Winter is coming....

It began, as does many of the most wonderful things in life, as a coincidence, a serendipitous convergence of time and place.  What some would call chance, I would call Providence, and that autumn day in 2002 would turn out to be one of the better days in my life.   I was attending the State Fair of Texas that day, with my wife of five years and 2 wee boys.  There are a plethora of eating venues and opportunities at the State Fair, but that day we chose to eat lunch at the huge vendor pavilion on the south side of the Cotton Bowl.

As we were eating our corn dogs and nachos, I noticed that a small band was coming out onto a nearby stage.  They took their places on the platform, which was a rectangle a few inches off the ground and barely large enough for the equipment and the five members of the band, and I did note with interest that the attractive lady was holding a fiddle, and just to the side of her was a bagpiper.  The piper began to play by himself, and I remember having the thought that I was rather surprised to see an Irish band doing a gig at the State Fair of Texas.

Don't get me wrong... I love Irish music, Scottish music, and lots of things Celtic.  But I was used to seeing such things at festivals dedicated to those cultures, or around St. Patty's Day.   But then a strange thing happened... after the bagpiper finished his opening monologue, the drummer beat the time measure with his sticks, and the music took off, and carried me with it.

Little did I know it, but at that moment, my life had changed.  I had been exposed to the greatness of The Killdares.

Now, before you accuse me of melodramatic hyperbole, you must understand something about my personality and nature.  I am not, by the very fiber of my being, inclined to be a "fanboy" of anything or anyone.   I am introverted and often taciturn (on the door of my office in my home is a Magic the Gathering card—"Ancient Crab"...I'm trying to collect enough to use them as calling cards); cursed with a sense of literalism, and at times fatalism and cynicism, I just do not become enamored of musicians, celebrities, and the like.  By this point in my life, well into my 30's, I could probably count the number of concerts I had ever attended on both hands.  I can't tell you the current rosters, save for a few famous players, on any of my favorite sports teams.  I enjoy the music, or the sports, or the TV shows and movies but all the extra "fan" stuff was never my thing.  I am more inclined to leave a celebrity alone even if I happen to encounter them.  In fact, I have in the past, sat right next to one and didn't know who it was!

Which makes what happened that day, and over the subsequent years, so utterly shocking to me.  For the first time in my life...I became a groupie.

It began with the music.  As I listened that day at the State Fair, the prevailing thought in my head was "WHAT THE HECK IS THIS?"  It was different.  It was rock and roll with a Celtic twist.  I found that my foot started tapping and I really couldn't make it stop.  I saw young children began to gather in front of the stage under the watchful eyes of their parents, and the kids were dancing and moving and enjoying this unique music I was hearing from that little rectangular stage.

That Christmas, I asked my wife to try to get me some of their music as a gift that year.  This holiday pre-dating the online download era, she purchased me a CD of their "Live" album, and I began to wear that thing out.  The obsession had begun.

Over the next few years, as I attended as many concerts as I could, I began to discover another important aspect of this strange dynamic I found myself in—this band was made up of great people.  Wonderful folks who were down home, friendly, and committed to their craft and to their fans.  As I got to know them, I learned the many things that I would later share with people as I proselytized for "my" band:   their concerts and their songs were clean, no filthy lyrics or on-stage comments to be found;  they were approachable and friendly; they often took gigs that allowed people to enjoy them for free in addition to bigger events at the House of Blues or the Kessler Theater.  And every year save one, there they were at the State Fair, entertaining their fellow Texans at our yearly party.

(About that one year... I wrote a long letter to the powers that be at the Fair, urging them to bring back The Killdares—what were they thinking?!?)

These strange "groupie" thing continued.  I read articles about them on the internet, listened to interviews they did in far-away states while they gigged on the road, and tweeted with the band members.   There was one concert in North Richland Hills... I had invited a friend of mine to join me and see The Killdares for the first time.  He's one of my best friends, a very quiet fellow, a computer programmer with advanced degrees in Physics and other science-y endeavors.  Before the concert began I turned to him and warned him that he might see a Rob he had never seen before; afterwards, he told me that I was right... he was not sure who this "thing" was that his friend metamorphosed into when the music began to play.

I can never sit through a whole concert, no matter how tired I am, nor how hot or humid it might be.  In the early years, the song that always triggered it was "Long Island High," but when the band added "Gravelwalk" to the end of "Secrets of the Day" in live performances, that usually became the point at which my personal "Mr. Hyde" would make his appearance.

