young men I knew – and older men too, the officers and drill instructors – at Ft. Bliss and Sill, went to Vietnam and became the honored veterans of today, living and dead. Then one afternoon in the 1980s in Washington, D.C., I visited the Vietnam Memorial. It is an astonishing monument, black, and so reflective that it pulls the living day into it. In there was where I could have stood. Out here was where I in fact stood, and guilt could do nothing about how lucky I felt. So I let it go, and nothing changed. I have felt lucky ever since.
05428524
In the 1960s, with the Vietnam conflict raging, I prepared for almost three years to become a vet, but then spent all that preparation guarding freedom’s frontier in the kaserns and maneuvers areas of West Germany.
I only did that because I had to. My draft notice arrived on a hot Texas afternoon in August, 1966. The Vietnam thing was far enough along by then to keep college kids in their 20s vigorously trying to cover their butts with what was called the II-S Deferment for students. Graduation in June had taken my cover away, and I was doing my best to get accepted to graduate school when my Local Board decided I would make an excellent soldier, and dropped the letter in the mail.
Instead of the draft, I enlisted for OCS. It seemed like a better use of the time. I took Basic at Ft. Bliss in El Paso, Advanced Individual Training at Ft. Sill in Lawton, Oklahoma, and I was graduated from the Artillery Officer Candidate School in June, 1967. At that time, the School was graduating 170 second lieutenants a week, and all but 30 were receiving orders to report to Vietnam. I was one of the 30. Report to Kitzingen, West Germany, my orders read, and I didn’t argue.
I spent almost two years terrifying the Russians with a dinosaur of a device called the Honest John, a huge, barely mobile, truck-launched rocket whose launch blast could be seen from the Moon. Setting them off was great fun, but fire just one of them in anger, and your position would be slivered into atoms by return fire before you could get the truck started.
We fired nine practice rounds a year and spent the rest of the time scrounging sparkplugs (ALL the supplies went to Vietnam), drinking $5-a-liter Chivas Regal, smoking 13-cents-a-pack cigarettes, and licking clean platters of schnitzel and bratwurst. The exchange rate was 4 marks to the dollar. During that time I met a young Southern California woman touring Europe on the cheap. We were married in November, 1968, dress blues, crossed sabers, and all.
My tour was up in June, 1969, we came home, I was discharged at Ft. Dix, N.J., and that was that. I never fired on anyone, and no one ever fired on me. So I am not the stripe of veteran that we honor today. I still embrace the day. There is within me a certain content that I still use, all the time, which would not be there without my experiences of 1966-69. And Veterans Day symbolizes all the physical circumstances of my life today. No way would I live where I do, and do what I do, if that letter hadn’t been there on that hot afternoon. Veterans Day for me commemorates the absolute first day of the rest of my life.
I was lucky, and I used to feel guilty about that. Young men I knew – and older men too, the officers and drill instructors – at Ft. Bliss and Sill, went to Vietnam and became the honored veterans of today, living and dead. Then one afternoon in the 1980s in Washington, D.C., I visited the Vietnam Memorial. It is an astonishing monument, black, and so reflective that it pulls the living day into it. In there was where I could have stood. Out here was where I in fact stood, and guilt could do nothing about how lucky I felt. So I let it go, and nothing changed. I have felt lucky ever since.
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November 06, 2008
Great God Almighty
This is a strange feeling I am having for the last couple of days, since I woke up Wednesday morning, went out to get the paper, slipped it out of its wrapper, flipped it open, and saw the one-word headline in a huge, fat, boldface font:
Obama
I thought: Free at last. Not him; ME! And I think that’s what Dr. Martin Luther King meant, or at least it strongly and strangely feels that way to me. He wasn’t thinking about a day when blacks would be free at last. He was thinking about ALL of us. Free at last. Great God almighty. As long as blacks were kept in a place, it meant whites were kept in a place, too. No more. For 45 years, I loved that line but misunderstood it so severely that I gave it only half-credit. Now on an early morning in the 60th grade, I finally understand it.
