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"I'm Frightened by the Polarity"

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Wednesday, September 26, 2007 11:32:47 AM
September 25, 2007
Yesterday President Tom (as Glenn Beck calls him because it's just easier to spell) of Iran spoke in front of a group of Generation Whiners at Columbia University.  One of them confided afterward that the one thing that frightened her about the entire episode was the "polarity" -- that is the fact that there are still people in the world that believe that there is (1) good and (2) evil, and you have to choose sides.

"I am frightened by the polarity" one of these sorry brats confided to Michelle Malkon on the way home from the event.  Not frightened by what this raving madman said; not frightened by the idea that he means every word of it; and not frightened by what this means for America as we know it.  Frightened because, like Rodney King, she cries "Can't we all just get along?"

That is the death cry of Generation Whine, although they do not know it yet.

They will be screaming "I'm frightened by the polarity." as the scimitar swings to separate their heads from their bodies.

Think of the many people who spoke for our generations.

Now think that the spokesman for Generation Whine will be Rodney King.

You want something to frighten you? There it is.
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Understanding “I can’t”

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Sunday, September 23, 2007 9:00:09 AM
TORONTO (September 23, 2007) -- It is only a few weeks until the Petit Le Mans, my favourite race in North America not only for its superb racing, but for the last chance to see my friends and recap the season around campfires among the trees at Turn 10.  And as usual, the battle to get from Hartsfield Airport to Road Atlanta is heating up.  I cannot drive (not  “I choose not to” drive) and Road Atlanta, sad to say, is one of those courses that is accessible only by car. 

The reason “I can’t” drive is that I am blind in one eye.  This is something I have expected since I was about 10 years old; it is a genetic time bomb that my pediatrician told us about back in the 1950s.  There is nothing to be done about it except wait for it to happen, which would be unannounced and could well be untriggered.  My parents did what they could to shield me from it -- no gym classes (which was fine with me), limited as far as possible participating in the kinds of activities that might yield a bumped head, and so on.  I was spared until my mid-fifties, and thank God I lost only the sight in one eye; it happened without any warning and after extensive tests it was determined that this was in fact what the doctor had said would happen one day.  The immediate effect was the loss of my driving license.  The other eye can go just as the first eye went, with no warning at all; naturally the risk of this happening while I am on the Autobahn or somewhere like that, or perhaps on a dark back road in rural Georgia, cannot be run.  Since I have been sort of prepared for this all my life, I have taken care to structure my life so that I can cope with the aftershocks. Sometimes it is difficult. Frequently it is expensive. Sometimes it cannot be done.

I have been coping at Road Atlanta in various ways.  I always try to cadge a ride, and if that fails I can usually find a shuttle or something going within a few miles of the track.  This year the only remaining shuttle has disappeared, and the only other option is a $150.00 each way private limousine.

The same situation arose in Champ Cars as a street race has been relocated to a natural road course that is absolutely impossible for those who do not drive to attend.  (The race at this track was originally cancelled because of the very small audience it drew for this reason).  People who pointed out that this move would prevent a lot of people from attending were called Whiners, and worse.  But as the discussion grew more heated, the difficulty has becomeo one of semantics.  It seems that most people no longer understand the difference between “I can’t” and “I choose not to”.

Many years ago I took a course called Positive Mental Attitude, and one of the things this course stressed was that many people who said “I can’t” did not mean that they were physically or mentally incapable of performing the action.  What they meant was “I choose not to” or “I refuse to”.   A person who says “I can’t stay late tonight” means that she does not want to stay late tonight; a person who says “I can’t” speak in public means “I refuse to” speak in public.  During the course of this class, most of us learned to sort out the very small pool of things we in fact could not do from the majority of things we simply did not want to do, refused to do, or for some other reason decided to blow off.  Sorting things out like this is an excellent way to prove to oneself that one is not in fact as helpless and limited as one has convinced oneself is the case; and for most of us it was both a relief and an embarrassment to realize that this was true.