But my favorite song in their repertoire has been and always will be their rendition of "Whiskey in the Jar."  Begun with a long, mournful intro by six-time National Fiddle Champion Roberta Rast, it is a beautiful and engaging rendition of an ancient Irish tune in its own right;  but one magical night at the House of Blues, when the Killdares were playing in the small, intimate, Pontiac Garage room, served to forever imprint this song, and that experience, into my memory.

But that night is one of a multitude of memories.  This is my blog, and my farewell to this band, so indulge me while I share a few:

• Sitting on the grass next to the Dr. Pepper Stage at the State Fair of Texas, in a circle with several of the band members and assorted "usual suspects" of their fans, talking for almost an hour.  It remains one of my favorite memories.
• Tim Smith telling a joke on the first day I saw them about why he no longer wears a kilt while playing drums.
• A picture of Matthew (who plays guitar) with Tim at the State Fair, doing the "rock on" symbol together.
• Being at the State Fair one year, and running into an online friend that I had never met, who was from Honduras.  I knew she had gotten married and moved to the U.S., but didn't realize she was in Dallas!  And I saw her IRL for the first time at a Killdares concert.
• The night in Bedford when the rain started gushing at the very end, and Roberta missed the visual signal from Tim that they needed to wrap up the final song without another coda.  She blew right into another one with an increased tempo, and then when it was over, they had to scramble to cover the equipment.  A few of us fans stayed and helped them put things away after a long delay to wait out the shower;  we pulled our vehicles around the stage in a circle and turned on the headlights so we could see to work.
• That night at Lochrann's in Frisco, with that tiny little stage that really was only 2 inches higher than the floor.  I had my usual spot right up front, next to Roberta.  One of my "Killdare's Friends" said his mother, safely ensconced back at the bar, said I looked like security as I stood up there with my black Killdares t-shirt on... that was the same night that I played Roberta's fiddle during intermission—she insisted that I play her a song, and I forgot that she plays a 6-string fiddle, so I played "Turkey in the Straw" on the wrong strings.  Thank goodness it was unplugged and the intermission music was so loud.  It must have sounded awful.  We were so close to the stage I could see the f-post inside Roberta's fiddle as she played, and at one point, I had to do a Matrix-style backwards bend when Matt whirled around with his bagpipe.  Had I not bent backwards, the longest drone would have whacked me in the face!
• The look at Matt's face when I showed up at the Mucky Duck in Houston one night.  I had traveled down there to see some friends and take them to see my band.
• The night the DVD was made.  I think my sons have still not forgiven me that we did not take them that night.   We were so exhausted as fans after that concert... the energy was overwhelming.  When the final curtain went down, I just kind of laid my head on the stage to rest, and then a pair of lovely hands snaked out from under the curtain and took my hands in a friendly grasp.  Roberta knew who was there on the other side of the heavy curtain.  Tim tried to throw me a drumstick after the concert, but my wife snatched it out of the air before I could grab it.  THIEF!  She later gave it back as part of a Killdares shadowbox she gave me for a Christmas gift.
• The night that Allison and I were invited by Tim and Roberta to attend a screening of The Devil's Box, a documentary on Texas Old-Style Fiddling in which Roberta and her sisters were featured.
• Opening a package that came in the mail one Christmas holiday season.  It was from Tim, and inside was a recently-dusted off copy of Broken with a Word, the debut CD of the Killdares from back 20 years ago, which could not be purchased anymore.  That completed my CD collection.
• Watching Tim's younger sister, and one other young lady, who often did Irish dancing during some songs.  It was always a treat when it happened.
• Seeing mine and Allison's name in a list of fans that the band wished to thank, inside the booklet that came with the DVD/CDs from the concert at the Grenada Theater.
• All the wonderful people I met at these concerts.  After a while, it became a bit like Casablanca:  "round up the usual suspects".  I've made some good acquaintances over the years, and these are people, scattered all over the state and country, that I don't run into except at Killdares concerts.   Should the busyness of life make it unfeasible for us to cross paths again, rest assured that I cherish you all, and look forward to keeping up with you on social media and the like.
• Being insanely jealous of one of those friends when he won the backstage pass for a House of Blues concert.  Dog.
• And last, but certainly not least...the band themselves.  
• Tim Smith (founder, drums, lead singer), with his quirky t-shirts, his stuffed "Animal" tied to his drums, and the great sense of humor 
• Robert Rast (fiddle), with her charming smile, engaging stage presence, and easygoing friendly nature.. no one should ever be gifted with fingers that long or that can move that fast—it's just sick, I tell you!
• Matt "The Mad Piper" Willis (Highland bagpipes + anything that has air moving through it) with his commanding presence on stage and absolutely stunning skill with the pipes (who has ever heard Jethro Tull or Black Sabbath on bagpipes?!?  He makes it work!), and he's just a nice guy.  I call him "The Mad Piper" because he always has some of the greatest facial expressions as he wrestles that Scottish Octopus under his arm....
• Mike Urness and Gary Thorne rounding out the group on guitar and bass guitar
• Former guitar player Brek Lancaster, who played for a good deal of the time I knew the band,  and his precious wife hold a special place in my heart.