I folded the paper and quickened my step up the walk. Normally I go in, sit down with the paper, look at the sections above the fold, and hand over the front page to Karen. Not this time. I was going to go inside, flip the paper open, drop the paper on the nook table right under Karen’s nose, and watch her eyes. She looked and actually jumped in her chair. What kind of national power are we tapping into, when all are free to contribute the content of their character?
Talk about reactions.I keep looking for an interview with Rev. Jesse Jackson. His face, finger to his lips and tears on his cheeks, was to me the most riveting image from the entire coverage of this presidential campaign. I decided his entire life might be passing before his eyes, not flashing by, as at the threat of death, but in some slow pace of one being born again. So far, I haven’t found anything to read about it, which is not really like the old Jesse Jackson. But you know, talking about, or reading about, such experiences can never equal the experience.
Very sad, that newspapers are in peril. No other medium has delivered the electricity that that Obama headline blasted into me. That is another chemistry whose source I would like to examine. Later on, Wednesday morning, Karen said she would like to get our local paper – we only take the local paper on Thursdays through Sundays – to see the local election results.
For the second time in an hour, I framed a line so as to watch her reaction. I said: “You can get the results online.” She flinched like I had hosed her down with lemon juice. "No," she said. "I want the paper." No way could online results be a matter of record. Later in the morning, we got the local paper. It was the last one in the rack. Newspapers have a long reputation as being the first draft of history. Sure don’t know what’s going to replace that, in the years to come. Hey! Probably Obama can figure it out.
Obama
I thought: Free at last. Not him; ME! And I think that’s what Dr. Martin Luther King meant, or at least it strongly and strangely feels that way to me. He wasn’t thinking about a day when blacks would be free at last. He was thinking about ALL of us. Free at last. Great God almighty. As long as blacks were kept in a place, it meant whites were kept in a place, too. No more. For 45 years, I loved that line but misunderstood it so severely that I gave it only half-credit. Now on an early morning in the 60th grade, I finally understand it.
I folded the paper and quickened my step up the walk. Normally I go in, sit down with the paper, look at the sections above the fold, and hand over the front page to Karen. Not this time. I was going to go inside, flip the paper open, drop the paper on the nook table right under Karen’s nose, and watch her eyes. She looked and actually jumped in her chair. What kind of national power are we tapping into, when all are free to contribute the content of their character?
Talk about reactions.I keep looking for an interview with Rev. Jesse Jackson. His face, finger to his lips and tears on his cheeks, was to me the most riveting image from the entire coverage of this presidential campaign. I decided his entire life might be passing before his eyes, not flashing by, as at the threat of death, but in some slow pace of one being born again. So far, I haven’t found anything to read about it, which is not really like the old Jesse Jackson. But you know, talking about, or reading about, such experiences can never equal the experience.
Very sad, that newspapers are in peril. No other medium has delivered the electricity that that Obama headline blasted into me. That is another chemistry whose source I would like to examine. Later on, Wednesday morning, Karen said she would like to get our local paper – we only take the local paper on Thursdays through Sundays – to see the local election results.
For the second time in an hour, I framed a line so as to watch her reaction. I said: “You can get the results online.” She flinched like I had hosed her down with lemon juice. "No," she said. "I want the paper." No way could online results be a matter of record. Later in the morning, we got the local paper. It was the last one in the rack. Newspapers have a long reputation as being the first draft of history. Sure don’t know what’s going to replace that, in the years to come. Hey! Probably Obama can figure it out.
November 04, 2008
Brooks, Cohen look backward to see forward
I suggest that the two best commentaries about this Election Day have come from David Brooks at The New York Times and Richard Cohen of The Washington Post.