But this does not mean that there is NOTHING that qualifies under the rubric of “I can’t” and that is where most people fall off the rails.  I am dysnumeric; that is, I cannot manipulate numbers in the same way that a dyslexic person cannot manipulate words.  In the fifties and early sixties when I was in school, nobody knew about dyslexia or dysnumeria.  My teachers called us Lazy and Careless.  A person who was a demonstrated genius in many fields could not possibly be handicapped in one.  I was in my thirties before I was diagnosed, and when the burden lifted from my back it was landed on the backs of those who had spent a lifetime telling me that there was nothing wrong with me except that I did not want to learn my times tables or do mental arithmetic or dial a long distance telephone number.  (The brain problem includes an inability to orient myself in space -- tell right from left or reproduce a map or draw, andI was actually jeered at in public by a teacher for my inability to draw.)  When I was diagnosed, other members of the family admitted that they too had the same difficulties and the clear path was tracked back in the family for at least 100 years. 

Likewise a person who cannot drive is not necessarily a person who chooses not to drive.  So jeering at people as Whiners and demanding that they get a driving license and rent a car, which you assume because you can do it is an option open to all, is a knee jerk assumption that is going to come back and bite you.  The person who told me that he could not imagine in this day and age that anybody would not have a driving license and a car was publicly embarrassed when I told him the reason I had neither.  His protest that I should have explained up front that I am handicapped was, surprisingly, rejected by the majority of the other people listening to the discussion.  It should not be necessary for people to trumpet their handicaps to avoid being jeered at and mocked by those whose handicaps are different.  Just because you, yourself, mean “I choose not to” give you a ride when you say “I can’t”, it is a good idea to examine your true meaning -- is it in fact true that you cannot, or is the truth that you choose not to? -- and if you are not honest enough to say you do not want to, not to assume that other people are equally dishonest.

Notice that I am not saying you have to do things that you do not want to do.  What I am saying is (1) be honest enough to examine your “I can’t” and admit it if it is really an “I choose not to” and (2) ask the person who says “I can’t” if there is a reason she can’t before mocking and jeering and assuming that she is not telling the truth.  Because although it is perfectly respectable to say that you do not want to or choose not to do something, sometimes people who say they cannot do something really mean it.
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Caritas

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Thursday, September 13, 2007 7:12:05 AM
September 13, 2007 -- My sisters and I decided back some time ago that our parents should move from the very small town they live in down South, to a larger city up North among the family.  Mama admitted that when Daddy retired and they moved south, she had anticipated developing the close relationship with her family that we had all enjoyed with Daddys family since we had lived up North.  Unfortunately, the two families are as different as night and day, and as Mama and Daddy have aged, the differences have grown.  So with Mama being the only ambulatory member of the family left, save for a passel of self-centred cousins who live nearby but will not lift a stick to hit a lick at a snake even for their own mother, we told the folks it was time to move away from there and come home.

Yesterday the final piece of the puzzle finally was hammered into place, and the move will take place as scheduled October 13th.