Over the past few years, the demands of being the father of multiple teenage sons have decreased my attendance at their concerts.  Every season, I would put their gigs into my calendar, and time and time again, something would arise that made it impossible to attend.  It saddened me every time time I had to delete that item out of the calendar.  But I never stopped listening.  I would play their concert DVD  in places like Maine, at our summer camp, on the big projection screen in the field house.  I even purchased and sent a copy of the DVD to a friend in Australia!

And then, this year, the unthinkable happened.   A post showed up in my Facebook timeline, from the band.  In the year of their twentieth anniversary, they were calling it a day.  They would play gigs through the fall, and then... there... would... be ... no ... more .... Killdares.  Except as a memory.

Tonight, Friday the 18th of November 2016, I will attend the last Killdares concert ever.  It will be at the lovely venue of the Kessler Theater in Oak Cliff.  This time, the whole family is coming (lest my sons kill me in my sleep); we have had the tickets since a matter of minutes after they went on sale.  This concert is going to be a very special night—I know of people flying in from all over the country to be here.. many of the usual suspects.  It will be, I am sure, breathtakingly enjoyable and poignantly bittersweet.  "I swear to you, I will get very choked up.  Honestly, there could be tears."

To my friends in the band:  thank you.  Thank you for 14 years of incredible memories and fantastic music.   Thank you for somehow being the key that unlocked a different side of me, a side I did not know ever existed, nor was even possible.  It has been fun being your groupie.  It has been fun being your friend.  I will miss these moments with you, both as the music played, and the quiet moments before and after.  I will cherish every single memory that I made during this journey.

In the last year or so, the band has incorporated a new tune into their repertoire—the theme song to "Game of Thrones."  (Yes, it works with fiddle and bagpipe... trust me).   I've been a fan of George R.R. Martin's books long before the HBO series, and I have a particular fondness for House Stark.  In the world of these books, the seasons are not like ours... they are not regular, neither in occurrence nor duration.  The Starks, who live in the far north of this imaginary land and must deal with the interminable cold season, adopted as their family motto "Winter is Coming."

Indeed.

Winter is Coming.   It falls tonight, and it will be long and cold.  If you are a Killdares fan, may the warm embers of the many wonderful memories sustain you.

If you have never heard the band, come on over.  We'll put the DVD on and have a grand old time.  It will have to suffice, for never again will I be able to introduce a friend to the greatness of a Killdares concert.

Winter is Coming.   Bundle up.

The shadowbox.  Notice the Christmas
card and the purloined drumstick, now
returned to its proper owner.

All the Signs of Home

Being a part of this camp in Maine has provided me with many blessings, not the least of which is this:  for the first time in my life, I actually feel like I have two homes.  Having a sense of home at all was something that I lacked for many years... my family moved a lot when I was a kid (21 locales in my first 20 years!), so I do not have that sense of 'place' that many people have.  Take my wife, for instance... she always has the lodestone of that little town in southwest Missouri to look back upon, full of memories all emanating from one epicenter.

My memory map looks more like a Seurat painting when you get too close.  Little dots all over the place-- you have to step back to really make any sense of it all.

In my adult years, as my marriage blossomed and produced a passel of sons, we did set down some roots, and I began to build that sense of a 'core place'.  You know the feeling.. returning from trip and beginning to see the landmarks that let you know.. home is not far away now.   As Kevin Costner said to Morgan Freeman in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, "I would know blindfolded; I'm five miles from home".

This year, as we drove the final miles to camp, I began to realize that I had the same deep-in-my-bones feeling;  we ticked off the landmarks on the winding road through New Hampshire that leads to the border crossing into Maine... 4 miles from camp.  I realized just how much this place feels like home.  That same sense of expectation, of familiarity ushering you down the road.

Allison, who was driving the last leg of the trip, even had me notify her mother with a landmark.  My instructions were to make a video as we passed the "Almost There" restaurant in Albany, NH. As we rolled by, the family yelled out "Almost There, Gramma", and I texted it her.