They are so effective, and so intriguing, because they look backward to see forward. And they look backward far enough – 45 years – to require us to challenge our assumptions as we try to see forward 45 years. This is a trick I learned how to do trying to see the future of media. From here, looking back 45 years at the media of 1963, and comparing it with the media of today, when I turn around and try to see 45 years forward, I am hit with the same enormity of distance and change that I had just felt looking at 1963. If I had not been there, I might not believe how primitive was media at the time of the Kennedy assassination. How primitive will 2008 media appear, to the citizens of 2053?
Cohen says Barack Obama, popularly described as a transformational figure, is in fact a confirmational figure, whose candidacy and probable election confirms Lyndon Johnson’s work in the early 1960s that resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964. So great is the change from that day to this that it took us 45 years, traveling one day at a time. Today, if we take Obama as a halfway point, and try to see forward from here, what will American liberty look like in 2053? The youth of today, such a new force in this election, will be in their 60s. What will they think, looking back at a 2008 America so quaint that Barack Obama’s election made history?
David Brooks says today “is not only a pivot, but a confluence of pivots.” He calls today the end of an economic era, a political era, and a generational era: “Generationally, it marks the end of baby boomer supremacy, which began in 1968.” Trying to see forward, what will be the synergistic opportunities for three eras, coming to life as one, midwifed by a leader whose watchword is inclusion? As the new, young, green generations assume leadership supremacy, where will the new economic and political eras be steered? What will they look like, by 2053? Will there be fossil fuels? Will there be parties?
My wife has a way of putting her finger on a thing. This morning she said we may never see another presidential election with four white males on the ticket. After 2008, women won’t be pushing their way into politics anymore. They will be pulled. I think that may be the most telling pivot point, as we set out on the first day toward 2053. We are shifting from a push to a pull society. For so long, so many vital issues have had to push their way into consideration. Starting today, they will be pulled.
They are so effective, and so intriguing, because they look backward to see forward. And they look backward far enough – 45 years – to require us to challenge our assumptions as we try to see forward 45 years. This is a trick I learned how to do trying to see the future of media. From here, looking back 45 years at the media of 1963, and comparing it with the media of today, when I turn around and try to see 45 years forward, I am hit with the same enormity of distance and change that I had just felt looking at 1963. If I had not been there, I might not believe how primitive was media at the time of the Kennedy assassination. How primitive will 2008 media appear, to the citizens of 2053?
Cohen says Barack Obama, popularly described as a transformational figure, is in fact a confirmational figure, whose candidacy and probable election confirms Lyndon Johnson’s work in the early 1960s that resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964. So great is the change from that day to this that it took us 45 years, traveling one day at a time. Today, if we take Obama as a halfway point, and try to see forward from here, what will American liberty look like in 2053? The youth of today, such a new force in this election, will be in their 60s. What will they think, looking back at a 2008 America so quaint that Barack Obama’s election made history?
David Brooks says today “is not only a pivot, but a confluence of pivots.” He calls today the end of an economic era, a political era, and a generational era: “Generationally, it marks the end of baby boomer supremacy, which began in 1968.” Trying to see forward, what will be the synergistic opportunities for three eras, coming to life as one, midwifed by a leader whose watchword is inclusion? As the new, young, green generations assume leadership supremacy, where will the new economic and political eras be steered? What will they look like, by 2053? Will there be fossil fuels? Will there be parties?
My wife has a way of putting her finger on a thing. This morning she said we may never see another presidential election with four white males on the ticket. After 2008, women won’t be pushing their way into politics anymore. They will be pulled. I think that may be the most telling pivot point, as we set out on the first day toward 2053. We are shifting from a push to a pull society. For so long, so many vital issues have had to push their way into consideration. Starting today, they will be pulled.
November 03, 2008
Still Obama
Last April, I decided I should vote for Sen. Barack Obama for president for this reason: Of the three candidates at the time – Obama, Clinton, McCain, all fine people – Obama was the only one who gave the citizens of this country room to take a leap of faith. My belief in that unique opportunity has not been altered by anything that has happened in the intervening months of the campaign.
