Author: J. Thorp

Thanksgiving Reflections

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Above: Trevor’s turkey art project…or, “the cursed Indian,” as he calls it.

Stuff For Which I Am Thankful*: my beautiful bride; my astonishing children; two sets of happily married and loving parents (Busia and Dziadzi; Grandma and Grandpa Venjohn); a newly married sister and a new brother-in-law and nephew; my sister’s kids who double as godchildren for us…

* * * * *

A year ago on Thanksgiving, my sister was driving Jodi to the ER while my Mom and I finished dinner and greeted our other guests. I pulled each aside, and explained in a choked voice that we had intended to deliver the good news that we were expecting our fifth child, but that something wasn’t right, and Jodi was headed into the clinic to see a doctor. Was is ordinarily a favorite holiday for feasting and frivolity took a sudden turn: life became very real and close that afternoon, and our blessings, though numerous, seemed worth counting one by one.

It may seem odd to speak of the blessings that flowed from the loss of our little Jude, but there were many, and they began that very day, when the emotional tension reached a point that I called together everyone who was at our home — both sides of the family, adults and children alike — and asked them to pray for Jodi and our baby. We say Grace before every Thanksgiving feast, but this was something different, a deep and heartfelt prayer of petition, and I was moved by our loved ones and touched by God in that moment of profound peace.

In the year since, much has changed. For one, we were forced to take a serious look at our family and discern whether we were called to have another child. With Jude, we had been open to life, but since we had told the kids and had seen the joy in their faces at the prospect of another sibling, we needed to decide if a fifth child were something we would actively pursue — and talk with our doctors about the likelihood that we could lose another. The doctors’ answers were all positive; it didn’t take long to decide, and even less time to again learn we were expecting. On or about Dec. 14 we will welcome a fifth Thorplet — Samuel Firman or Lillian Clara, depending — and our house, our family, and our friends will rejoice. Join us, won’t you?

* * * * *
… all our other nieces, nephews, and godchildren; countless aunts, uncles, and cousins (including in-laws and outlaws; Polish and otherwise); our friends and family in Michigan, Minnesota, South Dakota, Colorado, on both coasts, and everywhere in between…

* * * * *

Today is also Brendan’s 14th birthday, and in his opinion, it doesn’t get better than turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and stuffing, a chocolate cake from his mom, and his own personal apple pie from his godmother, Aunt Brenda. I can’t talk about pregnancy, Thanksgiving, and Bren’s birthday without recalling this day 14 years ago. The following account originally appeared in The Pioneer daily newspaper on Tuesday, Dec. 2:
At long last, we have a son

Few mornings compare to Sundays in October, except perhaps the last Monday in November.
On November 24, 1997, at 9:59 a.m., Jodi and I gave birth [Blogger’s Note: In retrospect, my role was more coaching and cutting the cord] to our son, Brendan James. First he was a tiny patch of hair, dark and slick (“I can see the head,” I cried, and Jodi pushed) — then an immense, misshapen head, and then a baby, wriggling and purple, with blood in his hair. He was tiny and yet strangely huge above Jodi’s shrunken tummy, struggling to make verbal the light, the cold and that infernal bulb syringe moving quickly about his head, from cavity to cavity, removing excess fluids.
Though he did not find the words, he made his case, and gave the face a voice; he cried, and from his cheeks slowly out to each extremity, turned scarlet.
“You have a baby boy,” the doctor said when we forgot to check or ask.
Brendan James Thorp.
We learned a short while late that weighed nine pounds, nine ounces, and measured 21-and-a-half inches long. These measurements seem important, especially to women and more so to those who have given birth to babies nearly as big or bigger. The weight was a source of some pride for me — I weighed in at nine pounds, 15 ounces, so of course he talks after his old man.
As for length…well, it has conjured up old fishing analogies — “He’s a keeper,” I say, and a friend tells me he’d be legal even for a pike.
His head measured 38 centimeters — again, a source of pride, but when I heard this, I wondered who would ask about head circumference.
It was question number four from Jodi’s mom, just behind weight and length. [Blogger’s Note: And the unstated but essential, “Are mom and baby doing well?”]