Once into Maine, we passed through the small town that we know so well.  And then, at last, we came upon the most important landmark of all.  It is a camp tradition that, when campers return from a trip, as they enter the totem poles they do a chant.  On cue, our boys started belting out the mantra:  "I-A, I-A, I-N-D-I-A-N-A-C-R-E-S, INDIAN ACRES!"

We pass the Thunderbird, helpfully giving directions that we don't really need, and are welcomed by the visitor's dugout on the baseball field.  Then we pull around to the front of the field office, and inside are warm greetings, hugs, backslaps, and all the joy of seeing friends again that you have not seen in some time.

And last, but not least, we pull up in front of our assigned cabin.  It matters not that the actual cabin may change for us each year.  It is here, and they all look comfortably similar and familiar.  We settle in and set up our little domicile on the Saco River.

And this morning, as I sit at my desk to type this missive, I look out my window, and see the fog rolling over the upper field.  The river behind me is shrouded in mist.  I smile, because that alone is a sign that "I'm not in Texas anymore, Toto!"

All the signs confirm it.  I am blessed.  As the pine trees in their white raiment welcome me to a new day, I know that I am home.  In my summer place.  As a man who once felt he had no place to really call home, I now have two.  How cool is that?

Camp from a Beaver's perspective

(Note from Rob:  For this post, I am going to do something I have never done before...  have a guest author.  My son, Matthew, asked me if I would be willing to put something he wrote on this blog, so he could be part of the 'Welch Camp Blog' experience.  This is Matthew's final year as a camper at Indian Acres... he is an upper 'Beaver', and here are few words about what this very special place means to him.  Enjoy!)

Da Beaver
Photo by Laurie Endsly
Photography

I once was asked by a newly-made friend at a pizza place how in the world we could leave everything behind, and go to Maine and live in the woods at a camp for 2 months. At the time I didn’t have a great response, so here is my long-overdue, long-winded response on why I attend summer camp at Indian Acres, 04037 in Fryeburg Maine.

I read an article written by a lady who was talking about how she sent her kids away to a sleep away camp. The article opened with a comment from another woman “Do you even like your children?” The article goes on to talk about getting ready for college, summer school, and so on; but I wish to focus on another line: “They adore camp, and it’s actually harder on me than it is on them. I often tell people the first year they were both gone, it felt like I had lost an arm.” 

While Ms. Clydesdale wrote a magnificent article, after reading it I realized that I don’t have that problem-- my father works from home, so he and the whole family can come with me; also that article was about why a ‘Parent’ would send their kid to camp, but in my case, the question is-- why would a ‘family’ continuously attend?

I cannot speak for the rest of my family; I can only speak for myself, so that begs the question: why do I go to camp?. The answer is simple--if I did not go to camp I would be a 16 year old taking care of a house without a car or a driver’s license, with no one to care for me and I would be eating ramen noodles basically every day. So a better question is, why do I want to go back to camp? Because I enjoy camp; so perhaps the best question is why do I enjoy camp? 

Camp means songs and cheers, campfires and guitars, sweat and hard work.  I may be giving up a summer of hanging out with friends at home, and preparing for college but I gain a whole bucket worth’s more in memories, creativity, and experience.

You know the old saying “Let kids be kids?” Well, that doesn’t happen anymore: yes, teenagers need

responsibility; yes, they are older than younger kids who play in the mud and say “BAUBBLES!”-- but even older teenagers need to have fun. In our hectic world, every adult needs some rest and relaxation, and we long for the care free days of our youth, but those memories won’t be of college prep classes and internships, but of skies full of stars, friends, and stuff that happens past midnight. 

Without camp I would never be the man I am today, I would never know people from other countries and keep in contact with them, I would have never have been out of the United States. My favorite stories to tell-- ‘almost robbed in Canada’ and ‘smuggling a mini-fridge,’ would not exist. Two of my closest friends would be strangers, I would never have a emotional attachment to the numbers 04037, and most importantly I would have missed out on a chance to hone my musical, artistic, and athletic skills.

You want to know why I come back to camp every year? It is because when I am old and talking to my friends in the nursing home, I won’t remember the college prep course my mom made me go to (which I did enjoy mind you!), I won’t remember the days spent making a resume for college, or trying to learn how to save money there. 

I will remember doing musicals like Grease; I will remember starry nights, silent meals, camp crushes, card games, camp outs, smuggling candy, singing, dancing, eating, laughing, campfires, and swimming in the Saco river at my home away from home: Indian acres, 1712 Main St, Fryeburg, ME 04037. 