It relates to his famous speech about race delivered last March, after the other candidates attacked his relationship to his controversial minister, Rev. Jeremiah Wright. I found that speech again yesterday and printed it out, all nine pages, and read it again. When I finished, my reaction was the same as at the time. The speech transcended not only the candidates’ attacks, but the candidates, the campaign, and politics itself. In that 45 minutes, Obama laid before a national audience a simple depth of thought and understanding that was not obtainable by Clinton or McCain.
Now it is Nov. 3, and the election is tomorrow. Clinton is gone, Obama and McCain remain. I have thought that Obama should have made one of those 45-minute speeches at least every other month, on the issue of his choice, to remind Americans of the man's transcendent ability simply to think, explore, and resolve. It would have provided a natural and effective barometer of his qualifications for office. That did not happen. Instead, it was John McCain who provided a new benchmark. He selected Sarah Palin. I am trying to imagine what a Sarah Palin 45-minute speech on race relations would sound like. Obama is not running against Palin, but he is running against the individual who gave Palin a national voice. I would describe that as a telling update on the depth of thought and understanding available to John McCain.
For that quality of depth, in the entrenched shallowness of politics, I feel ready to trust Obama’s vision. It is an apolitical trust. This is not an election to be voting politically, or even to be voting against the present administration. What good would that do? The cattle are all out of the corral. We are a people in deep trouble. There is evidence that, given a few days to think about it, Obama could make a 45-minute presentation about people in trouble that would transcend politics. What a starting place that would be. In this election, I am betting on a man's ability and willingness to change the status quo in America in the years 2009-12. In what ways? I don’t know. My belief in Obama is a leap of faith, a roll of the dice. But he is the only one who gives me a chance to roll. That, I am convinced, is a lesser gamble in my future as an American than placing trust in John McCain, even if we had never heard of Sarah Palin, but certainly since we have.
It relates to his famous speech about race delivered last March, after the other candidates attacked his relationship to his controversial minister, Rev. Jeremiah Wright. I found that speech again yesterday and printed it out, all nine pages, and read it again. When I finished, my reaction was the same as at the time. The speech transcended not only the candidates’ attacks, but the candidates, the campaign, and politics itself. In that 45 minutes, Obama laid before a national audience a simple depth of thought and understanding that was not obtainable by Clinton or McCain.
Now it is Nov. 3, and the election is tomorrow. Clinton is gone, Obama and McCain remain. I have thought that Obama should have made one of those 45-minute speeches at least every other month, on the issue of his choice, to remind Americans of the man's transcendent ability simply to think, explore, and resolve. It would have provided a natural and effective barometer of his qualifications for office. That did not happen. Instead, it was John McCain who provided a new benchmark. He selected Sarah Palin. I am trying to imagine what a Sarah Palin 45-minute speech on race relations would sound like. Obama is not running against Palin, but he is running against the individual who gave Palin a national voice. I would describe that as a telling update on the depth of thought and understanding available to John McCain.
For that quality of depth, in the entrenched shallowness of politics, I feel ready to trust Obama’s vision. It is an apolitical trust. This is not an election to be voting politically, or even to be voting against the present administration. What good would that do? The cattle are all out of the corral. We are a people in deep trouble. There is evidence that, given a few days to think about it, Obama could make a 45-minute presentation about people in trouble that would transcend politics. What a starting place that would be. In this election, I am betting on a man's ability and willingness to change the status quo in America in the years 2009-12. In what ways? I don’t know. My belief in Obama is a leap of faith, a roll of the dice. But he is the only one who gives me a chance to roll. That, I am convinced, is a lesser gamble in my future as an American than placing trust in John McCain, even if we had never heard of Sarah Palin, but certainly since we have.
November 01, 2008
Feeling Like Barack Obama's Cultural Cousin
I am starting to feel like Barack Obama's cultural cousin.
When he left the campaign trail to visit his grandmother, who was a key figure in his rearing, I kept thinking about Susie Grant, my grandmother, in whose house I grew up. Today, news comes that Obama has a half-aunt on his father's side, found in circumstances about which he knew nothing, and that development is similar to the half-brothers I never knew, then met twice, and may never see again.