We never counted fingers and toes — wouldn’t his hands and feet look odd if he had extra or too few? And wouldn’t we still love him with six toes?
I still have counted, and now that twinge of doubt and anxiety that is becoming all too familiar has me wondering if I should…
His feet look like miniature versions of adult feet, which is nothing profound, I know, except that they are not chubby little baby feet at all. They are long, with distinct arches and heels and large big toes. He has wide hands with long, thin fingers like his father (my dad says I was born with a man’s hands). My mother — his Busia (Polish for “grandmother,” and my mom is Polish) calls them Thorp
He is the first male child born to my generation of the Thorp clam that will carry the family name, and my father and I are proud.
The specs — length, weight, etc. — are important, of course, if for no other reason than we are conditioned to ask and to tell. The other things — his hands, his feet, his name — are important because these things have stayed the same.
Our son is changing before our eyes. He has been with us one week now, and each day he is new again. His head has assumed a more regular shape; his color has gone from pale purple to jaundiced yellow to a healthy reddish hue (when not crying — he still turns scarlet when he screams). He is more awake and alert each day, and each day he eats more, sleeps longer, and cries less.
It feels as though the bus will stop at 880 Maple tomorrow, and Christmas Eve I’ll be wrapping Grandpa Thorp’s old Winchester Model 94. After months, weeks, and days of watching, waiting and timing, we’re wishing time would stand still for a moment and let us enjoy our infant son.
Like my white-haired Dziadzi (Polish for “grandfather,” and my mother’s father, like all Galubenskis, is Polish) and my father, I find myself sitting still with Brendan warm on my lap, staring down at him — watching him yawn, cry, sleep and stare back at me. Will he be a wrestler? A scholar? A fireman? He grabs my fingers and squeezes, and I tell him he is strong. I hover over him like other me do, and I’m careful — he is the heaviest nine pounds I’ve ever carried, and no doctor will convince me he’s not delicate and doesn’t need my constant watchfulness and protection. And he shall have it.
If I ramble, it’s because I don’t know what to say — we’ve only just met, and already I’m in love.
We have a son.
* * * * *
…also, a snug house and steady job; our Schnauzer, Puck; our Catholic faith and Life in the Bubble…
* * * * *
I never planned to be a father of five (or four, or six), but I am grateful for the call and the opportunity. And today, on this feast, I am grateful to live in a country where Jodi and I are free to make this choice. To be sure, there are many who think we should’ve stopped at two, or one (or even before we started); I have no doubt that I work with several, although thus far they’ve kept their opinion to themselves. I’m grateful for the surprise of gender, knowing that we can welcome whichever wee one emerges with no pressure from society or the State.
I was browsing an online exchange featuring a young soldier speaking out against the Occupy Wall Street protesters and a liberal columnist responding to him. The columnist, as I recall, claimed that liberals dream bigger than conservatives — that they dream of employment and fair wages and health care for everyone, regardless of background or ability. It’s noble sentiment — Christian, even, on some level — but I don’t believe it’s true that this liberal has bigger dreams than me. We have the same dreams, but very different methods of pursuing them. For example, if I could opt in or opt out of the various programs and initiatives designed to save and protect us, fine — I’m free to choose. 
“But,” someone will object, “if people can opt out of these programs , not enough people will participate, and the programs will fail!”
Exactly. If people don’t want help, get out of the way.

I’ve blogged about the pursuit of happiness before. I don’t want anyone to presume to know what’s best for me and my family. I don’t want to be forced into participating in programs or activities that don’t correspond to my values or my faith. And I don’t want to outsource my good life or my responsibilities to love my God, my neighbor, and my enemy. I want to learn to do these things myself. And today I’m thankful to live in a country where this is still possible, and a community full of great examples: people who live each day as both a blessing and a prayer.

The end is the same. But we get there through conversion, not coercion, so that people don’t resent doing right.

* * * * *

…home-brewed beer; books and music; laughter, tears, and prayers…shall I continue?

* * * * *

Finally — although Thanksgiving isn’t really about football — I am grateful that the Lions are a legitimate team playing a meaningful game this afternoon. I am concerned, however: if you watched the pregame for the Monday night showdown between the Vikings and the Packers, you know that if you took the very best attributes of every great quarterback in football history (including Bradshaw’s, not Brady’s, hair) and constructed a Super-Quarterback, you might begin to approach the greatness of Aaron Rogers. With Rogers and the Packers already predestined for the Superbowl, and Ndamukong Suh designated as the “dirtiest player in the league,” I think we’re going to see the NFL enforcing it’s new rule implemented just a couple of weeks ago. Brendan and his friends first noticed this during the Monday night game:

//www.youtube.com/get_player

Happy birthday, kid, and happy Thanksgiving, all!

* * * * *

*A partial list in no specific order…

She’s Actual Size

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

(Blogger’s Note: This post is written with the express permission of my wife, who is 8-1/2 months pregnant and as lovely as the winter is long. Her one caveat is that if we’re still talking about this in June, then she’s gonna be upset!)