Mama has a younger sister who lives in just across the lawn, whose four children (the aforementioned cousins) do little or nothing for her.  She has stood amazed as the five of us, having met in conclave and determined what needed to be done, swung into action.  Assignments were made and promptly carried out.  The rule was made early on that there would be absolutely no discussion of *You put in less than me* or *Look what I did!*  Sweat equity was counted right along side financial contributions and nobody was keeping track for the purposes of bludgeoning anyone else.  One sister was in charge of helping Mama pack and sort household goods; one brought her fiance and packed 62 boxes of books to be transported, donated or stored (and also arranged for the truck, including offering to drive it); one sister paid for the truck -- an experience that required a four hour bus trip to another country for fifteen minute transaction, then four hours home) and looked up apartments on the Internet to send local sisters off to inspect -- and kept them honest about what exactly we were looking for and why a 444 square foot match box in a high rise was NOT on the agenda, got the plane tickets and found out about the special needs process, and handled logistics to be sure everyone kept on time and on target (that would be me)  -- one sister took on the medical side of the transfer, which was a large one, finding new doctors and opthalmologists and chiropractors and explaining how to transfer their records; a brother in law took care of insurance transfers and promised to handle banking, car tag and driving license transfer once they get moved; loading and unloading crews were found, hotels were arranged, and two sisters undertook the finding of the apartment.  One of these sisters went well above and beyond the call of duty in this regard.  When the perfect apartment was found, and turned us down, she did not take No for an answer but waded right in and discovered what the problem was, and made phone calls and visits and continued to keep the pressure on until every one of the questions was answered and the required approval was found.  This, she said with satisfaction, required every Jewish skill in her arsenal and the famous *Fiercely Eyes* of the old Eloise stories -- and, she joked, the impression that either they would give us the apartment or they would be haunted by Harpies for the rest of their natural lives.  We four supported her with liberal doses of prayer, and we prevailed.  They blinked.  We got the perfect apartment.

So now the hard part is done.  We have the apartment, the truck, the work crews both South and North, the hotels booked, the car rented, the plane tickets bought, the arrangements made for pickup at the airport and arrangements for what will happen every minute until they are settled into their new home.

And what surprises me the most is how astonished people are that it took us two and a half months from the time we decided what to do, until the day we did it.  We are more efficient than Pattons 8th Army; although we are rauccous and argumentative and many of us disapprove of the lifestyles of each other, when the time comes for something to be done, we close ranks and get it done. 

And do not believe that once Mama and Daddy are settled in their new home, they will be abandoned to their own devices.  The new place is nearby grandchildren and great-grandchildren, five minutes from the hospital where many of their new doctors practice, and within call of the kind of large extended family that we had when we grew up.  Life will be good again and stress will decrease.  With the help of God and all the saints, and the good training we received as kids, we will have won the war.

Now if only we can get them to believe that we have it all covered and all they have to do is sit back and enjoy the ride!
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September 10

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Monday, September 10, 2007 7:38:17 AM
September 10, 2007 --  Today is September 10, the Day Before.  Tonight on the way home I will stop and pick up a set bouquet to leave at the American Consulate in the morning as I stop by for the Standing Silence still held there September 11th.  I will join a group made up mainly of American Expats, because the Canadians have long ago put the whole September 11 thing out of their minds and are currently busy slobbering on the shoes of Movie Stars strolling the wealthy area called Yorkville.  They have no time for remembering, especially for remembering something that happened to the large, successful, well-maintained country to the south of them.  In fact, most of my Canadian colleagues have set their WayBack Machines for September 10, and to them it is as if September 11 never happened at all.

I have friends in New York City, Washington DC and the part of Pennsylvania where United 93 went down.  I lived near New York City until I went away to college, and we were close enough so if New York got hit by an atom bomb, we would have been obliterated too.  Seeing my city under attack is something I will never forget.  But I am surrounded by people who think no more about 9/11/01 than they think about the movie Independence Day.  (In fact, as my oldest and I left the premiere of Independence Day here in Canada, we were mightily amused by the grumbling of the Canadian audience about the *[Bleep]ing Americans saving the world AGAIN.*  Yep, said Zack, that is what we do.  Then he asked me a question I have yet to find the answer to.  *Why can they not just say thank you?*

Perhaps the answer is that they cannot say thank you because saying thank you would be admitting that (1) something terrible had happened and (2) they could not deal with it and had to call for help.  There are people in the world who would prefer to die rather than allow anybody else to save them.  And the best way to avoid help is to pretend that the house is not on fire...or, if the neighbours insist on saving you from the flames, accusing them of setting the fire.

Or, you can do what my Canadian colleagues and neighbours do.  You can set your wayback machine to the day before the fire and pretend the fire never happenend at all.

