I Hope

/ J. Thorp / 6 Comments

Chances are I don’t agree with your politics. At least not 100 percent. I voted for candidates in four different parties yesterday. Some will say that’s stupid. I’m alright with that.

But today, like so many others in this country, I hope. I’ve admired Obama since he spoke at the 2000 DNC. I believe he is, at heart, a good man — despite a few deep disagreements on issues important to me, my family and my faith. I agree with much of what he says he would like to accomplish — although I would approach many of the issues in very different ways. But he’s inspired so many people — and if that’s what it takes to mobilize the people of this great nation to demand, not bigger, but better government, then I hope he continues and meets with much success.

I hope that his moderate rhetoric from the campaign matches his actions going forward. I chatted briefly with a friend from Chicago, who knows Obama (via University of Chicago Law School) better than most Americans and supports him, but even he has his concerns; it would be foolish to think that the even-keeled president-elect didn’t learn a little something from the dirty side of Chicago politics. But still I hope — that his better angels will conspire with all of ours to take flight.

So many people have spoken, and will continue to speak, about Obama as the first black president of the United States. Of course this is monumental and moving: I smiled to hear Condoleezza Rice take a moment to make sure the press heard from her about what an historic moment this was, and smiled again to hear the revelers in Chicago today, including a young black man who said that, in addition to his great expectations for Obama, the president-elect has expectations for guys like him, too — among them to “pull our pants up a little higher” and “to start loving each other.”

I hope it’s the beginning of a new day, and an end for racism and discrimination. I hope that the black church that burned in the wee hours of the morning was a fluke coincidence.

But I have another reason to hope — for years now I’ve tried to imagine the first post-Boomer or Gen-X president. I hoped for a president who would look at the ways things have been done and see other possibilities, who would try new things, who would shake up the established order and hierarchy in Washington. My experience growing up in rural Michigan, then going “back East” to school, was that many in my generation don’t care where you come from, how much money you have, what you look like, or even whether you agree with them or not — they care what you stand for and why; they care about your ideas, your gifts, how you can help and how they can help you. That’s the kind of person I wanted to see running things.

I hope our country has elected such a man. I may not agree with him, but I hope. Call me naive, but it feels good.

Halloween Less of Mayhem, More of Magic

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments
Blogger’s Note: This originally ran as a column in Tuesday, October 27, 1998, edition of The Pioneer daily newspaper, Big Rapids, Michigan. Our oldest was 11 months; he’s almost 11 now. Time flies, but as I drove home, I looked west to see the orange skies behind bare-bones trees, and got that old feeling again …

I spent the best Halloweens on Littlefield Lake in the woods between Barryton and Clare. Back then the neighborhood was less densely populated and surrounded on all sides by woods — mournful willows, tall creaking poplars, dank cedars with their long toes awash in swamp water — and Halloween night fell black as coal. The winds tossed harried handfuls of leaves high into the air; clouds blew like smoke across the sky and bare tree limbs rattled like old bones.

We all trick-or-treated together — hobos and monsters, clowns and devils. Usually my sister and I would head down the hill at dusk to the first stop; from there our motley troop would gain members until four or so stops down the way, just as darkness was setting in, we’d be marching 10 to 15 strong, going from house to house snatching candy treats from little old ladies with bluing hair and kindly old white-haired men (the result of our frightful appearances, no doubt).

Our parents followed a block or so behind, talking amongst themselves. Jack-o-lanterns grinned like skulls from nearly every porch, casting flickering shadows on the walk, and eyes wide with anticipation, we could hardly keep from running house to house.

There were those stops along the route we came away with a handful of change, or an apples, or raisins. There were those houses that sat quiet and dark, oblivious to the dread crew marauding the subdivision in search of food.

But we treated ourselves to what was given, and never tricked — unless it was to run ahead into the bushes to frighten stragglers and our parents. No TP, no window-soaping, no flaming bags of doggie-doo — our mothers were just behind us, and the final trick always belonged to them.

Halloween, for us, was a pinch more of the magical and very little mayhem. Even the fake blood and weapons were kept to a minimum — our costumes were often created at home, and violence and gore were rarely themes.

As you might imagine, then, it saddens me to see more and more families (Blogger’s Note: And schools!) celebrating “fall festivals” and neglecting Halloween. It may be a holiday founded in paganism; it may be frightening, what with the ghouls, the goblins, the “slithy toves” and the “frumious bandersnatch,” but ultimately, it is one magical evening for youngsters — like Christmas, a night when the impossible can happen.

So, with a son not yet a year old and with too few teeth for Milk Duds, I can feel Halloween come creeping. The pumpkins are carved, the candles lit, and my eyes are wide once more.

Monsterku Honors!

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Some of you saw the earlier post about Adam Rex’s kaiju haiku contest. Well, he announced the winners today, and our own lil monster got an honorable mention! How cool is that?

It occurs to me that I never shared the haikus Trevor and Gabe submitted. Trevor, it turns out, speaks in 17 syllables — while I was explaining to Gabe and Bren the rules of the contest, he said:

Dad, I know what the
important thing about horned
monsters is: the horns

A few days later, Gabe wrote:

He is big and bad
He is Frankenstein, he is
He is green and stiff

I love the homespun line “He is Frankenstein, he is” — shore nuff! I’m not the least bit proud — can you tell? Thanks, Jacqui, for pointing us to Adam Rex’s site!

Taste-Testing Words

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

You’ve maybe heard people say that if you hear a new word and find an opportunity to use it correctly five times in a day, it becomes a permanent part of your vocabulary. Have you heard that? No? Well, I have. Never really took it to heart, though. Jodi and the kids say I use too many big words already, so no use confusing things further with words none of us know …

But it’s always fun to watch the kids taste-test new words or phrases. When Bren and Gabe started liking pirates, I pulled out blunderbuss. You could see Bren roll the word on his tongue like Tootsie Pop before popping it out to re-examine it in the light.

Something similar happened this morning on the way to church. Last night the wind started to roar fiercely through the trees, and as we scrambled from house to minivan this morning, we were pelted by stinging white flakes from the gray clouds above. I ducked into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and shook droplets from my hair like a dog. Master of the obvious, I said, “It’s startin’ to spit snow, kids!”

They had noticed, of course, and seemed to ignore me, discussing the probability of a snowball fight after church. (The snow was not sticking.) But when Jodi got in, Trevor piped up from the back: “Mom! It’s spitting snow!”

It came out a bit broken, like he’d spit it himself. No matter. Between our home and church, he worked it liked bubble gum, chewing, softening, turning it over, stretching it membrane thin over his tongue ’til they were one and the same, then blowing it out … pop! for everyone to hear: spitting snow, spitting snow …

Strangely enough, Father Gregory made no reference to snow or spitting in his homily, and as we visited with friends in the gathering space after Mass, I didn’t think much about the words or the weather. Finally, when we were among the last families left at the church, we leaned into the doors and pushed out through wind. The gray skies in their bluster roared again, and the pelting resumed.

“Wow!” said Trevvy. “Now it’s really spitting snow!”

Right phrase, right context, and natural as can be. The new phrase fit him like a glove.

“Sure is, Trevor,” I said. “It sure is.”