Somewhere (or rather, somewhen) around March of 2004, when Jodi was about six months’ pregnant with Trevor and still chilled to the bone by the retreating winter, we stopped at the store to pick up a few things. Jodi walked in because the list was in her head; I stayed in the car and entertained the kids by demanding silence in a menacing voice, then napping. Due to my closed eyes and lethargic state, I did not realize that behind me, Gabe was getting nervous. Someone was approaching the van — closer and closer. A figure shuffled past his window and reached for the door on the van. The door opened.

Gabe exhaled his relief. “Whew,” he said. “I thought a great big fat man in a green coat was coming toward us, but it was just you, Mom!”

Nearly a decade later, Jodi has again dug out the coat, a thick, roomy, pale green affair that isn’t the prettiest, but remains to this day both warm and functional. This fall, a friend of ours offered her a barely worn black maternity coat, which Jodi eagerly accepted. Unfortunately, by the time winter rolled around, the coat could no longer be made to meet in the middle.

We found ourselves in the same pew as our friend last Sunday, and Jodi was self-conscious about not wearing the coat. She hoped to explain after church, but never had the chance. We joked that she should message our friend on Facebook: “Sorry I can’t wear the coat you gave me. Thank you for being the David Spade to my Chris Farley.”

We laughed — hard — together, but the truth is, this pregnancy has been difficult. Jodi’s feet swell painfully every day; she calls them monster feet, and the kids have a daily discussion about whether they look more goblinesque or trollish. (I helpfully observed they look like Chipotle burritos with toes, but no one else found that comparison appetizing.) Her hands swell, too, and she had to have her wedding ring cut off a couple weeks ago. The other day, when a friend of ours who will shoot our newborn photos told Jodi to be prepared to have her hands in the shots, my bride asked me, “Should I see if she can Photoshop them back to normal and add my ring in?”

I tell her she’s beautiful, and judging from the Facebook comments on the photo above, many of you agree — but she doesn’t feel beautiful. This morning, I greeted her with, “‘Morning, glory!” — and she immediately recalled that the kids watched Madagascar last night and assumed I had said, “‘Morning, Gloria!”

“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I called you a hippo.”

We do our best to keep things as light as possible, knowing we’re almost to the end. Three more weeks until the blessed bundle arrives…and although people gasp at the size of our previous children (9-9, 11-11, 9-5, and 12-2), I think Jodi hopes this one is a 30-pounder. After all, she says, beyond a certain size, it’s all just pain.

By the way, we’ve been humming this song all day. It’s a strange sort of love song, I think…

“She’s Actual Size” by They Might Be Giants
I’m not talking about the lady’s actual size
I’m talking about the lady who is actual size
Words fail
Buildings tumble
The ground opens wide
Light beams down from heaven
She stands before my eyes
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
Squares may look distant in her rear view mirror but they’re actual size
As she drives away
Big men
Often tremble
As they step aside
I thought I was big once
She changed my mind
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me.
I’ve never known anybody like her, she’s actual size
Nationwide, believe
She’s got
All the money
Money couldn’t buy
She’s got something special
That someone left behind
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
Squares may look distant in her rear view mirror but they’re actual size
Actual size to her
Her face
Hangs in portrait
On the post office wall
She’s stuck in my heart now
Where my blood belongs
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
I’ve never known anybody like her, she’s actual size
Actual size, believe
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
Words fail
Buildings tumble
The ground opens wide
Light beams down from heaven
She stands before my eyes
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
Squares may look distant in her rear view mirror but they’re actual size
As she drives away
Big men
Often tremble
As they step aside
I thought I was big once
She changed my mind
She’s actual size, but she seems much bigger to me
I’ve never known anybody like her, she’s actual size
Nationwide, believe
You think she’s big, you think she’s larger than life
But if you open up your eyes you’ll see she’s actual size
Etc.

Homebrew I: English Pale Ale

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

It’s official: I’m a home-brewer.

I tried brewing once, probably a decade ago, in Michigan. I had pretty basic equipment, and a kit from a big can, and I did it with The Complete Joy of Homebrewing to provide too much information and with no mentor to filter it.

It was a train-wreck. Among other things, my standard of cleanliness was nowhere near brewing standards, and in mid-boil, my third-grade teacher called (seriously?!) because she had heard I was back in Michigan and wanted to reconnect (SERIOUSLY?!?).* I made enough mistakes that the wort (pronounced “wert”) never so much as belched, let alone bubbled. For a couple weeks I had a murky brown liquid in my basement, stagnant as swamp water. Then I dumped it. Nobody told me I could get new yeast and re-pitch it in hopes of starting fermentation. I kept the equipment, but never went back to it.