The Joy in the Journey

"There is a joy in the journey" -- Michael Card

Our annual trek to Maine was a tad different this year:  we added some time for a family vacation into our travel plans.  This began as an entirely self-serving notion that I would, at the mid-point of camp and close to my birthday, take myself off to NYC and see Les Misérables on Broadway.   The idea was to keep costs down, and took into account the reality that Allison can't really be gone more than one day at a time from camp... and I really had a very good plan.  When I pitched the plan to She Who Must Be Obeyed, the response was immediate and adamant.  'NO'.   As in "No, we're all going to go together.  As a family"

The impending college departure of these teenage boys of ours has momma thinking about the time we have left before they go off to be adult men... and a trip to NYC seemed right in the wheelhouse for building family memories prior to that event... and so I said the only thing a man can say when faced with such a situation:

"Yes, dear"

Long before any of this, I had also threatened a co-worker with swinging by and actually meeting him for the first time IRL (for you non-geeks who are over the age of 25:  "in real life").  See, I work from home... and most of my work relationships are entirely virtual.... but this young man has become a good friend even in the virtual world, so we agreed to meet at his house and have some smoked meats and sundry sides.


He's pretty darned good with a meat smoker, and getting to meet him and his lovely family was the
perfect way to start off our summer!

We also swung by the USNA while we were in Annapolis.  We we short on time, so we bought some souvenirs, a sticker for the van's rooftop box, and looked around a bit.  We thought about getting out in old downtown Annapolis and roaming around, but since it was somewhere in the vicinity of 100% humidity, and hotter than it was back in Texas (no, I'm not joking), and the parking garage was full, we did a short driving tour.  Got to see a drawbridge open and allow some big sailboats go through.  We were probably the only vehicle on that bridge who thoroughly enjoyed the delay... it's not a sight we see every day back in Prosper.

Then it was time to head to Big Apple.  After a quick stay in South Jersey (What exit?  Exit 3!), we made it out alive and headed up the turnpike.  After donating $13 to NJ and $15 to NY to traverse the NJT and the GWB, we arrived at our hotel in Yonkers, and headed to the Yankees game.  It was an absolutely perfect day for baseball, and our seats were just under the awning.  Much food was acquired.  The Yankees still stink.  (which I think all the time, but they really do this year.  It was not a particularly exciting game for Yanks fans)  The new stadium was beautiful.  Now I'm not the only member of the family to have been to a Yankees game.  All in all, not a bad way to get into our "New York State of Mind".

Best Buds about to consume copious amounts of 'Za.

After the game, we headed to a pizza joint in Yonkers.  Matthew had arranged to meet a good friend from camp, and our two families did some serious damage to several Frank Pepe Napoletana pizzas.  We had a wonderful time meeting the rest of the family, and I could tell just how much this meant to Matthew.  Shortly before his friend arrived, I asked him if he was excited.  His eyes almost glowed as he responded in the affirmative.

The next day, we got up, rode the 4 line subway into lower Manhattan and tackled the city.  We did a walking tour (gotta start at the Charging Bull and watch all the tourists rubbing the bovine reproductive mechanisms), saw the 9/11 memorial reflecting pools, had a nice lunch at the Dubliner on Stone Street under the outdoor canopy, and got a personal tour of the Time, Inc building from a friend.

The reflecting pools at the 9/11 memorial.
Someone had left this rose on a name.
This is by far my favorite artistic photo from the trip.

By this time, the Fitbit was creeping closer and closer to 20,000 steps, and we were feeling it.  So we wandered down to the Staten Island Ferry and capped off the day with a leisurely back-and-forth trip.  Felt good to just sit and look at the Statue of Liberty and the NYC skyline.   And the hot pepperoni pizza roll and Bahama rum punch that was acquired at the Staten Island terminus improved my outlook immensely.

Tell me more, Tell me more!

The next day we tackled mid-town Manhattan.  We started with lunch at the delightful Ellen's Stardust Diner, where we heard a waitress named Frenchie help sing an entire medley of songs from "Grease!".   You just cannot make this stuff up.   Next we headed over to the Rockefeller Center... since it was the wrong season to see the ice-skating rink, we wandered into the Lego Store and the Nintendo Store instead.  (What can I say? This was a family trip, and 3/5 of this family is teenage boys!)

This Lego creation inside the store is a tribute
to the sculpture and inscription on the outside of
the Rockefeller Center.