Susie was my mother's mother. She was born in northern Alabama and came with her family to West Texas at the turn of the 20th century, about 1900. There she met and married Roy Grant, who grew up in Pulaski, Tennessee, just across the state line from Susie's home. They grew up 40 miles apart and had to travel clear to Haskell County, Texas, before they would meet.
Susie and Roy had six kids, including my mother, June, who was next-to-youngest. Roy died suddenly in 1929, and Susie raised the six on her own. She was gentle, pious, and remains the toughest individual I ever knew. Was she a racist? I don't want to believe that, but every time she saw a black man on television – one of the few places we saw black people in 1950s Abilene, Texas – she made a face. I suppose it is possible I was reared by a racist, and the people I vote for are just going to have to live with that.
World War II came, and a huge Army training base, Camp Barkeley, was opened a few miles south of Abilene. My father, Don Wayman of Colorado, was sent there to train. He was a wonderful singer, a tenor from the old school, and my mother always said she heard him (at the downtown USO) before she saw him. They were married at Camp Barkeley on Easter Sunday, 1942. I was born on March 6, 1943, by which time my mother and father were divorcing.
My mother and I, and two of her sisters, lived with Susie. They told me my father was dead. There were no photos of him, no letters, no notes, no insignia, no nothing. The only evidence I had of him was me.
In 1989, following an inner pulse, I took steps to find him, and I did. I saw him for the first time on July 27, 1989, in the driveway of his home in Greeley, Colorado. He was happy to see me. He said that on the day after I was born, he snuck into the hospital nursery in Abilene and held me in his arms for 15 minutes. He said my family, particularly Susie, didn't like him. He left Abilene, returned to Greeley, married, taught school, and with his wife Shirley had four sons, my half-brothers. It is an interesting feeling, at age 46, to learn you have four brothers. Circumstances: two of them were in lifelong schizophrenia battles, and a third was gay. In some circles, my political stock must be seriously dwindling.
The weekend was interesting and fundamentally informative on both sides. Don Lee, my dad's oldest son – other than me – said to me: "I'm not the oldest brother anymore." "Sure you are," I said. "I wouldn't know the first thing about being the oldest brother." That is as true on this day as it was on that one.
My father and I remained in touch, but he bonded more with my wife, now my ex, and with my children, than he did with me. That was fine. In our short years of contact, he resolved a lifelong fear of mine, and he told me I removed a weight from his days that he felt was lengthening his life. I went to Greeley twice more, once with my children and the third time at his death. That was in 2002. His sons and I have had no contact since.
Obama and I, and who knows how many others, were spun out of a swirl, created by a century of change, and motion, and mobility of events and of people. Our histories are unconventional. Make of them what you will.
When he left the campaign trail to visit his grandmother, who was a key figure in his rearing, I kept thinking about Susie Grant, my grandmother, in whose house I grew up. Today, news comes that Obama has a half-aunt on his father's side, found in circumstances about which he knew nothing, and that development is similar to the half-brothers I never knew, then met twice, and may never see again.
Susie was my mother's mother. She was born in northern Alabama and came with her family to West Texas at the turn of the 20th century, about 1900. There she met and married Roy Grant, who grew up in Pulaski, Tennessee, just across the state line from Susie's home. They grew up 40 miles apart and had to travel clear to Haskell County, Texas, before they would meet.
Susie and Roy had six kids, including my mother, June, who was next-to-youngest. Roy died suddenly in 1929, and Susie raised the six on her own. She was gentle, pious, and remains the toughest individual I ever knew. Was she a racist? I don't want to believe that, but every time she saw a black man on television – one of the few places we saw black people in 1950s Abilene, Texas – she made a face. I suppose it is possible I was reared by a racist, and the people I vote for are just going to have to live with that.