Now I have a slew of friends who brew, or have brewed, and lots of practical experience to guide me. So back in September, four of us got together to brew: a porter, two 90 Shilling clones, and an English pale ale, my choice, because Bass Ale has long been my consistent favorite beer to drink, any time, any place.

Brewing notes:
Brewing went smoothly until late in the process. The first sign of a potential problem was after I loaded my fermenter in the van to return home, and noticed that the disinfected water filling my airlock was slowly, but steadily, dripping into my brew. I refilled the airlock, drove home, then looked at the temp gauge on the side of the fermenter, and saw that it was still pushing 80 degrees. I was not supposed to pitch the yeast into the wort until the temp was down to 78 degrees — and if you pitch it too hot, the heat can kill the yeast. The dripping airlock was a signal — as the sealed fermenter cooled, the pressure lowered, drawing the airlock fluid down.

My brewing friends were already reporting active fermentation, and nothing was happening on my end. I did some quick googling and learned: 1) It can be a couple days before things really get percolating; 2) yeast are tough, and can survive temps up around 100 degrees without any real ill-effects; and 3) if it didn’t take off in a couple days, I could get new yeast and try again.

My fears were ill-founded, as it turned out: by that evening, the airlock was bubbling merrily.

We brewed on Sept. 3. Within a couple of days, the fermenter was bubbling steadily every couple seconds; over the course of the next week it decelerated by about half each day. By Sept. 15, active fermentation had ceased, and I transferred the brew to my secondary fermenter. I bottled on Oct. 9. On all three dates, the hydrometer showed about 4.5 percent alcohol, and the taste started out good (as wort) and improved steadily.

Beer notes:
The flavor is good: malt and hops balance well, with no “off” flavors so far. Chilled bottled drink very smoothly and easily — a little too smoothly, in fact — the colder it is, the harder it is to taste much of anything. At first I thought it was more like an English bitter (which, strangely, are less bitter than pale ales), but at closer to room temperature, the flavor and mouthfeel seem to “thicken up” a bit. (Not sure if that makes sense, but there you are…) At warmer temps, it reminds me more of Old Speckled Hen than Bass…though it’s been years since I’ve had Old Speckled Hen. Guess I’m due for a refresher, in case I’m misremembering.

One problem (aside from the flavor being a little too faint): it does not hold a head. I get about half or three-quarters of an inch of foam that quickly disappears. This may be an issue of glass cleanliness, but I don’t think so. We’ve also encountered one flat bottle that appears to have been inadequately capped. (Sorry, Butch — you didn’t have to drink it!)

This English Pale Ale kit came from Northern Brewer in St. Paul, and was brewed using Wyeast 1945 NB Neobrittania. I hope to compare it to the Brass Ale kit (a Bass clone kit) from Midwest Supplies in the near future. This coming weekend, however, I’m brewing Midwest’s Irish Stout. Wish me luck!

—–

*Turns out she had a “money-making opportunity” she wanted to share with me and my wife — one of four people from my past who emerged that year to try to get me to sell Amway.

Living with Unbelief

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

“The new rebel is a Skeptic, and will not entirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be really a revolutionist. And the fact that he doubts everything really gets in his way when he wants to denounce anything. For all denunciation implies a moral doctrine of some kind; and the modern revolutionist doubts not only the institution he denounces, but the doctrine by which he denounces it. … In short, the modern revolutionist, being an infinite skeptic, is always engaged in undermining his own mines. In his book on politics he attacks men for trampling on morality; in his book on ethics he attacks morality for trampling on men. Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything.” – G.K. Chesterton

I have a friend from high school – an intelligent and articulate husband and father who reads widely, is well informed on a wide range of issues, and is fearlessly outspoken. I admire these things about him. He is also the closest to a conspiracy theorist of anyone I know. He appears to be skeptical of the government, the media, and the motives of nearly everyone he encounters who is unknown to him or disagrees with his perspective. I can live with that – but I can’t live like that.

In the Ben Stein documentary Expelled—a interesting film with numerous serious flaws, in my opinion—one of the atheist academics says that he rejects the idea of a higher purpose or meaning to the universe, and indeed, rejects free will. He has suffered a brain tumor, and says if it comes back, he will shoot himself in the head.

My first thought was, “Will he?”

How does he know? What if the chemicals and synapses line up differently? What if his neurons compel him to look into the sight organs of those of his species with whom he has chemically bonded, and some subconscious part of his brain gives rise to the unbidden hallucination that these “others” matter to him? Will he override those impulses, knowing that they are false and irrational?