Hanging out with Mario

At the Nintendo store, the boys got to observe, and participate some, in an E3 demo of an upcoming Nintendo game.  This took a while, so Allison let me wander off on my own.. I found a kosher deli 2 doors down and had a water and a kaiser roll, and sat at the window bar and watched New York mosey by on 48th street.   I pulled out my journal and made a list of all the interesting things I saw, from the bride walking under the scaffolding, holding up her dress to keep it out of the city's detritus to the Rastafarian bike courier with the humungous backpack.   I swear, I could do this for hours... people watching has always fascinated me, and there is no better place to do it than NYC.  Alas, just as my list was really starting to get interesting, my family arrived and reclaimed me, and we headed to St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Then it was off to Times Square.  We acquired some street vendor food and took in the Hershey and M&M stores.   We did not buy anything in those stores, which fact our son Logan equated to child abuse and torture... the jury is still out!

And then... it was time for the whole point of this here trip.  Turning on 45th street, we headed to the Imperial Theater, surrendered our tickets, seized our seats, and I checked off one of the largest items on my personal bucket list.   Les Misérables on Broadway!  It was my first Broadway show, and I'm glad my first was my all-time favorite musical.  I know the music almost entirely by heart.  The production was sublime, the sets were amazing... it was everything that I had ever conceived about seeing a show on Broadway.  I sat next to the ones I love and heard that immortal line.... "to love another person is to see the face of God.... ".

Do you hear the people sing?  We did, and it was exquisite.






After the show, I acquired my souvenir print, and we wandered around Times Square some more while we waited for our car to arrive.  I'm glad the driver was a bit late, since it gave us time to show the boys the "City that Never Sleeps".  If you go to NYC, and see Times Square, you must see it after dark.  There is no "dark" in Times Square.  Ever.

The night ended with a drive up the Hudson River Parkway, and the night-time view was the perfect coda to our NYC trip.  We collapsed into bed, slept in the next morning, and headed up the coast of Connecticut.  Daddy got another "thing he wanted to do" when we swung through Newport, RI... I've always loved sailing, and some people say Rhode Island is the home of American Sailing.  We didn't tarry long, but it was nice to swing by... I had never been in RI before, I have that state checked off my list now.

And then to Boston, where Matthew had another friend from camp... we met at their house for after dinner desserts and the swimming pool for the boys.  After several hours of delightful conversation, we headed to our nightly hotel.  The next morning, we wandered around the old downtown of Portsmouth, NH.... Starbucks coffee was had... Dad got another "oceanside town" fix... and a great breakfast at Colby's to boot.

And then... the final leg.  By this point, camp was just a little less than 2 hours away.  We even arrived before lunch, as the mother-in-law had requested.

We are home.   At our second home.

We are by the river Saco.

Let the summer begin!

The Virtue of Savoring

'Is is very shameless to be so certain and so expensive?', she smiled at him inquiringly.
'It's a virtue, and anyway it's only a good plain wholesome meal.'  He turned to the maitre d'hotel. 'And bring plenty of toast'.
'The trouble always is,' he explained to Vesper, 'not how to get enough caviar, but how to get enough toast with it.'....
'That is not a well-known brand,' Bond explained to his companion, 'but it is probably the finest champagne in the world.'  He grinned suddenly at the touch of pretension in his remark.
'You must forgive me,' he said.  'I take a ridiculous pleasure in what I eat and drink.  It comes partly from being a bachelor, but mostly from a habit of taking a lot of trouble over details.  It's very pernickety and old-maidish really, but when I'm working I generally have to eat my meals alone and it makes them more interesting when one takes trouble.'
Vesper smiled at him.
'I like it,' she said.  'I like doing everything fully, getting the most out of everything one does.  I think that's the way to live.'    (Casino Royale, Ian Fleming)

Some time ago, I was listening to the sports radio talk show Mike & Mike, and they got into one of those inane, nothing-really-to-do-with-sports side topics for which they are renowned... the topic was, essentially:  "Does cheesecake taste the same when you take it home from the restaurant, or does it taste better there at the table."    Mike Greenburg was taking the position that the cheesecake tastes better at the restaurant, and Golic was saying he was nuts.. that, as long as it wasn't too long before you ate the cheesecake, there was no difference in the taste just because you were eating it from the takeout container over your kitchen sink.

It was fun to listen to them discuss this, and of course, the scope of it ranged all over, including the virtue of eating fast food at the eatery versus in the car; indeed, they did an admirable job of covering all that is truly important in the culinary lives of busy American families.  I was amused by this fun repartee by two of my favorite radio personalities.