There are people in this Country (and sadly, plenty in the USA) who would have responded to the sinking Titanic by pounding down the tilted staircases awash with sea water, banging on doors and screaming *Are you smoking cigarettes/eating trans fats/having gay sex in there?*

These are the people who live their lives as if it is still September 10, 2001.

Finally, in closing, I am reminded of our trip to Road Atlanta for the Petit Le Mans, which began three days after 9/11/01.  Canada had done little or nothing to express their condolences or show their solidarity with their neighbours; in fact, people I worked with said that we deserved what had happened to us.  The minute we reached the border (and cleared the National Guard at the Ambassador Bridge, which is a whole other experience), the world became one giant American Flag, and the radio stations as we passed through town after town and state after state, played patriotic music.  Gas stations were decorated with signs and diners sold t-shirts that said WE WILL NEVER FORGET. 

And once again I was reminded of the fact that the world and America are two entirely different places.  And right along with Lee Greenwood I sang *God Bless the USA.*

Today is September 10.  Tomorrow for some of us will be September 11.  But for far too many people who surround me, September 11 will never come.
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"Mister, Are You Jesus?"

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Friday, September 07, 2007 2:12:28 PM
September 7, 2007 -- The parable below is not original; I received it by e-mail this morning.  It contains much worth thinking about, so I am sharing it with y'all here.

Fishers of men or Keepers of the aquarium?

A few years ago a group of salesmen went to a regional sales convention in Chicago. They had assured their wives that they would be home in plenty of time for Friday night's dinner.  In their rush, with tickets and briefcases, one of these salesmen inadvertently kicked over a table which held a display of apples. Apples flew everywhere. Without stopping or looking back, they all managed to reach the plane in time for their nearly missed boarding.  
 
ALL BUT ONE !!! He paused, took a deep breath, got in touch with his feelings, and experienced a twinge of compassion for the girl whose apple stand had been overturned. He told his buddies to g on without him, waved good-bye, told one of them to call his wife when they arrived at their home destination and explain his taking a later flight. Then he returned to the terminal where the apples were all over the terminal floor.  

He was glad he did.
 
The 16 year old girl was totally blind! She was softly crying, tears running down her cheeks in frustration, and at the same time helplessly groping for her spilled produce as the crowd swirled about her, no one stopping and no one to care for her plight. 
 
The salesman knelt on the floor with her, gathered up the apples, put them back on the table and helped organize her display. As he did this, he noticed that many of them had become battered and bruised; these he set aside in another basket.
 
When he had finished, he pulled out his wallet and said to the girl, "Here, please take this $40 for the damage we did. Are you okay?" She nodded through her tears. He continued on with,"I hope we didn't spoil your day too badly."
 
As the salesman started to walk away, the bewildered blind girl called out to him, "Mister...." He paused and turned to look back into those blind eyes. She continued, "Are you Jesus?"
 
He stopped in mid-stride, and he wondered. Then slowly he made his way to catch the later flight with that question burning and bouncing about in his soul: "Are you Jesus?" Do people mistake you for Jesus? That's our Destiny, is it not? To be so much like Jesus that people cannot tell the difference as we live and interact with a world that is blind to His love, life and grace.
 
If we claim to know Him, we should live, walk and act as He would. Knowing Him is more than simply quoting Scripture and going to church. It's actually living the Word as life unfolds day to day. 

You are the apple of His eye even though we, too, have been bruised by a fall. He stopped what He was doing and picked you and me up on a hill called Calvary and paid in full for our damaged fruit.
 
GOD BLESS YOU AND YOUR FAMILY.
 
Too many people claiming to be Christians are no longer fishers of men but keepers of the aquarium.   Please remember how important it is to live the true Christian life.
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Let Go and Let God

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Thursday, September 06, 2007 4:29:29 PM
September 6, 2007 -- Last night I was baptized and confirmed into the Catholic Church.  This has been in the works for a long time, much of it not moving very quickly, due in large part to external circumstances, but it is now done and I am in the fold.  It's a weight off my shoulders that has been there since the tail end of my university days, when I laboured under certain delusions involving the Mormon Church and before Ayn Rand taught me that even if everyone else in the world voted that I should get married, my vote was the only one that counted.  This was no easy path and there was plenty of time for self-examination, in between my customary imperious banging on the door and yelling (receiving an echo for my pains), and when the time was right, as always, the door opened and I was escorted through.