World War II came, and a huge Army training base, Camp Barkeley, was opened a few miles south of Abilene. My father, Don Wayman of Colorado, was sent there to train. He was a wonderful singer, a tenor from the old school, and my mother always said she heard him (at the downtown USO) before she saw him. They were married at Camp Barkeley on Easter Sunday, 1942. I was born on March 6, 1943, by which time my mother and father were divorcing.
My mother and I, and two of her sisters, lived with Susie. They told me my father was dead. There were no photos of him, no letters, no notes, no insignia, no nothing. The only evidence I had of him was me.
In 1989, following an inner pulse, I took steps to find him, and I did. I saw him for the first time on July 27, 1989, in the driveway of his home in Greeley, Colorado. He was happy to see me. He said that on the day after I was born, he snuck into the hospital nursery in Abilene and held me in his arms for 15 minutes. He said my family, particularly Susie, didn't like him. He left Abilene, returned to Greeley, married, taught school, and with his wife Shirley had four sons, my half-brothers. It is an interesting feeling, at age 46, to learn you have four brothers. Circumstances: two of them were in lifelong schizophrenia battles, and a third was gay. In some circles, my political stock must be seriously dwindling.
The weekend was interesting and fundamentally informative on both sides. Don Lee, my dad's oldest son – other than me – said to me: "I'm not the oldest brother anymore." "Sure you are," I said. "I wouldn't know the first thing about being the oldest brother." That is as true on this day as it was on that one.
My father and I remained in touch, but he bonded more with my wife, now my ex, and with my children, than he did with me. That was fine. In our short years of contact, he resolved a lifelong fear of mine, and he told me I removed a weight from his days that he felt was lengthening his life. I went to Greeley twice more, once with my children and the third time at his death. That was in 2002. His sons and I have had no contact since.
Obama and I, and who knows how many others, were spun out of a swirl, created by a century of change, and motion, and mobility of events and of people. Our histories are unconventional. Make of them what you will.
Google seeding didn't work
About 45 minutes after I Googled "Rain" yesterday, a few clouds showed up in the west.
"Dang," I said. But 30 minutes later they were gone. Beautiful sunset. You should have seen it.
Beautiful, clear, sunrise as well. The sunrise this week transited, from north to south, a feature on the eastern horizon that we call "Dolly's Right One." This marks the beginning of the rainy season in Southern California.
Well, parts of Southern California. Wherever I go, the anti-Joe Btfsplk, a sunny circle opens in the clouds. It is a good thing I was not a farmer. It is now 9 a.m., and outside is just so clear and pretty. The weather bureau says a 30 percent chance of rain tomorrow. I'm not getting my hopes up. Have you ever noticed how hard it is, not getting your hopes up?
Meanwhile, the weather bureau has issued a flash flood watch for Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, and the north part of Los Angeles County, about 150 miles north of us. Thunderstorms are developing in a moist, unstable air mass off the coast and are expected overland before noon.
On Google, Wikipedia identified "rain" as "liquid precipitation." Thanks for the heads-up.
"Dang," I said. But 30 minutes later they were gone. Beautiful sunset. You should have seen it.
Beautiful, clear, sunrise as well. The sunrise this week transited, from north to south, a feature on the eastern horizon that we call "Dolly's Right One." This marks the beginning of the rainy season in Southern California.
Well, parts of Southern California. Wherever I go, the anti-Joe Btfsplk, a sunny circle opens in the clouds. It is a good thing I was not a farmer. It is now 9 a.m., and outside is just so clear and pretty. The weather bureau says a 30 percent chance of rain tomorrow. I'm not getting my hopes up. Have you ever noticed how hard it is, not getting your hopes up?
Meanwhile, the weather bureau has issued a flash flood watch for Ventura and Santa Barbara counties, and the north part of Los Angeles County, about 150 miles north of us. Thunderstorms are developing in a moist, unstable air mass off the coast and are expected overland before noon.
On Google, Wikipedia identified "rain" as "liquid precipitation." Thanks for the heads-up.
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