And yet, later that day, I had the occasion to be dining alone at Pei Wei, one of my favorite restaurants, and, it being a temperate evening, I chose to dine at one of the outside tables.  This particular restaurant is in a suburban commercial setting, so the vista is not necessarily one of natural beauty, but it still provided a nice environment in the settling twilight, and ample opportunities for people watching to intersperse with reading from my book as I dined.

I was midway through my steak teriyaki bowl when I was struck by how particularly good it tasted to me that evening... and I recalled the radio show bit from earlier in the day.  Setting my book aside for the moment, I continued eating and concentrated on all my senses, and I became convinced that I was registering a singularly keen enjoyment of the food not just because of the food itself, but because of the entire experience I had afforded myself on a fine Texas evening.

In other words, the setting did matter.  A lot.

As I thought about this phenomenon more, I recalled the passage quoted above from Casino Royale, and the deep pleasure that Bond takes in ordering a fine meal and savoring it.  In his case, I think one could definitely argue that the presence of an exquisitely beautiful woman across the table from you makes a meal infinitely more enjoyable.  (I can attest to this after having had my Valentine's date with Allison Sunday night!)

Food is very sensual, in the truest sense of the word.  It can truly engage us in all five of our senses, and when we partake of it in such a way that we allow them to fully engage, I think it does change the amount of pleasure we get from what we eat.   That night at Pei Wei, I was eating the very same dish I always order there.. and the logical part of my mind knew that it was pretty much the same concoction that it always was;  but there was just something, almost indefinable, about the way it tasted that evening.

And I knew what that was. The delightful environment in which I was dining, with all its sensory input, was enhancing my sensory enjoyment of my meal.  Greenburg was right-- it made a difference where and how the food was being eaten... it made it taste better.

Will I be able to dine like James Bond for all my meals?  No, neither in expense nor time;  the demands of our lives dictate that sometimes that Chick-fil-a sandwich has to be eaten in the car on the way to the next item in the family calendar.   But, that day I resolved to enjoy my meals as much as possible.

There is a virtue in savoring a good meal.  Find a beautiful woman to share it with (or whatever applies to thee), take the meal outside if possible, and even bring a good book if that's your thing... and take your time, allowing this fine world to enhance the taste of your repast.

Savor it.

My Grandpa's Shop

(Note:  I recently attended the funeral of an uncle, the last surviving member of my mother's immediate family.  He was laid to rest in the same West Texas cemetery as my grandparents.   About a week or so later, I happened to be reading through one of my older journals and came across the following piece, written in November of 2001.  I have chosen not to edit nor revise it, even though it sorely needs it-- but at the time, the words flowed from my pen to the page of my notebook in a rush, and I have decided to recapture that here.   It is very long, and I don't expect many of my 4-5 readers to even read it, but after the death of the last member of this part of my family, I found it cathartic to type it in here and post it.)

This weekend, I have had occasion to go into my grandfather's shop for the first time in several years.   My grandfather's shop is in a two-car garage that has never housed a motor vehicle in my living memory.  It does have a carport out front, a carport that I spent some autumns on top of, sweeping off the ripened pecans that had fallen from the majestic tree that spread its limbs over the carport and my Grandpa's shop.

With a certain amount of misgiving, I inserted the key into the lock and turned the handle.  The door slides up easily, despite the age of the building, sliding up on runners that my Grandpa undoubtedly oiled over the years.  Walking inside, I am taken aback by the emptiness, the devastating space inside.

A few years ago, after the last of several mishaps caused by the fey mixture of old age & power tools, my grandfather auctioned off all his tools.  It was a necessary move, one that would prolong my Grandpa's physical life, but was also the beginning of the deterioration of his ethos, his raison d'etre.

You see, my Grandpa was a carpenter.  He was other things as well:  Christian, husband, father, cotton farmer, and owner of the only coin-operated laundry in the small West Texas town they called home.  But first and foremost, he was a carpenter.  His greatest love was working with wood, creating lovely objects both large and small.  So ingrained was his love of wood that he would return from vacations with exotic woods he had acquired from all over the country.  He would be like a young boy, full of anticipation on Christmas morning, already envisioning what he might make from this piece of wood.

Grandpa is a man who likes to serve the Lord by helping others, and he found ways to use carpentry to do this as well, such as making wooden cross necklaces for the acolytes at his church.  After their retirement, Grandpa and Grandma traveled around the country, doing mission work for the church.  Grandpa took his tools and went from project to project, restoring and repairing churches, any place where the church had need of his skills.