If you are a believer or have them in your family, you will have been told that we all have our crosses to bear. Mine, I have come reluctantly to conclude, is the overwhelming desire to micromanage God.  That is, I not only hand Him a list of what I want Him to do, but a schedule with bullet points directing how it ought to be done, and a time line.  I am always working on a grand plan that in the end reminds me (when I think about it) of the Dennis the Menace cartoon showing Dennis and his friends in the family car, and Dennis calling to his Dad, "We're going to the beach! Wanna drive?" 

Sometimes God has handed me the whole enchilada I requested on a plate and said "Okay, now what are you going to do?"  For example, a perfectly wonderful plan to cover the 24 Hours of Le Mans in a whole new way  that could have made me a contender; except that one of the people on my crew turned out to be mentally unbalanced, one turned out to be one step ahead of a very angry junk yard dog who was seeking him with mayhem on his mind due to having been majorly cheated the year before, and in trying to cope with both these items and not having planned sensibly for my own part in the play, I ended up dropping that enchilada in the dirt. It took me a year to clean up that fiasco, along with the aid of powerful friends.  That is why sometimes we are told to be careful what we wish for, because we may get it.

Right now we are six weeks from the date we have to move our parents from their home in the south to a home in the North, and yesterday afternoon the apartment we thought we had rented for them fell through.  Each of us had our assignments, that was not mine, but everyone whose assignment it was has carried her load; the collapse was no one's fault, that we know about, but although finding that apartment was not my assignment, it is very hard for me to let go of the urge to jump in and meddle.  The sister who has always been my check and balance (as I am hers) reminded me that we have been in worse pinches and have come out of them not through our own ofices, but through God's intervention.  For example, the time we got to our first stop on a two week trip to England and found that half our reservations had been cancelled, including our first stop!  The sympathetic clerk not only gave us a room for free, but he rebooked all our reservations.  All was well.  The first time we went to the Petit Le Mans, the weekend after 9/11/01, we had no money to speak of, no plans worthy of the name, and no idea what we were doing; in the end I found a second job I love and she met the love of her life, but we did not know that was why we were sent there until two years later. 

I know intellectually that God is the pilot.  Nevertheless, it is the most difficult thing in the world for me to keep my hands off the steering wheel, stop second guessing the route, and trust that God knows what He is doing.  What they used to call this task in Bible School was "Let Go and Let God."  And when this task is not appointed to me, to get out of the way, sit down in my chair and mind my own business.

And finally, to recognize the answer to prayer when I have it.  The original version of The Bishop's Wife, the one starring David Niven and Loretta Young (not that awful Whoopi Goldberg remake) brings that point home better than any other I can recall.  At the end of the movie, the Bishop is told that his prayer has been answered, and he argues, "No, it was not!  I asked for a cathedral and I am not going to get it!"  The guardian angel who was sent in answer to his prayer corrects him, "No, Henry, what you asked for was Guidance.  And that has been given to you."  When I try to micromanage God, I can't always recognize that what I asked for is what I got, because I am so wrapped up in what I want that I stop paying attention. 