I suppose he won’t. He has no free will, so he can’t override anything. I’m not sure how he professes to believe anything. His choices (er, potential life paths) are two, as far as I can see: either choose nothing, ever, to see whither his impulses lead (they will perhaps compel him to eat, drink, breed, and die, like an animal) or to insist upon his beliefs, but act otherwise – to live as though he had decisions to make, even as he says he doesn’t. He will regard this as perfectly rational. And if he kills himself, those who love him shouldn’t mourn or blame him. It’s nobody’s fault.

I see a similar (not identical) problem with the diehard skeptics and conspiracy theorists. It is reasonable, especially these days, to look around and think the deck is stacked against us. It is prudent, then, to proceed with caution and with our eyes open, doing our best to build a good life, and protect what we have and those we care about. But how much is too much? When you see the government, and those who are wealthy or powerful, and the political structure, and the healthcare system, all as false or corrupt; when you are ready to quit participating in government “of the people,” however flawed it may be; when you are skeptical of transcendental Truth and dismissive of religion – what’s the next step? Secession? Revolution? Or marriage? Can you justify bringing children into such circumstances? I admire my friend’s tenacity in uncovering possible lies and conspiracies, but how, then, does he live his knowledge? On which false information does he act? And what will he teach to his children?

In my college days, I called myself agnostic, thinking this was the most intelligent way to regard God. After all, how could anyone know the unknowable? Only later did I realize that I was hedging – that I didn’t have the courage to believe in God or not. I found, over time, that I could not disbelieve and believe at the same time. I could claim to be an agnostic, but I had to live as a believer or a non-believer.

Devout skepticism, like hard determinism, diminishes the possibility of a credible life without contradiction. The diehard skeptic knows only that he’s skeptical – everything else is uncertain. But I suspect that my friend, like me, has made his choice. He’s a good man, a devoted husband and father, and he genuinely cares about others. He must see something of value in this world, in this country, in his marriage and family, which makes him persist in the face of his doubts. Is it God? Love? Freedom? I don’t know. But he doesn’t behave like an unbeliever. I believe he wants to make the world a better place – and to that extent, his heart is a believer’s heart. It’s a step – forward, in my opinion.

Life In The Bubble, Redux

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

We had some friends over last Friday evening for a fall chili feed. The week was busier than we’d hoped, so up until the moment our guest began to arrive, we were still cleaning, cooking, and prepping…plus managing our kids, our dog, and our jobs. With 30 minutes to go, I was sincerely wondering if this little “get-together” was gonna be worth the effort.

Our friends began to roll in, bearing snacks and sweets, beer and wine, to complement the spread we had started in the kitchen. These were all our friends and all from St. Michael Catholic Church — and most of them knew many of the others, but I’m not sure if anyone but Jodi and me and Fr. Richards knew everyone. We said grace as a party, sampled chilis and home-brewed beers, and talked about kids (had we invited whole families, the dozen or so couples would have had more than 70 children in tow), work, school, politics, hunting, and most importantly in The Bubble, our shared faith. The men ultimately congregated in the basement, and at one point, I walked in to hear a good friend of mine relating how, at a retreat, I once stopped mid-witness, smacked by the Holy Spirit, tearful and trembling and grinning, to tell the men on that retreat, “You guys gotta try this!” Upstairs in the kitchen, three or four life-giving women of our parish were gathered near the sink I was trying to access, talking frankly about how God’s will manifests itself in our lives. I listened a moment, then quietly said, “I love you people.”

From 6:30 to midnight, our house was packed to the rafters with beautiful, prayerful men and women. Father was the first to head home, but he blessed us, upstairs and down, before he left for the night. There were friends missing — some who were going hunting or had other obligations, some we forgot in our own whirlwind of busy-ness, some who live states away in their own little bubbles — but we spent the evening basking in personal warmth and genuine love, and even the ache of their absence helped us to feel complete.

Was it worthwhile? Definitely. Scarcely a waking hour has passed since that I have not paused a moment, thought of one of these dear friends, smiled, and said, “I love you people.” And I do. We hope this will become an annual event, and we will do our best to invite all the others…

I’ve always been a big-headed, geeky, heart-on-my-sleeve kind of guy, with no athletic talent, a poor sense of direction, and few other manly aptitudes upon which to hang my hat. I’m old-fashioned, idealistic, and a hopeless romantic. I write for a living; I don’t follow sports closely; and I don’t drink much or tell off-color jokes (anymore). Often I feel like I don’t fit in. Except here, in The Bubble. Here, Jodi and I have met men and women, our brothers and sisters in Christ, who understand exactly where we’re coming from, and what we hope to be.

What a blessing. What a life.