But during his travels, the shop was still there, populated with the crucial needs of a fine woodworking craftsman.  I had a tumultuous relationship with this shop.  I loved going out there with Grandpa, and he taught me things, things no one had ever taught me before.  As a visiting grandson, however, I was often conscripted into cleaning up the shop.  Woodworking generates a lot of sawdust, and Grandpa had not invested in a sawdust collection system for his shop.  Unless you call a floor, a broom, a shop vac and a grandson a system.  It was a matter of certainty, regular as clockwork-- shortly after my arrival from out of town, I would be enjoined to clean up the shop.

I didn't always like it at the time, but upon later reflection as an adult, it was a fair trade.  Grandpa taught me the value of a job well done, and the joy of making something with my own hands.  I learned how to fun it was to touch a gouge tool to a piece of wood turning on the lathe, watching the wood shavings fly as you shaped that piece of wood.  There is something magical about having a tool in your hands that, properly applied, can make wood seem as soft as butter.

He taught me to tie knots, and build beautiful chessboards, and how to be safe in the shop.  He lectured me often on how to properly use tools and especially power tools, so I could do so with a lesser risk of injury.

And then one day, Grandpa forgot his own lessons.  While using a table saw, he did not use a "push stick", and his hand became caught in the blade.  Except by the grace of God, he would have died.  He and Grandma live in a small town far from a trauma center.  It is a long helicopter ride to the nearest hospital that can deal with such a devastating injury.  He lost several fingers on that hand, and the recovery took a long time.  He truly was lucky to be alive.

After that incident, Grandpa would try to work in the shop, but the loss of functionality in the hand led to more minor accidents, as well as a diminished craftsmanship.  The artistry of wood was still in his mind and soul, but his hands could no longer make his visions into reality.

His family worried about him.  We knew another major accident could be the death of him, and many of us, myself included, wondered whether he should be in the shop at all.  But deep in my heart, I knew that woodworking was my Grandpa's essential fire, and I feared the day that fire might be extinguished.

Grandpa eventually made the decision himself.  He arranged for one of his sons to auction off all of his tools, and my Grandpa ceased to be a carpenter.

I tried to purchase some of the tools, but they went for much more than I could afford to pay at the time.  In some ways, it is sad to see the implements that helped define a man's life sold to the highest bidder.  Such things are sometimes better served and respected by giving them away.  But this is a real world and full of real needs, real relationships, and real emotions, good and bad, and sometimes the most noble way is not at all the most practical way.

And so the auctioneer calls, the bidders bid, and when it is all over, they back up the pickups into the carport and they take my Grandpa's tools.

And now I stand here today, in the doorway of this shop, and the emptiness is almost frightening.  The table saw, the planer/joiner, the lathe, the bandsaw-- they are all gone.  There is no trace that they ever existed, save for my exacting memory of precisely where they stood.  I pause in contemplation, overcome with grief and pity for my Grandpa.  If this shop can bring forth such vibrant emotions in me, how deep they must drive into him, the master who ran this shop.  I was but his apprentice, and the emptiness of this shop fills me with great sadness.  I cannot truly empathize with the pain of a master carpenter whose shop and tools are gone, never to return.

I hurry to finish my errand, to close this door and return to the house.  But as I do so, I understood both life and my Grandpa a little better.

I understood why he is more withdrawn.  A life's love has been taken from him by the ravages of old age, and the thing that for him defined him as a man, he can no longer do.

I also understand that this is what life is.  We cannot escape the flow of the river, and while it may wind in unexpected ways, we cannot reverse the current that always pushes us closer to the day we meet our Lord.

All we can do is to ensure that we left the river a better place than we found it.  That we beautify it with our works, our words, and our relationships with our fellow travelers.

And as I close the door on the shop, shutting out that hateful emptiness, I know that my Grandpa has done that.  He is nearing the end of the river, but the man that he is, the master who used this shop, used his skills and his love to make the world a better place.

I think of all the children from his church who have a wooden cross of their own, beautifully crafted.  The churches and camps around the country that were renovated by his hand, and are still being used to serve and worship the Lord.  The beautiful pieces that I own and cherish.

The true gift he leaves me, though, are the lessons he taught me, many of them learned right here in this shop.  Like any two people, we have occasionally had our differences.  But I would count it as all joy if my grandsons someday would feel about me as I feel about my Grandpa, and those feelings were often fired and tempered, shaped and moulded, finished and refined, in my Grandpa's shop.