So in this time of great anxiety and looming deadlines, the cross I am carrying as I begin my life in the Catholic fold is the need to take my hands off the steering wheel, move to the passenger seat, give up the task that is not mine, and Let Him Work.  God has never let me down, although sometimes it takes me some work before I will admit it.  This, as my sister reminded me, is one of those times.  The prayers of my friends have been with me, and of fellow Catholics who welcome me home; may those prayers help me slow down and ride along, trusting that the guy at the wheel knows the way.
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Thoughts on Labour Day

Posted by AudiR10TDI on Monday, September 03, 2007 7:49:03 AM
September 2, 2007 -- Yes, another essay on Labour Day.  Reading two or three columns today has inspired me, as well as the usual smile about having a day called Labour Day in which one is not required to do any Labour.  This is the one holiday in the year that has no obligations about it except just to stop doing what you were doing and take the day off.  I will do laundry today because everyone else will be sleeping in, but otherwise I am going to the park, to the pool, and to the outdoor cafe to just enjoy a day without any work in it.  Tomorrow I will go back to managing my parents move from Alabama to New York, keeping my boss on an even keel as she goes through a very bad patch at home (and helping to keep the practice going), and preparing for the Petit Le Mans in Atlanta which is my favourite race.  Today I am going to enjoy Labour Day by not labouring.  I did my work Saturday, went to the Air Show yesterday (and got sunburned) and I am caught up. 

Well, on to Labour Day and what Labour means.

Florence King wrote an essay once about a time when the muse had deserted her and she took over the job of janitress at her apartment building to make some money while the dry spell happened.  She talked of the woman who had been fired from that job, who had carried the same pail of water through the whole job and who left the place conspicuously messy when she was *finished* for the day; and she talked of her own work to make sure the building shone like a new penny when she finished that same work.  And above all else she talked of the satisfaction in a good job well done, in being able to leave work for the day with a glow of pride, saying *I did that.*  Contrary to Doug and Wendy Whiner who constantly bawl that their work has no *meaning* and that it interferes with their coffee drinking, gossip, playing with their babies and hobbies, there are no unworthy jobs.  There are only unworthy workers.

In my own life I tend to work without ceasing; it is hard for me to relax and take time off when there is yet more to do.  I do not hold others to a higher standard than that which I set for myself, but there are times when even I realize that my standards are so high that they lead not to accomplishment but to despair.  Nevertheless, when I see people sitting surrounded by piles of debris -- files unfiled, boxes uncatalogued and unsent to storage, tapes untyped, dockets unentered -- and see the employee gossiping with others, hanging around the lunch room, sending *humorous* e-mails to friends ... and when I hear the constant whining about how Work Life Balance (the latest buzz phrase for people who want to be paid by their employers not to do the work for which they were hired) -- I wonder where the pride has gone.  Yes, it is true that here in Kanukistan I am doing 1/3 the work I did in the USA for about 2/3 the money.  Expectations up here are very low, and yet most people cannot meet them because they choose not to.  And one of those reasons, it has to be said, is that the socialist government takes 46% of our pay away from us to buy the votes of people who refuse to do anything but procreate and whine.  Lately I have been snickering quietly to myself as various wealthy cities and provinces begin to realize that they throw more money into the pot than they will ever get back in Goodies.  Because that, boys and girls, is where Socialism fails every time: the successful people find out that they would be doing a whole lot better if they were not forced to drag a trailer load of parasites everywhere they went.  The exit of the productive is what collapses the system every time; and in the passive-aggressive Withdrawal of Services I see around me when people stop working hard at the work they were given because lets face it, that only means more money taken away from them to be handed over to others who did not earn it, is the beginning of the end.

As for me, having developed a work ethic in the Fifties and having been taught by my parents that I owe my employer a full days work for a good days pay, its probably too late for me.  But on this Labour Day I am enjoying the thought that someone has thought up a holiday when nobody even needs to send out cards.  Happy Labour Day.  Go and do Nothing to celebrate.

But then tomorrow, get back to work.  For the sake of your own soul if nothing else.  And for those who go back to school tomorrow, just a hint in your ears: if you coast through school learning nothing, you are not harming the teachers.  One day people will turn to you for an answer you should have known, and the whole thing will collapse because you were busy text messaging a dirty joke to a friend when the teacher was covering that.  Think about it now or prepare to be humiliated later.  Real Life is not forgiving.  Just a hint.  Happy Labour Day.
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